Clareified

FEAR AND LOATHING IN BROOKLYN

When my co-blogger suggested that we take the visiting Gibs for a driving tour of Brooklyn, I readily agreed.
After all, she’s writing a whole tour guide book on the sights and attractions of the borough.
So thrilled was I at the prospect, as we drove to Manhattan to pick up Gib and his wife, I exclaimed “Yay! Now, I’ll get to know my borough too.”
Sure, if I consider my borough to be the second floor of the Century 21 discount clothing store and the Duane Reade next door, which, I do not.
For some reason that may or may not have to do with the third anniversary of the Iraq war, (Karol: What is going on? Gib: Well, I think the war started three or four years ago around today. Me: Which war? Karol: The one that started three or four years ago, doofus. Me: Oh yeah.) traffic was atrocious.
It took an hour to get to Manhattan, an hour to get to the Gibs’ hotel and an hour to get back.
Essentially, just enough time for things to go terribly, terribly wrong.
We were already running late, so we got to the Gibs something like two hours after our agreed meet time.
“I’m so sorry, we’re late. It was Karol’s fault.”
“No, it was most definitely, Dawn’s fault, but we also had some really bad traffic.”
And then in unison, we said:
Karol: But mostly it was Dawn’s fault.
Dawn: But mostly it was traffic’s fault.

I made the mistake of letting Karol drive my car in order to get to Manhattan quicker, so the Gibs got to 1. see road rage 2. experience several pedestrian near hits and 3. Listen to baaaaad Russian music.
Again, I apologize.
I suggested we take the Brooklyn bridge across to start off the tour right –instead, Karol took the more scenic route through the longest underwater vehicular tunnel in the world.
Seriously, umm…so sorry.
Mrs. Gib said that she didn’t mind that we were late, because it gave her a chance to get more shopping time in.
“Oh, where’d you go?” Karol asked.
“Daffy’s,” Mrs. Gib replied (Hmmm…or she might have said TJ MAXX…one is apparently just like the other except for one thing which I missed due in large part to the tuning out upon hearing the word “shop.”)
“Have you ever been to Century?”
Danger, Danger, Will Robinson!!
“No.”
“Well, we could go to the one in Brooklyn.”
“There’s a Century in Brooklyn?” I ask, stupidly, I might add.
“Only the best one there is.”
“Sure, I’d love to go.”
And so it was, our fates sealed.
Century 21 in Bay Ridge.
I’m no Scrabble champion, but I’m sure if you play with the letters they will form the phrase “12th circle of hell”
I guess it’s hard to describe the scene on a Staurday afternoon, of hundreds of people clawing through racks and rows of haphazardly lined merchandise searching for the twenty dollar Chanel suit.
The din of salespeople shouting for price checks, mothers yelling at their kids, and spouses looking for their wives is dizzying. I ducked out to do some grocery shopping at Duane Reade. When I returned, I had lost track of Karol, the Gibs and pheelepopopok, who had been tricked into coming along with promises of a free ride to Brooklyn.
I started my search for them in the unlikeliest places (men’s italian designer shoes) and slowly wound my way through various other departments (children’s clothes) until I ended up at the “Karol most likely to be found here,” sunglasses counter. Whenever I find myself in these shopping situations, I always try to kill as much time upfront in the hope that my delay tactics will result in finding my party at the checkout counter, all finished.
It has never yet worked. Saturday was no different.
I got to the sunglasses counter and no Karol. I had already called her cell twice and now decided to have her paged over the loudspeaker.
If she’s not in sunglasses, she’s left the store.
And then I saw it.
The escalator.
My heart sank as an entire floor of wall to wall bargains and women fashion came into view.
Good.Gravy.
I found Karol fairly quickly.
She had two dresses draped over her arm and was pouring over a third.
“I’m looking for something to wear to Mike’s wedding. Does this look like resorts chic?”
“You’re actually shopping? Are you kidding me? It’s like five thirty.”
“We’re fine. We have time.”
nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
I anxiously followed her and pheelepopopok until they headed to the underwear section.
Dude.
I am not going to help anyone pick out underwear, unless it’s an under-12-year-old person with the last name Summers whom I am legally obligated to feed, clothe and house under penalty of imprisonment.
Pheelepopopok had a different view of the matter. “You gonna try the stuff on in the aisle? cause that’d be cool.”
Ok, time to find the Gibs.
We all finally met up at the check-out counter around 7:15.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. This item doesn’t have a tag, we’ll have to send someone upstairs to find out the price.” the check-out girl said to Karol as she dangled a flimsy piece of lace material above the counter.
“I think it was the last one.”
“Well, there’s no way for me to know what it costs…”
“Well, maybe there’s another one. I’ll wait while you send someone upstairs to look.”
WHAT.
“Dude. Just leave it. We haven’t eaten yet and we’ve got to meet Alceste in like fifteen minutes.”
“Well, just call him. Say we’re running late.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, I forgot that you are heading back to Georgia tomorrow and will never again have an opportunity to buy that $3 strip of lace…oh, wait. YOU LIVE HERE.”
She doesn’t budge. I call Alceste for the fourth time, again, getting the voicemail. (Quick, Pearatty, close your eyes.)
Why do people bother having cellphones if they never answer them?
The delay causes Mrs. Gib’s eye to catch the tie section and she was off! Moments later she had purchased a tie and had it wrapped in a fancy box.
Karol was still waiting.
“I got a box,” Mrs. Gib said in a happy singsong voice.
“Hmm…it’s for Gib and yet you seeemm waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay happier about it, than he does.”
Cut away shot to Gib’s, deadpan, emotionless mug.
Did I mention, KAROL WAS STILL WAITING.
How much do we hate Karol? How much? A. Lot.
FIIIIIIIINALLLY, the long shopping nightmare was over.
We were going to grab pizza at the vastly inferior parlor over by Coney Island, because, at least, the Gibs could see one Brooklyn landmark during their visit.
But we had to pick up Karol’s Poker Hero, Fisch, so we needed to go back to Karol’s house and borrow her brother’s car.
I drove behind her in the Honda on the way to KPH’s house and then on to the pizza parlor.
As she pulled out of the driveway and I shifted behind her into the turning lane, I said out loud to the Gibs:
“I hope she remembers who is following her.”
She didn’t.
In addition, to insane lane shifts to “go around that guy,” as she is fond of saying when we are in the same vehicle, she also insisted on making every barely yellow light between bensonhurst and coney island.
“DON’T MAKE THAT LIGHT!” I’d yell in vain as the Porsche whizzed through the intersection.
Insert Dawn shaking her fist and Karol slamming on the brakes on the other side.
Repeat.
Finally, by our last light, she figured out the whole stopping at the yellow — which, ironically, was also the point at which I was fully prepared to speed through behind her.
I silently laughed at the narrowly evaded rear-end collision. Who would never get to drive her brother’s fancy car again? Who?
At the pizza place, I finally met Fisch. He looked exactly like his myspace photo, except for he doesn’t walk around with an adorable little girl on his left, and he was wearing a Halliburton hat.
We ordered two large pies and talked about poker (Me:”waaa, my pocket kings got cracked by a guy with a set of jacks.”), the drive over (Me:”dude, what’s with the speeding through the yellow lights? Karol: mmiunno. Did you see when I pulled over to wait for you though? pheelepopopok: oh, you’re talking about an actual yellow light? I thought you meant that poker thing you do.), and the law (pheelepopopok: You know, compared to the scum of the earth lawyers, you guys aren’t so bad. me: That’s going on my blog: Dawn Summers: Not so bad for the scum of the earth.)
It was almost nine by the time we finally made it back to my apartment. I had futilely called Alceste a crapload of times, so I decided to swing by the lobby to see if he was there.
“Hey, did anyone come by looking for me?”
The doorman said no.
“THAT JERK! I cannot believe he bailed! He is soo dead to me.”
The Gibs laughed.
We hung out upstairs for a while, before Karol and her crew finally made their way over.
The doorman buzzed them up.
“Karol is here…and she has people.”
“Umm…send up the people…leave Karol down there.”
Moments later, the seven of us, gathered around my table for the very first poker game at my new digs.
Due to high poker content, the story will continue over on that other blog. However, imagine my violent rage when I get a call from Karol at around six p.m. Sunday saying:
“Guess where I am?”
“Las vegas?”
“Nooo…come on, guess.”
“I just did.”
“Well, you were wrong. Guess again!”
“Los Angeles.”
“No…you just guessed that.”
“No, I didn’t. I guessed Las vegas.”
“Fine. No. I’m at CENTURY!”
Great. So glad I wasted an hour of my life for that price check when you were going back the very next day.
Seriously. Hate her and everything she stands for.

This entry was posted by Dawn Summers on Monday, March 20th, 2006 at 2:12 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.