X and Y Letters, Chapter 2: My Worst-Case-Scenario

Dear Y,

You complete moron,

I’ve been waiting in this diner for thirty minutes. The seats are linoleum, so there’s a flatulent noise every time I move, which is frequent. There’s very little padding in them, so it’s hard to get comfortable, especially after I moved from my seat. It maintained the shape of my behind, and now the gluteal divot is forming a canyon right next to, but not unlike my butt-crack.
I was sitting, shifting, sipping, and scribbling down the end of my last letter, when I noticed a decrepit old Filipino woman in an Aloha shirt, with bunches of paper sticking and bulging out of the shirt’s torn pocket, walking in. She carried a black purse, made with enough leather that it could’ve carried the motor to the taxi I rolled out of on the way here.

Oh, about the taxi!
I hailed it, on the side-street next to the alley where my Cuboid is currently hidden. My driver, a description of whom is unimportant, asked me where I was headed, and I pointed him towards, but slightly out of the way of the diner I currently sit in. I was unaware of it at the time, but he had turned the locks in such a way that I had to kick out the window to escape. The driver swerved and cursed profusely, and grabbed my leg as I tried to shimmy out of the cab window, but he missed me. I managed to pull my full body outside of the cab, as we drove, and, standing on the hole where the window used to be, I reached behind myself to find a stable handhold. I grabbed the top of the window hole and, right as the cab happened to slow down, I jumped into a patch of grass that so perfectly cushioned my fall that it could’ve been placed there by divine predestination.
The cab quickly screeched to a halt, and nearly catapulted its back-end over its front. The driver must’ve been concussed, because there was a clear lack of togetherness in the way the revolver in their right hand sort-of drooped to one side or the other. The pistol managed to get a few shots off in my direction, but none of them anywhere near where I was. I ran towards the diner as the driver slowly stumbled in my direction, and lost them with some clever maneuvering through suburban backyards and this small city’s alleyways. I looked no worse for wear when I walked in, and the cab-driver was nowhere in sight, so I seated myself, ordered, etc.

The Filipino woman, with the bulging shirt pocket, and massive, black-leather purse, had on wavy, brown-silk pants with no pockets that were held up, slightly above her waistline, with elastic. The gaudy shirt she had on, which was a pattern of three green, red, and blue tropical birds in various relaxed scenarios (drinking, laying in hammocks, playing cards), was tucked into the pants. Sandwiched between one lucky blue bird with a straight flush feathered out in his right wing, and the elastic waste-band, a black wallet dotted with small turquoise pebbles stuck out, though it could’ve easily fit in her gargantuan bag. Out of the wallet, dollar bills stuck out, a few of which dropped under the table after she and her companion left.
Her companion was a much shorter, much younger Filipino girl—probably around the age of 10 or 11—with a face that was completely devoid of expression, as though she’d already seen everything the world had to offer, and was completely unexcitable. She wore a blue dress, with laces at the hem that brushed against her knees as she walked. The dress had a white, round-collar, which was dotted with blue rabbit-head silhouettes. A stuffed bunny, filthy and mint green, dangled from her right hand.
After the older of the duo slid into her seat, the younger slid into the seat opposite. Both seats made a flatulent noise when they were filled. Neither member of the duo thought the noise was funny enough to warrant even a slight smirk.
The expressionless little girl couldn’t be convinced to let go of the filthy bunny without her chaperon having to raise her voice slightly. The girl sat her toy on the inside of the booth seat, closest to the window.
After scarfing a plate of Macaroni and Cheese down like a starving wolf cub, and chasing it with two comically large glasses of white milk, she strolled off to the bathroom, leaving her stuffed companion behind, in the booth.

It was about this time that the cab-driver directly crossed my line of sight. Well, the first thing that caught my line of sight was a still-lazily-grasped revolver peaking past the window, attached to an arm, attached to a cab-driver’s body. On instinct, I huddled down in my booth before the cab-driver’s head turned towards me. The back of my head bumped the table as I descended, and my coffee cup spilled about 2 ounces of not yet lukewarm coffee onto the table, and, subsequently, my head.

“Oh, you’re disgusting.”

The presumptuous little girl stopped in her path and turned her head towards me.

“You look really stupid right now,” she said.

I explained to her that I was trying to hide from the cab-driver, as much as you can explain a situation like that to a child. I stumbled over my words, but managed to get out something pithy about hide-and-seek. I patronized her. She was a child, so I assumed that would satiate her. It didn’t. Her eyes pointed forward as she shook her head in disappointment and walked away, towards the bathroom.
I told a waitress I wasn’t interested in coffee as I waited for the little girl to make her return trip. As she passed me a second time, I whispered, “is the cab-driver gone?” She ignored me and kept walking toward her aging counterpart’s cry of, “Come here, Daphne!”
I stuck my head out of the booth, still crouched down, and whispered again, “Psst! Daphne!” She still ignored me.
Utterly dumbfounded by this child’s disregard for me, I decided to peak over the booth to see if the cab-driver had disappeared yet. As the two left the restaurant, the cab-driver, whose revolver must’ve been tucked away somewhere, entered, sat, and ate.

I intermittently touched my toes in the waters of surveillance as the cab-driver shoveled food down their gullet, peaking my head over the table’s edge and watching the driver’s behavior. I went completely unnoticed. But, through a mouthful of food, the driver shouted for a waitress to, “get this nasty fucking thing away from the table.”
The waitress grabbed the mint-green bunny, which had been left by the little girl. I noticed a green ribbon tied around its neck as she lowered it into the trash.
I waited for another 20 minutes for the driver to leave the diner before exiting the booth to retrieve the bunny from the trash. Now, as I write this letter—mind you, still waiting for your god damned response—this filthy toy is leaned up against the condiment rack at my table, staring at me. And, the damned seat still hasn’t adjusted in the entire time I’ve been writing. I’m growing more and more upset with you with every passing sentence. Please, respond as soon as possible.


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