Our waitress has some thoughts

brunch and a show

One way to make my wife happy is to say, “Let’s go to Jumpin’ Java.” There are closer brunch options, but Jumpin’ Java has our heart. It’s where I first discovered that Christina is a food-monogamist.

We’ve been going there since 2010, and she always gets the lavash press. If it’s closer to breakfast, she’ll get the lavash with eggs. If it’s closer to lunch, she’ll get the lavash with chicken. This sounds like an affront to food-monogamy, but I assure you it’s not. What is a chicken, if not a former egg? What is an egg if not a future chicken? This is pseudoscience—a undisciplined discipline that carries a lot of weight on the internet. Bottomline: I am Christina’s forever-human, and the lavash is her forever-brunch.

We were sitting at an outside table, and Christina was about to order her usual, when we were interrupted. A man on a Bird Scooter was blasting what sounded like a combination of heavy metal, techno, and K-pop at full volume from a speaker dangling around his neck. Historically, we called people who force everyone around them to listen to their shitty music assholes. But the video game industry has provided a term I like better: non-playable characters (NPC).

Since the light up ahead was red, we were stuck with Mr. NPC. It was only sixty seconds, but it felt like forever. Here’s everything that happened to me in that minute:

• A bead of sweat formed on my brow and dropped, in slow motion, into my coffee, creating a ripple effect that would give Michael Bay a boner.

• I realized that Bird’s business model is essentially littering as they encourage people to drop their bikes anywhere.

• I came to terms with the old man inside me who yells at people to get off his lawn and turn down that awful music.

• I realized that my problem with pigeon pose is not the pose itself, but the way I get into the pose.

• I determined that the location next to Jumpin’ Java was cursed as more than a dozen restaurants had failed there in less than a decade.

• I did our taxes.

• I outlined a novel that revolves around a comedic misunderstanding involving goldfish crackers and goldfish that are actual fish.

• I made eye contact with our waitress, and without speaking a word between us, we agreed to yank Mr. NPC off his scooter and shove that speaker up his butt.

“Sorry about that,” our waitress said.

“It’s not your fault,” Christina said. “Assholes are gonna asshole.”

“Can I tell you something? That guy wasn’t even that bad. It’s the guys in fancy cars that are the real problem.”

As a native Angeleno, car culture is my culture. Shortcuts for getting around town are my religion, an article in front of a freeway name is a must, and traffic gives me life. But I belong to a subset of Angeleno males who are not what you’d call car guys. In fact, listening to people shit on car guys is my kink.

“It’s the guys in Lambos who are the worst,” she continued. “They always park in the loading zone so they can keep an eye on the car.”

I looked at the loading zone in front of Jumpin’ Java. It was empty, for now.

“I tell them, you’re gonna get a ticket, but they act like they don’t care, like that’s some sort of flex. Then parking enforcement comes along and they freak out. I’ve had some guys jump in their Lambos and drive away—without paying. That sucks, but they’re not as bad as the guys who bitch and yell at parking enforcement.”

“Douchebags,” Christina said.

“You know what the worst part is? They all hit on me. They think parking their leased Lambo in the loading zone is gonna impress me. I’m sorry. A Lambo is a red flag. It means they’ve got a small dick and an even smaller brain.”

Suddenly, our waitress looked at me.

“You don’t drive a Lambo, do you?”

“No. My dream car is a Toyota Corolla with a driver who gets a living wage, health benefits, and a pension.”

“You’re a very secure man,” she said. Then, to Christina, she added, “He’s a keeper.”

Christina agreed. When she finds a good thing, whether it’s a lavash or a man, she keeps it.

“Also, these guys aren’t even rich,” our waitress continued. “If you drive a Lambo, you pay with an Amex black card, or cash, not a fucking Discover card, or some JCPenney card with your grandma’s name on it.”

“Who are they trying to fool?” Christina said.

“Dumb girls who get their information from Instagram. Their IQs drop when a guy pulls up in a Lambo. And the guys lose fifty IQ points when they see the girls. She’s a gold-digger, but he doesn’t have any gold. And he’s looking for a trophy wife, but that trophy was made by a plastic surgeon. It’s so dumb.”

“Yowsers,” Christina said.

“What a scene,” I said. “We come for the food, but with your commentary we get a free show too.”

“I’m thinking of starting a podcast,” she said. “LamBros & Fake-ass Gold-diggers.”

I thought she needed to workshop the title, but I didn’t mention that. Instead, we talked about podcasting, hypergamy, and the inescapable feeling that something has gone very wrong in this world. Eventually, the conversation ran its course. Christina ordered the chicken lavash, and I ordered the egg lavash.

Which lavash came out first, the chicken or the egg? I’m not sure as I was distracted. One minute there was nothing, the next minute there was a LamBro parked in the loading zone and gold-digger giving him the eye. The former causes the latter and vice versa. A classic chicken and egg problem.

Shout out time!

Big thank you goes out to

Rhiannon Morgan-Jones

! Thank you for becoming the newest paid subscriber at Situation Normal! Sending you good vibes Rhiannon.

Also, we’re one paid subscriber closer to a Situation Normal adventure wherein I put the New York Times to shame by doing some original reporting on Courage Bagels, a place that’s so good (allegedly) it’s worth waiting in line for a whole hour.

Stick around and chat!

I ask, you answer

1. Which came first, the chicken salad, or the egg salad? Wrong answers only.

3. Other red flags? Help the single people mingle.

5. Who are some NPCs you can do without?