Friday, September 19, 2003

Gather around, dear readers, as I regale you with a lengthy conversation on friendship–nay, woadieship–gone sour.

It is noontime, and I’m looking forward to cheap Mexican eats with Lt. Neatfreak. I get to Church Street early, so I wander ever so innocently into favorite store EB Games. While I putter around and browse, I notice a short guy gesticulating wildly with the salesperson. He’s decked in attire to match: black hat, fiery red shirt, black pants, busy as a florid bee. I make my way to the front of the store, which prompts him to extend his hand to me.

“Hey, man! I’m Austin Powers,” he offers.

“Excuse me?” I inquire, just a little bit puzzled.

“Austin Powers, man!” he repeats.

“Oh,” I reply, giving him an empathetic ‘I saw that shitty movie too’ look, “nice to meet you, Mr. Powers.”

“And what’s your name?” he goes on to ask.

“Ben,” I say.

I shake his hand, hoping all the while to play it as cool as possible. At this point, he starts dancing.

“Look at me dance, Patrick!” he exclaims. “Just like Austin powers.”

“Ha! I loved the intros for both 1 and 2,” I say helpfully.

“C’mon, you do it too,” he says while whirling like an inebriated Taz.

“No, no,” I say with a shake of my head, “I think I’ll pass.”

“C’mon, Patrick!” he implores, “How ’bout Michael Jackson?”

I’m not too sure who “Patrick” is or whether Austin’s having flashbacks, but I offer a few complementary chuckles as he makes a grab for his HAT and thankfully misses his CROTCH. After about ten seconds of expository dancing, he points to another customer in the store.

“Hey, is he your woadie?” he asks.

I suddenly realize that chuckles won’t pay the rent anymore, especially since he expects an answer.

“What’s a woadie?” I ask in return.

“You know, a buddy. A playa,” he answers.

“No, he’s not my woadie,” I say, making deft use of my newfound vocabulary.

“Are you my woadie?” he turns to the salesperson.

I briefly contemplate taking advantage of this and walking out the door, but that would have given him the wrong, albeit truthful idea. I decide to play the Amicable Game.

“Hey, man,” I say to Mr. Powers, “I’m your woadie!”

“Straight up!” he says. He gives me the secret woadie handshake, and my initial uncertainty dissolves as I keep up, fist for half-hearted fist, finger for half-hearted finger. I fake the funk like nobody’s business.

He turns to the salesperson and asks him a riddle I’m not allowed to answer.

“What’s the most important part of the store?” he asks in a quiet, riddle-y voice.

I start to mouth “your woadies,” but he shushes me.

“The cash register is the most important part of the store,” he says in answer to his own riddle.

Heavens above, my sheltered inside voice whispers, I hope this isn’t some kind of robbery in the making.

He turns to me, takes me into his confidence, gives his real name, asks for mine again, and then adopts an almost conspiratorial tone.

“Hey, Patrick,” he asks, “you got some money?”

I give him a confused look.

“We be woadies, right?” he asks with a sad puppy look. “I need some money.”

“For a sandwich,” he clarifies.

I fish my wallet full of nothing out of my pocket and show him that I really have no money.

“You got plastic?” he asks.

“Well,” I say, “I’ve got an AMEX.” You can thank me anytime, American Express, for my free advertisement.

“There’s an ATM around the corner, so–” he starts, but I’m doing the shushing now.

“Oh, I don’t do my banking there,” I say with a small bit of annoyance. I’m a bit impatient with LaSalle right now, so I share my train of thought with my woadie. “I bank at LaSalle, and they used to have this ATM that was WAY closer, but now the ONLY two ATM–“

“You lyin’ to me, man!” he shouts. “You lyin’ to me.”

I give him a quizzical look.

“No,” I reply confidently, “I really do bank at LaSalle.”

This is the kicker, apparently, because he starts to laugh.

“Just kidding, man,” he says, “just kidding.”

I finish up my browsing and leave the store, but not before wishing Mr. Powers a “peace out, man.” And Baja Fresh? At least they accept AMEX.

So many questions live on without answers, gentle reader. Has panhandling turned into performance art? Does “woadie” actually mean something far more sinister, e.g. “prison bitch”? How exactly do you spell “soshal justiz”?