Diego From The City
I got excited when I saw Diego and friends show up to the reception. I hadn’t stopped thinking about him since he was sitting on the couch four nights earlier. I greeted them with a smile and nod then kept my distance since they didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak French/Arabic. I pointed him out to one of the sister-in-laws and she said, “Oh him? He’s a city boy. City boys are, how do you call them, Playboys? They don’t have jobs and aren’t serious.” Was she aware that I was on vacation? When I saw Patrick, D’s loud co-worker from Savannah GA who earlier made a joke about gayness when he saw me and the sister-in-law (whom he later tried to hit on) posing for pictures in the pool shower, talking to Diego and friends, I started to investigate.
“Does that douche bag speak Arabic?” I asked. “Or French?”
“Who?” Sweet D asked.
“That idiot,” I said nodding towards Patrick. “How is he communicating with Diego?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He was born in Egypt, so he might speak a little something.”
No-fucking-way does he speak anything more than English. His oafish head and slow moving eyes suggest ignorance. I moseyed over to the buffet table, which was next to their table, and pretended to graze as I eavesdropped on their conversation. Sure enough, Patrick was blabbing some story about how he broke his arm while riding his bike, and it was all in English. They laughed then asked questions back in English. Those bastards! I waited for Patrick to leave, then saw my window of opportunity when one of them pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels.
“What’s up, guys?” I said as I pulled up a chair. “Do you mind if I have a little? It’s hard as hell to find whiskey around these parts.”
They poured me a glass and we started talking.