I don't know Jose!!!
I don’t know Jose. I know a Jose. Actually, I know about 75 Jose’s, but I don’t know the one that you’re talking about. I don’t fucking know him.
It may be hard for you to understand, but not all people from Guatemala in DC know each other. We don’t emit a scent that makes us know each other. We’re not animals (don’t listen to the pinche Costa Ricans!).
Why the tone? I will tell you amigos. I decided to go to the Black Cat this weekend to forget about things. You know, my Mercedes is no longer mine and Miguel thought it would be a good idea to be around many white people. He said it would make me forget.
I like white people. I have many white friends, but sometimes people in this city are plain idiotas or as my good amigo would say: douche bags.
I walk into the Black Cat and go to the bar and immediately a man with perfectly manicured sideburns says to me: “Hola mi amigo.” Listen pendejo, I’m not your amigo. Believe it or not, many of us have been in this country for a long time. Sure, we may wash your clothes and clean your house, but along the way we picked up your language. This is how we will eventually take over things, but I digress…
So, my new “amigo” decides he wants to show off to his friends by speaking Spanish to me. By the way, this is annoying and we hate it. If you try to speak to one of us and see that we don’t speak English THEN switch to your Spanish. Don’t insult us by talking about Destinos. Anyway, my new douche-bag amigo:
“Como esta usted?” To his friends: “I was a Spanish lit minor in college.” Oh, great, now I have to decide if I want to play along with Capitan Neruda or break my Corona bottle over his head. Oh yes, we do drink Coronas. All of us. Yes, with the lime. I know.
I try to tell Senor Neruda that I speak English, but he insists in Spanish:
“I like to speak Spanish amigo. I only get to do it when I’m back home in Miami.” All of a sudden he develops a Cuban accent. He says it Mee-ah-mee. I would like very much to kick him in the face. “So, what restaurant do you work at?” Ave Maria, Holy Mary….. I tell him in very perfect English so his friends can understand that not all of us work in a restaurant. His friends laugh and he becomes angry.
Of course Miguel, being the pinche cabron that he is, says that he does. Neruda knows the restaurant and asks if he knows Jose. “Little short guy, mustache, always wears a hat, swears a lot. You have to know him. If you’re from Guatemala, you definitely know him.”
Short, mustache, hat, swears a lot… Yes my flipped-up-collar friend I know him. I know 500 of him.
I try to explain that there are several thousands of Guatemalans in the DC area and we don’t all know each other.
Know what happened next? Fucking Miguel did know this Jose and it ended up being one of his inbred cousins.
So, although I was trying to make a point, this man with the perfect sideburns and flipped up collar will for ever think that 1)We all know each other; 2)We are all related; 3)We all wash dishes.
I hate Miguel. I looked for the famous Aja, but she was no where to be found. I cried a little bit then I called Mercedes and hung up. Yes, even sexy Latinos like me drunk dial. Sometimes even my sexiness cannot be helped.
PS: DCCookie, you are MUY guapissima. I did not know Canadians were so sexy like you.