Are You There Vodka? It's Me Chelsea Read online

  “Sarah, no one can see you here, who cares? Take it off and rest your tickets on the table. I’m thinking about pulling my pants down just for shits and giggles.”

  “I think I may need to take it off, Chelsea. I think I’m hyperventilating.”

  “Take it off, Sarah, please, I do not want you to hyperventilate,” I pleaded, and then got up and felt my way over to her side of the table. “Do you want me to pour a glass of water over your head?”

  “No, no, I’ll be fine,” she said, taking deep breaths. Once her sweater was off, she started to calm down. Brian walked over to the table.

  “It’s me,” he whispered. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes,” Sarah told him. “I’m just a little claustrophobic. Can I get some more water?”

  “And can I get some more Ketel One?” I added. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked Sarah.

  “Yes, I’m fine, go sit down.”

  “Sarah?”

  “What?”

  “If you had to have sex with the mâitre d’ for two hours missionary style, or you had to go down on Star Jones for half an hour, who would you choose?”

  “The mâitre d’.”

  I found my way back to my seat just as Brian came back and put his hand on my shoulder. “Hi,” he said, “it’s me.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m putting your vodka on the right,” he said, maneuvering my hand to touch the glass. “And Sarah, I’m going to put your water on your right as well.”

  Ten minutes later Brian came back and seated two English girls next to us. One of them was very sweet, but the other one didn’t seem very interested in mingling with Americans. I got this impression right after I said “Hello,” and she muttered, “Great, bloody Americans.”

  I am very sympathetic to why foreigners think that Americans are loud and obnoxious. Many of us, including myself, are. But just because we have a president who can’t spell “cat” doesn’t mean we all voted for him. Along with a huge constituancy, I am also counting the days until Barack Obama or Ryan Seacrest takes over.

  The nice girl asked us if this was our first time at the restaurant, and how we had heard about the place. Sarah jumped in and told her all about her online research and how the restaurant originated in Paris, blah, blah, blah. The nice girl seemed a lot like Sarah as far as research and planning goes, and when it’s coming from someone not so close to you, it can be more charming. I reminded myself to tell Sarah this in a private moment later.

  Sarah told the girl that we absolutely loved it here and were having the best time in London. “What a great city you guys get to live in,” she said, panting excitedly.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to get in the conversation.

  This is when the mean girl decided she would add to the conversation.

  “Yes, it’s nice being exposed to civilization, isn’t it?”

  Before I could respond, Brian walked over and leaned down above us. “Hi. It’s me.”

  “Yes, Brian. We get it. It’s always you. I’m me and you’re you.”

  “Ladies, I apologize, but I am going to have to ask you to put your sweater and pants back on.”

  “What?” exclaimed the mean girl sitting on my right. “What are you, a couple of lesbos?” she screeched in her thick British twang.

  “No,” I told her. “We’re not lesbians. We were hot and my friend was hyperventilating. We didn’t think anybody could see us, considering it’s pitch black in here.”

  “Do girls from your country have any manners?” was her next question.

  “You know what, mean girl?” I said. “You are not a nice person. You should be a little more open-minded and not judge people based on what country they’re from. I’m not asking you why all the men in your country refuse to get circumcised, am I?”

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” she replied.

  “No. Actually, it’s repulsive. They look like fucking aardvarks, and I really don’t appreciate it,” I said, getting up from the table and squeezing myself back into my jeans. “Sarah, can we go now?”

  “Yes,” she said, and then screamed, “Brian! It’s us!”

  Three minutes later we were in the front of the restaurant opening up our lockers. We paid our bill with the mâitre d’, who refused to make eye contact with us. Obviously, he had caught wind of our undress and found it very disappointing. “Au revoir,” Sarah said as we walked out.

  “Cheers,” I added in as volatile a way as I could muster. “Can we please just get some fish and chips?” I asked Sarah.

  “Your zipper’s down,” she said, shaking her head and then stepping into the street to hail a cab. “When did you take your pants off, Chelsea, and why?”

  “I was doing it to support you! It was a sympathy disrobing.”

  “Oh, that’s actually nice, thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I told her as I turned my hand upside down and put out my middle and index fingers. “Low two?”

  “No thanks.” We hopped in a cab and Sarah told the driver to take us to any place that served fish and chips.

  “There also needs to be a bar,” I chimed in.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “A restaurant that serves fish and chips.”

  “I’m starting to become embarrassed about being American,” I told Sarah. “I feel like our only real saving grace is the Olsen twins, and what does that say about us as a whole?”

  “Not a lot. Do you hate Americans too?” she asked the driver, who looked more Pakistani than anything else.

  “No, of course not,” he told us. “Only the loud ones. Very good tippers.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, pulling out my wallet and handing him twenty pounds.

  “You might want to wait until the ride is actually over,” Sarah said. “And don’t you think twenty pounds is a little excessive for a five-minute cab ride?”

  “If the only way for these people to like us is to buy their respect, than that is what I intend to do.”

  “That’s very honorable, Chelsea.”

  “I take you to Fish Central in de Barbicon,” our driver informed us in his Pakistani accent.

  “Cheerios,” I told him. “Word to your mother.”

  Sarah and I walked into the restaurant and were seated in the back, next to an older couple. “I want a cigarette,” she declared.

  “You don’t even smoke,” I responded.

  “Well, everyone else is smoking, and it would be nice to just fit in after the day we’ve had. I don’t understand. Everyone’s been so nice up until today, and then it seems like everyone we talk to hates us.”

  “You know what makes no sense?” I asked her. “We have more foreigners in our country than anyone, and we don’t treat them like that. I would never be mean to someone who was visiting America.”

  “Yeah, we let everyone in our country. I mean, we complain about the people who can’t drive, but that’s about as bad as it gets.”

  “And the people who own Seven Elevens,” I added. “But aside from that, I find myself to be very open-minded.”

  “I really want a cigarette.”

  “Well, don’t ask anyone here. They’ll just get mad at us for bumming one cigarette and blame our homeland.”

  “You ask someone,” she said. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

  I looked over at the older couple sitting to our right, who were both smoking. In my best British accent, I leaned in and asked, “Could I bum a fag?”

  They were very nice and handed me one, which I handed to Sarah. “Thanks,” she said to the couple, and then leaned over. “I was too shy to ask for it myself.”

  I looked at her, wondering what was the point of me asking for a cigarette if she was going to talk to the people anyway. Twenty minutes later, I was looking at her, wondering why we were still talking to this couple. And further, why I was being forced to continue speaking in a ridiculous English accent.

  “So where exactly did you grow up?” the man asked. “You have such an intere