Parched and Ugly. A Deadly Combo.
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Picture this: Swimming through 95-degree humidity. All the way across town. Because your friend wants to meet at cute little bistro and when you made the plan it wasn’t going to be so hot. But weatherman, famously, love attention. And apparently you love to give it, double and triple checking the forecast to stay up to date on their classic last minute change-ups. Which is why it’s suddenly not the sunny dry day you imagined. And getting across town has made you sweaty in the ridiculous way where you can’t care about pit stains because you are sweating everywhere. Is that TMI? The devil is in the details.
Long story long, you martyred your nice white shirt for the greater good and luckily, it all seems to be worthwhile: the bistro looks just as good as google maps Street-View promised. But (as they say), looks can be deceiving. And little did you know, that sweet, sweet exterior was only a façade….
But back to the part of the journey when you’re still naïve and hopeful. Upon arrival, your first thought is: Water (obviously). Mouth as dry as body is wet. And in your head, it’s even more dramatic. Because you think: I am parched. And every time you hear the word parched, you are Idina Menzel, playing Maureen, in the 1996 original Broadway performance of Rent.
It is her shining moment, the scene when she gets up before an audience for her Big Experimental Protest Song “Over the Moon.” Specifically, you are near the end of her number. “Still thirsty?” She says into her microphone. She replies to herself, “parched,” the word echoing (parched, parched) through the speakers. It’s a Big Fat Moment because it’s right before she reaches the apex of the song and mimes drinking milk from cow utters. But that’s not important; your mind fixates on the parched part, echoing (parched, parched) like some car alarm blasting in your brain.
In sum: a cup of cold water is—literally—the only thing that will keep you alive at that moment.
But the polite part of you is still stronger than your survival instincts (obviously). You’ll die a mannered lass rather than risk upsetting anyone, ever. So you decide to go into the bistro and order a sandwich platter for $20 because it’s D.C. You smile extra big at the Cashier Bro, radiating only the best of vibes. Finally, you make your tiny request. And reader, I do not put it lightly when I say: you are flat out rejected.
“Sorry, we have a policy of not giving out water,” are the words that go in one ear and out the other. Mind ringing, you say, “I didn’t catch that?” Because ever since you heard it was the law for food places to give out tap water, the cafes have always abided. Plus, why would they want you to eat their food with a dry mouth? That’s sounds especially not fun. But, Cashier Bro’s tone is flat and to the point. “We sell water bottles, if you’d like to buy one.”
Your mind next flashes to a memory from two minutes ago. You passed a Girlie Patron as you entered the bistro. Next to her salad, you remember seeing plastic. The scene is quickly piecing itself together in your mind. Plastic, plastic… what was it? A large, fat cup of water. Didn’t she? Take a sip as you passed her? Is someone playing a trick on you? Too flabbergasted to defend yourself, you join your friend at your table for a reality check.
“Does my mind deceive me?” She replies, “No, that Girlie Patron was definitely given a water glass. I’ll go in and ask, don’t you worry.”
She goes off and you, parched (parched, parched), sit still and look pretty. But apparently, not pretty enough. Because when your friend comes back, she’s wide-eyed. Your flabbergast immediately doubles.
“We just got rejected from getting water because we don’t look like models,” she states. Huh? I’m not following. She continues, “After the Cashier Bro rejected my request for water, I mentioned the Girlie Patron's water glass. Then the Cashier Bro’s face become super sheepish as he slowly responded, ‘yeah, I wasn’t supposed to, but I broke the bistro rules….’”
He broke their rules (which broke the law) for Girlie Patron, and not us!? What’s this all about? Then my friend makes it all make sense. Girlie Patron happens to look like a Victoria’s Secret Model. And I, sweat stains inclusive, am merely a less-attractive Timothée Chalamet.
I realized, then and there, that even with my survival instincts, I am no match for a much greater force: The Male Gaze.
Feminism, be damned. Ugly people die.
Reader, have no fear: I lived to tell the tale because my friend thought ahead. Though neglecting to mention it until after the saga ended, she did arrive at the bistro with a full water bottle. And plastic cups being inaccessible to us common-folk, I waterfalled it like a king.
The moral of the story for me is to pack better for desert conditions. For my friend, it’s to trust Yelp reviews. That’s where we disagree. It makes absolutely no sense to trust hundreds of strangers, especially the type to spend the time sharing their opinion with you. On the other hand, my friend, I learned, is that stranger! She even won a Yelp award (?) for writing so many. Turns out, the bistro had served many other such reviewers who were compelled to share their bad customer service experience. I was a skeptic. Now I was paying the consequences.
When I told her I was writing our story, she replied, “I wrote my 1-star Yelp review.”
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