Even when Israelis are complimenting one another I could swear to you that it looks and sounds as if they're getting into some sort of major blowout fight. I'm not used to this, coming from sunny L.A. where people smile even when they hate you. And since I don't speak Hebrew, it was with some confusion the other day that I started listening in on a particularly voluble conversation that was occurring next to my table at the Little Prince coffee shop.
Were these two writers comparing notes? Joking back and forth? Asking eachother out for dinner?
I couldn't help staring at them blankly as if I were stumped in the middle of a Crosswords puzzle. And it was then that I noticed several other customers joining me in my fascination as they ceased doing their work, turned, and gazed open-mouthed at the scene. A heavyset, redhaired woman by the window was gesturing wildly with her pen and smirking sarcastically as she rattled off words that, to me, were unintelligible. I noticed that in her distraction, her computer's screensaver had switched on: It was an underwater photo of an alienesque infant learning how to swim. Was this a mother whose eyes flashed so maniacally behind her tiny glasses? A younger, cockily rougish and semi-attractive man was laughing disdainfully at the table in front of her. Muttering hotly underneath his breath, I watched hungrily as he turned his back to the redhead in a posture of utter condescension until finally - what a delicious surprise - the conversation broke into lightly accented English:
"Like, whatever. Whatever." The redhead said, shuffling her papers exasperatedly.
"What-ever. Sababa," her nemesis responded in agreement.
"Yeah, exactly." Now it was her turn to laugh lustily to the point where the man had to turn back and make eye contact with her. "I am a cool guy," he said, elongating his adjective to emphasize its connotation of laid-back self-assuredness. But the redhead was ready with her retort and when she spoke, it was with unequivocal authority:
"You're a shmuck."
No laughter this time from her male counterpart. His tone became more venemous, his volume more forceful. "Sorry I'm not as bright a star as you, ba-by..." Elongation again. It was impossible to tell who had come out the loser, who the winner, as his words hung heavily in the air and the redhead chose not to respond. Then she broke slowly into a half-hidden smile. It was enough to make the man try again, this time less self-assured, more desperate:
"You know what? I am so not into bullshit," the less-bright star declared in frustration.
But she responded quickly: "Oh, you are the king of bullshit!" Her voice was shrill, to be sure, but somehow still filled with humor. Meanwhile, I was lapping up every eye roll, delighting in each hand flick, passionately charting the degree to which the redhead's mouth would curl up at the corner as she thought of her next barb. And for some reason, I was on her side of an argument whose origin and subject matter I could not pretend to know. This hotshot guy, I thought to myself, this hot shot guy taking up the biggest table in the cafe, his papers spread all over, his feet up on the chair, so full of himself he makes me want to vomit...
"Chill. The. Fuck. Out."
It proved to be the hotshot's final line. Silence descended between them. Neither got up to leave. Both simply turned back to their computers. And I suddenly became aware that The Smiths had been playing on the speakers.
My fellow rubbernecking cafe patrons looked around the room, smiling at eachother in complicity. Morrissey sang on.
"Well, if it's not love then it's the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb that will bring us together..."
How true, Steven. How true.
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