Since my neighborhood has turned into Jackass Central, I rarely venture out on weekends. I might go for an afternoon walk, carefully avoiding Bedford Avenue, but mostly I stay in my house or go into Manhattan. Or even some other part of Brooklyn. But walking on Bedford Ave, which is now clogged with day-trippers, strollers, and foreign tourists on the lookout for "the new Soho"—it's just better for my sanity, and the safety of others, if I remain enclosed in my apartment.
But since running out for an early dinner worked out well last night, I decided to push my luck with a morning walk. I even decided to stop in at the critically acclaimed Egg to pick up a couple biscuits to eat at home. This is where things got ugly.
The nice waitress advised me to place my order at the counter and wait for it there. Since it was only two biscuits, I figured it would take about a minute to throw two of them into a bag and I'd be out of there. I should've recalled that nothing takes "a minute" in Williamsburg, so I'm stuck standing between the path out of the kitchen and a table. At the table were two fiftysomethings who'd obviously read about "funky Williamsburg" in the Times and decided to make a day of it. I could be wrong, but I'm guessing they were fueling themselves up for a little condo shopping.
So as I move out of the way of a waitress weighted down with a tray full of coffee and food, apparently I got a little too close to the uptight people's table. I was not touching them and there was probably six inches between us even then. I get that it's kind of annoying to have someone on top of you, so I moved back into the path of traffic, moving only when the waitstaff needed to get through.
"Excuse me!" I hear from behind me. Bitchy broad asks me to move away. I say okay and move back into the traffic pattern until I have to scoot out of the way again. I hear a lot of deep sighing from her end and start getting impatient for my order. Again, this is a cramped place and I am standing as far away from them as I can manage. I hear Cunty Clara summon the waitress and I know what's going to happen. The waitress comes over and looks apologetic.
Before she can speak, I turn around, point at their table and loudly say, "This bitch wants me to move, right." Gasp from the table. The waitress is torn. On one hand she knows they're assholes and there's really nowhere else for me to wait. On the other, she wants her tip (which will be already microscopic because nitpickers like that subtract for every discomfort, real or imagined). So I tell the waitress I'd love to wait outside, if she could just be a peach and bring out my order when it's up. She gratefully says yes. I turn, stifle my urge to spit in the woman's eggs, and instead, lean over their table and hiss a rather impotent, "I hope you have a miserable fucking day" and leave—a cascade of harumphs and "why, I never"'s in my wake.
So now I'm home, but am about to head out again. To Jersey. And as much as I loathe the Garden State, it's about a million times more appealing than the idea of spending another second in Williamsburg.