Reuben and I just had lunch at the Sultan, our go-to Indian buffet near Reuben’s place of work.  To get there, we walked past the long line of people waiting for the free lunch program at Glide Memorial Church.  All of a sudden Reuben points out a random Asian guy standing in line who was obviously crazy.  The guy was singing and talking to himself.  And Reuben says, “see, your people ask for free food too.” 

What was dat all about?

At the Sultan, we catch up on how our respective Christmases went.  Reuben and his BF went on a cruise of the Caribbean.  I stayed back at the apartment where Justin, our third roommate, threw an amazing Christmas party.  Justin is what in San Francisco we call a Burner.  He and his friends go to Burning Man every year. 

Burners are, or at least, this group of Burners, very generous with their food and alcohol.  The prime rib was restaurant quality, and the wine never stopped flowing.  After dinner we lounged in front of the fireplace where Justin had a roaring fire.  And this other Burner brought forth a Christmas present for the twenty or so guests.

He took out a ziplock bag filled with white powder.  There must have been a pound of the stuff in there.  Maybe two pounds.  I don’t know.  I’ve only seen white powder in little dime bags.  I have no idea what a pound or two pounds would look like.  But it was the kind of ziplock bag you put your leftover dinners in.  It turns out it was not cocaine but ecstasy.  It was a staggering amount and he just left it on a big ceramic plate for anyone to partake. 

I told this story to Reuben over lunch and he said, “Oh there must be a big shipment in from somewhere because so-and-so just bought a pound of powder ecstasy.”  I felt a gazillion years old.  When did it become fashionable to snort ecstasy?  Does it make me hopelessly old-fashioned if I still prefer to “eat” them?  And when did anyone start buying ecstasy in pounds? 

After lunch Reuben convinced me to walk over to Macy’s with him and check out the deep fryers.  He wanted to get one for the apartment.  I’m sure you know how difficult of a decision it was for me.  I asked if we could buy two.  Then we could have deep-fry competitions.  Wouldn’t that be fun?  Right now I have the best, most amazing recipe for marinated-then-barbecued-then-deep-fried-spareribs that will leave you an addict.  It is so good you guys.  Really.  I may have to Fed-Ex some ribs to you all next year for the holidays.

As we were about to pay for the deep frier Reuben sees a Crock Pot *The Original Slow Cooker* and he says, “Oh Cassandra haven’t you been wanting to get this to make chicken soup?” 

I say, “No, I don’t want this.  It’s not big enough to make broth and we don’t have any more space to store it.”  Then Reuben says something (I forgot what).  Next thing I know it’s already paid for. 

I start venting as we go up the escalators.  Reuben, you always do this.  You always pressure me to do something I don’t want to do.  I told you I didn’t want it.  We have no space for it!  You got it because YOU want it.  And why are you making me carry it it is so goddamn heavy!  I hate being manipulated.  You know that!  And good luck if you think I’m going to help you pay for it!

Reuben turns around and stares at me. 

Fine, he says.  Don’t pay for it.  But Cassandra, you always make things a bigger deal than they are.  You always make a big deal out of a tiny little thing.

Like your penis.

Tags: life