Jake Smith

My evening today, I shit you not. This all occurred in a span of about 15 minutes: There’s a squat, bald hispanic man in the Gold’s Gym locker room changing over to work out. He’s massive. His mustachioed mug could grace a can of goya, but he’s built like a Mexican Gimli. He’s yelling into his bluetooth with full confidence. “ABSOLUTE DISASTER.” “I KNOW I SAW. DID YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENED IN MICHIGAN? THE JEWS VOTED FOR HIM. YUP. NOW THAT FUCKER MANDAMI HAS A FRIEND.” That’s exactly how he pronounced it. Man-Dami. I’m biting my lip at this point. There’s two others in there with us. Again he full blown shouts about Jews. “YEAH WELL, JEWS CAN MAKE THEIR OWN WEAPONS! YOU SAW WHAT TRUMP SAID RIGHT? I DON’T KNOW, PROBABLY YEARS, BUT THEY’RE CUT OFF!” I leave. Less than a quarter mile away, I head into a 711 to get a post work out diet mt dew big gulp. Roll up to the register. A disheveled Somali of obviously questionable legal status who didn’t even bother wearing his branded shirt today gestures toward a basket of borderline fetid, room temp bananas and mumbles some somanglish. About all I can make out is the word “deal.” “Just the big gulp, bud, thanks.” He’s legit half lidded and staring at me almost slackjawed, like an East African Napoleon Dynamite. I look at him, lean in slightly, and just say one word: “Bro.” He moves and presses a button at the speed of slow. The tap icon pops up. I pay. I leave. As I’m starting my car, an obese black woman with $10,000 in tattoos on her skin, including a huge piece on her neck, leaves the store with a stack of hot dogs. I know somehow I’ve paid for that ink. An Indian guy who did wear his 711 shirt today chases her out the door, shouting, “HIBIDA BIBIDA BUBBIDA BUBBIDA” I can’t understand a word of it. Again, this is Fairfax County Northern Virginia. She shrugs and keeps walking. A black dude follows her out. The Indian guy says some stuff to him. He appears to be homeless. He gestures toward her direction with resignation, shakes his head and shrugs. It’s clear they’re regulars and this guy deals with them every day. “Let me know when you’re coming,” my wife texts me. I’m picking her up two minutes down the road. My kids are at daycare another ten minutes drive later. We are so fucked. None of this ends well.