I went to the movies with Dee last night. Afterwards, we were sitting in the parking lot of Walgreens trying to get a bead on the wait time at Taco Lu. Every once in a while I long for the Yellow Pages (in the same way I occasionally pine for those stick hard candies with the impossible wrappers, they only sell at Cracker Barrel these days). It would have been simpler to look up the phone number, make the call and speak with a human about the fact we’d like specialty tacos, without having to sit outside on rough hewn benches for hours, waiting for a table.
Instead, Dee tried to negotiate with the helpmate on her iPhone. For some ghastly reason the attendant on Dee’s phone has an upper-crust British accent. I hated him immediately.
Dee said loudly and distinctly, “CALL TACO LU.” She assumed the phone guy knew where we were, would magically find the restaurant and put through the call the way they did in the old English murder mysteries (“Batersea 445 if you please Simon”).
I lived with an Englishman for seventeen years, so I wasn’t surprised when Dee’s phone said condescendingly, “I’m afraid I caun’t understand your request.”
I said, “What is that – an ENGLISH accent? Who is that twit?”
He responded disdainfully, “I am unable to change my voice at this time.”
Eventually, after the kind of circuitous, fruitless exchanges I used to have with my husband, she went to Google and found the number herself.
The whole, sad affair reminded me of a conversation I had with my ex at the tail end of our marriage. I had dared to ask him for more attention. While in my cups.
He said, with that Johnny-on-the-spot British alacrity that seems rehearsed, “Why I caun’t imagine you’d want anything more. I’m loyal, trustworthy, true, a good provider…”
I said, “I could get that from a dog. Or a boy scout.”
It’s all about the triggers.
The Bang-Bang shrimp tacos at Taco Lu are kick ass by the way.
