Water Buffaloes

My life has become a cliche. I'm down here at the front of my office
building, having a smoke, with assorted temps, secretaries, delivery
boys, college interns, career salesman, and the odd power that be
thrown in for good measure. It's cold as hell, in the way New York can
be freezing on the first day of Spring, with the thermometer reading
sixty. Of course, I don't have my jacket on, since I don't want my
boss, sweet piss-ant that she is, to know I'm going outside to satisfy
my unsavory, unpromotable urge for sweet sweet sweet tobacco. So I've
got to go through this whole production of clutching my stomach,
groaning loudly, letting everyone in the immediate vicinity of my
cubicle know that Nate must heed the call of nature. Nadir, that is,
but it's such a pain in the ass to correct all the mispronunciations.

"Na-DEER?"

"No, it's NAA-dir."

"NADE-ir?"

"Nutter?"

Anyway, I'm eyeing this brown chick who I've seen on the commute. She's short, vaguely
cute. I'm thinking South Indian, but she could be Guyanese. I notice
her brand. Newport. Definitely Guyanese. I catch a glimpse of my
reflection in the window of this old Civic hatchback, with, obviously,
Jersey plates. Hair's a bit rough, and I could probably use a shave,
but I've got on this outrageously expensive shirt from the A/X that
makes up for any other visual short-comings. It better. I'm still
paying for it. So it's decided, then. I'm going to use the lines I
got from the Rolling Stone article about Speed Seduction.

"Hi, I'm Nate. I've seen you on the train. Do you work here?"

"Yeah. Priya, research associate with XYZ."

Ah, yes, research. That catch all phrase
that includes all the menial, hard-labor, back-breaking, all-around
crappy office duties that liberal arts grads with a GPA under 3 are
sentenced to for the rest of their working lives.

"Cool enough. That must be great. I bet you love the work."

"Oh yeah, definitely. Yeah, it's really fulfilling. Yeah, but I'll probably be promoted soon, but,
yeah, I still love it."

Man, I must be really desperate for some
action to give this chick the time of day. But it has been a tough
patch. The desi party scene is getting old fast, what with the
invasion of the Tommy Hillfigger gang and brown preppies from the
burbs with papaji's Lexus. Put the two together, and you get fights,
especially since you could probably find better male-female ratios at
a monastery. Even the old hangs, like Boom in SoHo, have been made
kosher, packaged for public consumption and bastardized by King
Rudolpho I. Thankfully, I wrap up the engaging coversation with Priya
before my last puff. Mission accomplished, I have a number, and am
riding up the elevator to my work-a-day kingdom. There's this horrible
stench coming from the extremely well endowed lady next to me. It's
quite overwhelming, and her heavy breathing adds to the volume of foul
aroma. Subtle bastard that I am, I pull out the small bottle of Aqua
di Gio, that I always keep handy for just such an occasion, and spray
spray spray away. Rather than appreciate the best scent she'll ever
get this side of a McDonald's counter, she shoots me this dirty look,
voracious, I'm sure, mouth agape.

The guy in the cube next to me has just come back from the little
boy's room. I know he snuck some Jack Daniel s in there. I'd love to
do the same, but I refuse to become part of yet another cliche. But,
try as I might, I am fated to lose the battle.

Case in point: I try
to get a drink, but the usual suspects are around the bottle passing
out the usual gossip. Mysterious intrigue, high social drama,
brilliant comedy...all in the guise of mundane office politics. I try,
as usual, to ignore the updates, which is easy, since I've already
been labeled- and I quote - snooty, for my refusal to join my
comrades in after work drinks. This time, though, my ears perk up.

"That Indian in accounting broke up with her man."

Now, she's Pakistani, but I am way too interested in the matter at hand to
educate these ladies on geography.

"No way. That gorgeous Russian guy who picked her up after the Christmas party?"

"Honey, where have you been? Now it's...it was...this fine brother, a partner at Sachs."

I have a thing for Sana. I can trace it to the first day in my
work-a-day kingdom, when I had to give her my social security
number. She's not too pale, like most Paki chicks I know, but just the
right shade of brown, with these lips that always seem to be
pouting. That drives me crazy. As an added bonus, I know she's really
into Hanif Kureishi because I saw her reading the screenplay for
"London Kills Me," which most people, have never heard of...not even
the cats who actually read The Black Album, I haven't said anything to
her, though, which is not my style. I know she stays away from desi
guys. She'll go with any other ethnicity. A group portrait of her old
boyfriends would probably make a good ad for the United Colors of
Benetton. No desis need apply, though. Besides which, my only real
conversation with her occurred when I tried to explain charging the
company for my subscription to the New Yorker.

An opportunity has now
presented itself, however, and I am not one to sit idly by. I slip
into the little boy's room to get a look. I consider, briefly, a quick
shave. My mind races, as it is wont to do, to tonight, when Sana and I
will cuddle on the plush leather sofa in my, not to sound humble,
lavish apartment, after an evening of general debauchery at
System. We'll put on My Beautiful Launderette, and watch the last
scene with Daniel Day-Lewis over and over again. I could get into
this.

"Hi Sana." The door to her office was open, so I walked right in. She
passes me a quick glance, then returns her attention to the stack on
her desk.

"Right, NAA-dir. How's the New Yorker?"

Damn, she remembers.

"Oh, it's great. In fact, there's a story by Hanif Kureishi in the last issue."

"Hanif who?"

"Kureishi. He wrote London Kills Me."

"Right. Disgusting work."

Most guys would give up their delusions of grandeur at this point. Not me, boy.

"So anyway, there's this desi party tonight at System. DJ Ladla, ladies free, open bar,
you know, the whole nine yards."

"Right. So?"

She s yet to look up at me.

"Would you care to join me?"

It's probably just me, but, I swear, she she's stifling a smile. No, wait, she is making no attempt
whatsoever to cover her amusement.

"Sorry, but I don't do the desi thing."

"Oh. How about a movie, then. Have you seen Titanic yet?"

Smart move, Nate.

"Look, NADE-ir, you seem nice, but I don't think so."

"Well, first of all, I'm not a nice guy. C'mon, give it a chance. You don't even know me. I mean, I know you're unattached at the moment..."

Nate, Nate, Nate. What am I going to do with you? Real smooth, man.

"Don't know you? Don't know you?"

Her voice is rising, ever so
slightly, with every word, but she seems oddly calm. I'm starting to
look around to make sure no one else is privy to this encounter.

"Sure I know you. You're this stuck up Indian... Pakistani...whatever,
who thinks he's Allah's gift to women. You probably heard I broke up with Simon from those
got-nothing-better-to-do skanks around the water bottle..."

Now she's looking straight at me. I never noticed how gorgeous her eyes are.

"...and you figured, Hey. I've got on this Armani shirt I can't
afford. She's tried the rest, now she's gotta try the best. So, you
come in here, after catching your reflection on any metal surface in
the office, and try to drop me a line. That's fairly accurate,
wouldn't you say, Nutter?"

There was nothing in the Rolling Stone article about this. I take a
deep breath, and try plot my escape while keeping some tiny modicum of
self-respect.

"Cool enough. I'll see you later."

Back at the throne of my work-a-day kingdom. I dial the digits Priya
wrote on my hand.

"Yeah, wow, so System, yeah? I've heard good things
about that place. Yeah, but I'll be at work late tonight. Yeah, they
would never get any work done here without me..."

I put her on speaker, and ask the comrade in the cubicle next to me
for a shot of Jack.