Shooting From The Hip

My friend stirred sugar into her decaffeinated double-mocha latte and started to laugh.

       “Remember the last time you came to dinner?” she said. “And I cooked that chicken that was such a disaster? Hahahahaha!”

Photo by Dagmara Dombrovska on Unsplash

       “It was very nice,” I said, just a little wearily because this was not the first time my friend and I had had this particular conversation, and her dinner, while frankly not particularly lingering in my palate’s memory, had been certainly as good as most and better than more than a few.

       My friend shook her head in delight.

       “Oh, you British!” she chuckled. “You’re so polite! Not like us outspoken Americans! Hahahahaha!”

       “I’m not being polite,” I said, through just faintly gritted teeth because, while I am on the whole very fond indeed of my friend, neither was this was the first time I had encountered that observation from her either. “I enjoyed it.”

       My friend shrugged her shoulders, hugging herself.

       “So polite!” she repeated, happily. “You guys are just different from us, aren’t you? Here in America, we don’t care what anyone thinks – we shoot from the hip and come right out and say what’s on our mind. You always know where you are with Americans. But you Brits are always so gosh darned polite! It’s just plain adorable!”

       I smiled, if a little thinly, because, pleasant as it is to be just plain adored, it is more so when the adoration comes unaccompanied by a side dish of faint insult.

       “So!” she continued. “When are you guys going to come to dinner again?”

       Nor was it the first time that we had had this portion of the discussion. It was not the second or even the seventeenth time my straight-shooting American friend had invoked the prospect of Mr. Los Angeles’ and my going to dinner again at her house, without the plan’s somehow ever coming to fruition; but a friend is a friend, so I figured that if she felt it necessary to her wellbeing to suggest it again, then I was certainly prepared to allow her to do so.

       “How about next week?” I said, as during these exchanges I almost always do.

       She frowned, as at this point she almost always does.

       “Oh,” she said. “You know something, next week’s kind of busy. Can I get back to you and let you know?”

       “Sure,” I said.

       She laughed.

       “I promise I won’t make that terrible chicken again,” she said. “So you won’t have to be all British and polite again and pretend you like it. Hahahahhaha!”

       “Haha,” I agreed, albeit in an abbreviated form because there is only so much entertainment that one can derive from being contradicted on one’s opinion of a chicken breast.

       My friend smiled, and shook her head, taking a thoughtful bite of her vegan tahini double chocolate chip brownie.

       “It’s just so interesting how different we all are,” she said. “Take us Americans, for instance. In America, what you see is what you get. We have a thought, we let it all hang out for everyone to see. And yet you Brits are so wonderfully restrained and polite, and I have to tell you, I love it!”

       “Good,” I said. And, feeling that we had surely by now exhausted the topic of my social graces, “Did you see that thing on CNN about …”

       “Can I ask you a question?” she said then.

       “Sure,” I said, because my commitment to discussing the thing on CNN was minimal, I just wanted to stop being told how polite I was.

       My friend looked at me with an eye of bright inquiry.

       “Is the reason that you guys hardly ever come to our house because you hate Rufus?” she said.

      Now, this really was a new one. I do not in the least hate my friend’s dog, Rufus T. Firefly. I actually quite like Rufus T. Firefly, who always greets me warmly and is unfailingly appreciative when I feed him, which is more than can be said for certain two-legged individuals I could name. I even like my friend, who is good-hearted, and goofily funny, and, when she’s not inviting me to imaginary dinner parties, excellently good company. The reason that Mr. Los Angeles and I hardly ever go to visit my friend at her house is that she will hardly ever commit to a date for inviting us.

       “Of course I don’t hate Rufus,” I said.

       My friend smiled tenderly.

       “There you go again!” she said. “Being a polite Brit! Really, it’s so cute!

       Polite or not, I had had enough.

       “I’m not being polite,” I said. “You asked if I hated your dog and I wish you’d believe me when I tell you I don’t.”

       My friend burst into a peal of merry laughter.

       “Oh, you Brits!” she chuckled. “You just can’t get off the politeness kick, can you? It makes me laugh every time! Hahahahaha!” She shook her head, tolerantly. “Have it your way, then, if you say you don’t hate our dog, then I guess you don’t hate our dog. Hahahahaha! So! How about I look at my schedule when I get home and …”

       But the time had come when the polite Brit had had enough.

       “We need to talk about this,” I said.

       My plain-speaking American friend went just a little pale around the edges.

       “Talk about what?” she said.

       “It really doesn’t feel good to me,” I said, “when you ask me a question, and I give you an honest answer, and you tell me I’m just being polite.”

       “Oh.” My forthright friend recoiled in alarm. She added more sugar to her non-coffee and stirred it vigorously.

       “You see,” she stammered after a moment, her eyes darting every which way in dismay. “The thing is … you are polite. You’re one of the most polite people I know. It’s something I love in you.”

      The shooter from the hip took a revivifying jolt of non-caffeine and sat back, exhausted by this triathlon of straight talking.

       Nevertheless, the polite Brit persisted.

       “But when you tell me I’m saying something I don’t mean,” I said, “that’s telling me I don’t know how to speak my mind. And I have to tell you that I don’t like that.”

       “Ohhhh.” More blood drained from the talker of turkey’s face as she digested this.

       “You see,” she noted, desperately, then, “I always see you …”

       The caller of a spade a spade stopped and gulped.

       “ … I always see you,” she stuttered at last, “ as such a … such a  warm … such a … a kind … person …that … ”

       The fearless teller of truth stopped again and took a few calming breaths.

      “ … that I  can’t … ever … imagine you … ever … saying anything unkind to anyone,” she finished, fervently. And lest I had underestimated the full force of her sentiment, “Ever!”

       The layer of it on the line was by now all but vibrating with the horror of it all.

       But the polite Brit had not finished.

       “I want you to know,” I informed her, firmly and not a little pompously, “ that if I have something to say, I find a way to say it.”

       With trembling hand, my forthright friend replaced her cup on its saucer.

       “Such a delightful person,” she said.

       But the polite Brit was now on a roll. The polite Brit, in fact, was beginning to channel her inner Dame Edith Evans.

       “It’s a basic form of communication,” I told her, staring sternly through my lorgnette, “ of which I am perfectly capable.”

       The puller of no punches began to twitch just a little.

       “Such a gentle person,” she added.

       “And it really offends me,” I added, adjusting my fearsomely flowered toque hat, “to have it suggested that I’m not.”

       The teller of it like it is pulled frantically at her magnetic healing bracelet.

       “Such a warm-hearted person,” she emphasized.

      “So will you please stop doing that?” I said.

       The hanger of it all out, by now ashen with anguish, was eyeing the exit to the coffee shop with open longing.

       “Such a wonderful person,” she concluded, miserably.

       I remain fond of my friend, because when we’re not discussing my social manners, she has many qualities that are truly stellar.

       But I’m still waiting for the date for that dinner.