Dear Charles,
Somehow you manage to follow up one of the most confusing nights with one of the most intellectually and emotionally taxing nights. Thanks for that, buddy. I can say a few good things about our "dinner", the one we didn't have enough cash for. The one you had invited to. The one where you're supposed to pay pretty much, I could endeavor to assume.
The waiterss, you say was your ex-girlfriend, you sat there like a retard with no balls when they threatened the cops. You had no right being in that booth with me. You hadn't earned it and you hadn't prepared, and you were all too prepared to be something you just ain't, kid.
I like you, Charles. But I can't say I really know who you are. I think you might be a pleaser who had a bad childhood just like I claim. (a half-truth, at best, my own admission). You are not me, though. And you had an ability to just to agree with everything that came out of my mouth. You never challenged me once, but perhaps it will all work in the end. Perhaps you'll a little more careful next time you parallel park someone else's car. Or perhaps when they ask you, "Dude, i'm not too good at parallel parking, are you okay taking this spot? Don't do it unless your sure." You assured me. You assured me.
Oh Charles, don't be such a phony. You're so much smarter than that. At least you recognize how smart I am, and unfortunately, I now recognize your capacity for hiding inconvenient truths. However, you did strike me as a screenwriter. You had the messenger bag, you have listenership of a person who truly does want to tell another's story. You financed a film this week? (I'll need details.)
Oh, Charles, Charles. You should move to where your subjects are, because you're a catastrophe. Everything that could have gone wrong, from being threatened by a bartender, to being threatened by a big fucking bouncer, and then not being able to get a sorry in edgewise as your "ex-girlfriend" screams at me never to come back (Not a chance in hell, lady. I'm sorry for calling you a name under my breath, which I apologized for, but you were asking for it with your attitude. You started the scene, not Charles, and not myself. You had no compassion for the situation. And you were at fault for much. Not for not accepting a credit card without my name on it, mind you. That's perfectly acceptable, but to not be able to even discuss, like adults, while I was trying to meet ya halfway...
You took my license and made me drive. That is a liability. But you don't know that. Neither does the guy working the bar, who's much cooler than you. I don't you, but you were rude to me. Personally. And impersonally. Don't you think I wanted to resolve the situation? I think you didn't. I think you caused that, for some reason. I'm probably wrong, and there's no excuse for ever calling a lady by a name less sweet, but you are the customer service. I am the customer. It is your job to serve me, not the bartenders. And for 6 dollars. AND FOR 6 DOLLARS. You don't have enough faith for 6 dollars when a stranger promises, with big sad blue eyes, and a blushed face, you still demand the 6 dollars.
You got more than that 6 dollars. It was 28 total. Charles has 20. I gave you around 2 dollars in quarters. And you still treated me like the scum of the Earth because it was your intention to.
I, came back in, to pay you in full, you never gave me my change. You basically owe me 4 dollars. or 4 dollars and some change. May I hold your ID? If a customer yells at you because you basically tell them they can't leave, or they must do this or that, I promise you, you were not within your rights, and I will never return to that hole in the wall again. Not because you told not to return, but because the fries were nasty.
And you don't like apologies. You don't like good in people that you "know" are evil, like me. You don't listen. You just talk. And you've taken to much of my letter to the shmuck who's really at fault.
The man behind the wheel, the man of the night, the listener, the "i better damn well be a screenwriter": Charles. Seriously? Did you really expect me to pay for it? That doesn't sound very Hollywood at all.
But it was an entirely bizarre night, which i won't look back at fondly, not because of the restaurant, the bartender, the waitress, or the bouncer, who didn't like to talk either, but because you claimed to be what you weren't. A good parallel parker.
Can't wait to read the script!
Love,
Todd
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