The greasy-haired Indian man waved his rum and Coke in the air, as his thick and bushy uni-brow wiggled around suggestively. This was nothing new, since every Indian girl whether hot, semi-hot or average was subjected to these uni-brow advances. The curse of unrelenting (and clueless) Indian men. On this special night I expected the advances even more, decked out as I was in my bright pink birthday dress (with matching nails and professionally-curled locks of hair).
“Is your name Parveen?” asked the uni-brow man, his voice barely audible over the music.
That’s an interesting ice-breaker.
His voice betrayed an accent that suggested emigration from India in the last ten years. Not a “fresh off the boat” type of accent, but noticeable nonetheless. I wouldn’t have minded the accent at all but in my experience, Indian-born men were incapable of tact in the matters of feeling horny. Like I can SEE you staring at my boobs.
“No my name is NOT Parveen.” I looked at everything but him as I tried to pick out Laura, Amy, Eleanor, or anyone else who’d been forced to attend my party.
“But you’re Indian right?” His hairy-knuckled hand played with his collar, as if to woo me with the treasures that beckoned from beneath the fabric.
“Yeah I’m Indian.” I sighed. Where are the girls? Good wingmen my ass. “But I was born in Canada, so I guess I’m a little of both.” I didn’t even know why I hadn’t walked away yet. Perhaps it was a mix of boredom and sick curiosity.
“I KNEW you were an Indian princess!” He leaned in close. “So tell me...what village are your parents from?”
Oh no, not the village question. In every bar I’d been to, every dance club, every innocent daytime patio excursion, these fellows always used the Indian heritage topic as an “in.” Since I knew the next step from the village question was a grab of the ass or worse, I released the vodka cocktail from my hand, sending it to the floor with a crash.
“Crap!” I said. “Now I need another drink!”
As the creepy Indian stared at the floor with his uni-brow bunched up in horror, I quietly slipped into the crowd. I soon found Eleanor and Amy on a white leather couch near the back of the club. It seemed like I was right on time, as Eleanor was passing out some shots.
“A birthday toast to Romi!” she exclaimed. “May you live to a hundred and twenty. And afford lots of plastic surgery!” She laughed and clinked her shot glass with mine.
I can drink to that.
As this latest burst of alcohol worked its way into my bloodstream, I stared at the ground and my smile slowly disappeared. It’s my birthday and I’m sulking.
Laura quickly made her way over, her blond curls bouncing in tune with her strides, and the light glinting off her sparkly blue tank top.
“Dude it’s your birthday, so how come you’re acting like your cat just died?”
I shook my head. “No I’m not. I’m just not feeling happy-drunk, you know?” I sighed. “But I do feel the urge to punch people, or make fun of ugly babies. It’s only a mood swing…right?”
I quickly reflected on the last month or so of my quest. Scenes of bar-hopping with Laura played in my head. In most of the scenes she was smothered by dudes while I frowned by the corner of the bar. And my excursions with Eleanor had been much the same.
It’s not even a simple observation anymore. I need uglier friends.
I emerged from memory-lane as Laura put her arm around my shoulder. “Maybe you’re frustrated because you don’t have any prospects. And maybe you don’t have any prospects…because you’re kind of a bitch at the bar.”
YOU ARE READING
Year of the Chick (book 1 in the "Year of the Chick" series)ChickLit
An awkward family homecoming at Christmas. A humiliating public weigh-in, with two judging parents as the audience. The announcement of a deadline for arranged marriage doom. And that's just the first two chapters. In "Year of the Chick," Romi Narin...