The Misadventures of Quinxy von Besiex truths, lies, and everything in between

Every Friday night, there arrives to the cafe I frequent a band of unpleasant six.  They come on their bicycles, these three couples.  In the front is always the same early forties hoodied fellow, long beach bum hair poking out from under his black "Party Like a Pirate" baseball cap; a parrot on either side of the white text helps sell the authenticity of the message.  He is wearing the sort of shorts that were so very nearly pants; were it not fot a mere five inches of exposed shin.  His bicycle is crafted to resemble a long, low-rider motorcycle.  In a basket he's secured to the front, a boom box, turned up beyond what the speakers can handle with meaningful fidelity.  They park their bikes, get their coffee, and gather around the table near me.  The girlfriend of the pirate wannabe is wearing a t-shirt that celebrates the "Bad Boys" Bail Bonds brand, with its rude-looking boy logo.  Across from them a man who looks the part of a long shoreman, powerfully big and unreasonably well fed, his black knit cap proclaiming him a proponent of "Real Boyz".  He heads down to the nearby mini-mart and buys the group three bags of pistachios, in the shell.  His lady friend sits next to him, adorned in an urban camo hoody; perhaps if I were not so close to the group I would have miscounted them and thought them only five in number.  Next to these two sit the youngest couple, they look incongruous, too young, too reasonably proportioned physically, and wearing clothes which are more muted in their celebration of the wrong side of the tracks.  But it doesn't take long to understand how well they fit the group.  If Sherlock Holmes were here, he would see these people's presence as a telling clue that a trailer park exists within comfortable bicycling distance. 

 

For the next three hours I will second-hand smoke their incessant Camels, turn up my iPod to unsuccessfully drown out their incessant blather and the cracking, teeth-shelling of pistachio nuts.  I will hate them, with a quietly growing rage, as I always do.  And I will likely do this in no small part because of my lonely sense of {un}superiority.