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Cabarete Diaries, part 2
Chapter 306 (Cabarete Crime & Potential Porn)
A few nights ago, Sunday, my girlfriend (the redhead) came and picked me up at work. The plan was to go to sushi in Ocean Dream plaza and drink Saki until we both spoke fluent Japanese. It can be done?it?s not easy, but if you drink enough Saki, it can be accomplished.
We took off from the bar at around 9:00pm. We got about 150 meters down the street when I saw a motorcycle pulling up alongside of me in front of Kaoba hotel.
There is a very dark stretch of road in-between Kaoba hotel and Banco Popular. There are no street lights. Dominican vampires like to hang out there and pick-pocket tourists. A lot of purse snatching goes on there, and a member here, Sue W, had her purse snatched there by motorcyclist last year. Some of the other vampires that pick-pocket there are the female type. They approach drunk men?not exactly hard to find these days. The mother of all vampires is a very large, fat vampire?obviously drinks a lot of blood; she pick-pockets tourists. A lot of people have had purse snatching incidents and been pick-pocketed on this particular stretch of road.
So, there I was?just scooting a long on the Redhead?s scooter. I saw a motorcycle coming up beside me in my rear view mirror. He had his front light off. Nothing unusual about that in the DR. Apparently, it conserves fuel. It also conserves energy. And we Dominicans like to conserve energy and fuel?unless sex is involved. With sex, there is no conservation.
Because I work at a bar, I know a lot of motoconchos. Too many. We have a lot of them that sit in front of our restaurant. I know them all. I?ve known a few for many years. We use them for all kinds of errands for the restaurant.
The Motoconchos and I sometime play games with each other. When I see them further up the road, I?ll pull up very close to them and pinch their arm or waste. It?s a Dominican thing. Lots of Dominicans do it. So, when I saw this motorcycle coming up next to me with his lights off, I thought, ?Ok, this is just one of the motoconchos I know trying to play with me.?
Wrong.
I accelerated on the Redhead?s scooter. But Miss Yamaha is about as fast as a John Deere riding lawn mower. No, scratch that?that?s an insult to John Deere riding lawn mower?s. You can walk faster than Miss Yamaha.
I waited for the motorcycle to pull up next to me. I saw him. I waited. He came up right next to me, but I was focused on the road ahead, concentrating on avoiding running over stupid tourists who, for some strange reason, feel absolutely compelled to walk in the middle of a dark, unlit road, instead of on a dirt patch that sits next to the road known as one of these: a sidewalk.
Suddenly, the motorcyclist took off as fast as he pulled up beside me. This was a little strange, but ok, maybe I wasn?t who he thought I was. My girlfriend shouted, ?They got my phone! They got my phone!?
?Who?? I asked.
?The two guys that just pulled up next to us!?
Normally, I would have just floored my motorcycle and caught up to them immediately. End of story. Not going to happen today. Not on Miss Yamaha. I floored her alright. She must have reached 25km an hour. I saw a wheelchair pass us. Then I saw the Fat Mama Juana Man pass us. The man on crutches passed us as well...as did the shoe shine boys, a monkey, and a stray dog?all of them passed us as if we were nearly standing still.
I kept Miss Yamaha floored as we navigated past cars and taxi cabs about as fast as a fork lift. The thieves were two-up on a motorcycle that resembled a motoconcho. They were zig-zagging and serpentining (a word I just made up) through traffic in front of Ocean Dream Plaza. I zig-zagged and serpentined behind them. Unfortunately, I lost sight of them around Gorditos. They were much, much faster than Miss. Yamaha. She was already breathing hard and coughing up blood and not happy. She was not happy at all.
Still, I kept Miss Yamaha floored. I thought, ?Oh, what they hell, we got 10 minutes to kill before the Saki gets cold. I also thought?maybe they?ll crash? Maybe they?ll get a flat tire? Maybe they?ll run out of gas? They are Dominican after all! Any crazy, absurd and bizarre thing can still happen. They might even fall asleep during their get-away run. Crazier things have happened in this country. They happen every night. They?re happening right now at the bar.
Once I got past the Esso gas station and Viva Tangerine hotel, I couldn?t even see my own hand. It got dark. Really dark. I kept Miss Yamaha floored. I figured I had another 5 minutes before her engine would explode. I started daydreaming about what I was going to order at Sushi. Maybe spicy tuna. Maybe Kamakazi. Definitely a carafe of hot Saki. Maybe two Saki?s!?
While I engaged to Flux Capacitor on Miss Yahama, I must have hit, oh?I don?t know?maybe 35KM an hour. I saw another wheel chair pass us on the right. This was insane. It was a Turtle and Hare race. Naturally, I was the turtle here, and the thieves were the Hare (rabbit).
After a couple of minutes of driving, I saw what looked like two people pulled over underneath the Punta Goleta Bridge that crosses highway 5 right before Kite Beach. I asked the Redhead, ?Is that them??
?It looks like them!? she replied.
?No, that can?t be them!? I replied.
"Why not?" She asked.
Because thieves don?t? just stop on the side of the highway for no reason?unless their crack addicts, suffer from narcolepsy, need to urinate, just plain stupid?or Dominican. I started pulling up next to them (they were stopped on the right hand side of the road under the bridge). When they saw me, they took off, but they tried to do a U-Turn in the middle of the road and head back to Cabarete.
Perfect.
This was the opportunity I was looking for. Since I hadn?t stopped yet, I still had momentum on my side. I had a little too much momentum. I accelerated and ran directly into the side of them as fast as i could. I sent them flying off their motorcycle and across the street to the edge of the road. Unfortunately, the redhead and I also went flying off Miss Yamaha. All four of us were flying through the air?kicking and gauging, and twisting and screaming...in the mud, the blood, and the beer.
We all hit the ground and went tumbling into the grassy knoll like tumbleweeds. We were underneath the Punta Goleta Bridge. By the time I got up to chase them, they were already running along the highway and jumping back onto their motorcycle. I grabbed the redhead and the scooter, and we jumped on Miss Yamaha and went after them.
Round 2.
Miss Yamaha was angry at me. Very angry. No, she was furious. She refused to go over 15km an hour. She protested. She rebelled. She screamed. I tried sweet talking her, but she wasn?t hearing any of it. I tried talking logic to her, but you know temperamental women?she wasn?t listening to any logic right now.
We barely made it back to Cabarete. We found a beat up police car patrolling the Cayuhon de la Loma. We stopped them and told them the story. The next day I went around to a few Mobile/cell phone stores?the kind that jail-break phone software and wipe the phone clean in order to use it again. The redhead?s phone has a password lock on it. I was actually hoping that they would get into the phone?I was hoping that they would by-pass the password?without needing to wipe it clean. The reason I was hoping this was because I have a software on it called ?Camera Upload.? It uploads pictures to Dropbox where only I can see and delete the pictures. Every time a picture is taken, it automatically uploads the pictures up to a cloud service as soon as they connect to the internet. I was hoping for some good porn vides or photos of girlfriend?s crotches. (if they wipe the phone clean, they will take the Dropbox (cloud service) software off with it. In hindsight, I shouldn?t have a lock on the screen).
No Luck. No porn videos or photos.
I sent some motoconchos out to all of the other cell phone shacks in order to describe the phone to them and offer to buy the phone back. So far, no luck. Still, there is one last opportunity to find the phone. We went to the main Orange office today in Puerto Plata. We requested the phone records of every number called starting on Sunday and ending on Wednesday. I was hoping that the thieves took the SIM card out of the phone and used it on one another phone in order to enjoy the free minutes. No luck again. They never used the SIM card.
I think I will start leaving our phone screens unlocked. That way, if another one gets stolen, I may get lucky and the thieves may then use the phone to take naked pictures or videos of themselves or girlfriend's.
I could then turn around and make money off their porn videos and photos.
Now that would be sweet!
A few nights ago, Sunday, my girlfriend (the redhead) came and picked me up at work. The plan was to go to sushi in Ocean Dream plaza and drink Saki until we both spoke fluent Japanese. It can be done?it?s not easy, but if you drink enough Saki, it can be accomplished.
We took off from the bar at around 9:00pm. We got about 150 meters down the street when I saw a motorcycle pulling up alongside of me in front of Kaoba hotel.
There is a very dark stretch of road in-between Kaoba hotel and Banco Popular. There are no street lights. Dominican vampires like to hang out there and pick-pocket tourists. A lot of purse snatching goes on there, and a member here, Sue W, had her purse snatched there by motorcyclist last year. Some of the other vampires that pick-pocket there are the female type. They approach drunk men?not exactly hard to find these days. The mother of all vampires is a very large, fat vampire?obviously drinks a lot of blood; she pick-pockets tourists. A lot of people have had purse snatching incidents and been pick-pocketed on this particular stretch of road.
So, there I was?just scooting a long on the Redhead?s scooter. I saw a motorcycle coming up beside me in my rear view mirror. He had his front light off. Nothing unusual about that in the DR. Apparently, it conserves fuel. It also conserves energy. And we Dominicans like to conserve energy and fuel?unless sex is involved. With sex, there is no conservation.
Because I work at a bar, I know a lot of motoconchos. Too many. We have a lot of them that sit in front of our restaurant. I know them all. I?ve known a few for many years. We use them for all kinds of errands for the restaurant.
The Motoconchos and I sometime play games with each other. When I see them further up the road, I?ll pull up very close to them and pinch their arm or waste. It?s a Dominican thing. Lots of Dominicans do it. So, when I saw this motorcycle coming up next to me with his lights off, I thought, ?Ok, this is just one of the motoconchos I know trying to play with me.?
Wrong.
I accelerated on the Redhead?s scooter. But Miss Yamaha is about as fast as a John Deere riding lawn mower. No, scratch that?that?s an insult to John Deere riding lawn mower?s. You can walk faster than Miss Yamaha.
I waited for the motorcycle to pull up next to me. I saw him. I waited. He came up right next to me, but I was focused on the road ahead, concentrating on avoiding running over stupid tourists who, for some strange reason, feel absolutely compelled to walk in the middle of a dark, unlit road, instead of on a dirt patch that sits next to the road known as one of these: a sidewalk.
Suddenly, the motorcyclist took off as fast as he pulled up beside me. This was a little strange, but ok, maybe I wasn?t who he thought I was. My girlfriend shouted, ?They got my phone! They got my phone!?
?Who?? I asked.
?The two guys that just pulled up next to us!?
Normally, I would have just floored my motorcycle and caught up to them immediately. End of story. Not going to happen today. Not on Miss Yamaha. I floored her alright. She must have reached 25km an hour. I saw a wheelchair pass us. Then I saw the Fat Mama Juana Man pass us. The man on crutches passed us as well...as did the shoe shine boys, a monkey, and a stray dog?all of them passed us as if we were nearly standing still.
I kept Miss Yamaha floored as we navigated past cars and taxi cabs about as fast as a fork lift. The thieves were two-up on a motorcycle that resembled a motoconcho. They were zig-zagging and serpentining (a word I just made up) through traffic in front of Ocean Dream Plaza. I zig-zagged and serpentined behind them. Unfortunately, I lost sight of them around Gorditos. They were much, much faster than Miss. Yamaha. She was already breathing hard and coughing up blood and not happy. She was not happy at all.
Still, I kept Miss Yamaha floored. I thought, ?Oh, what they hell, we got 10 minutes to kill before the Saki gets cold. I also thought?maybe they?ll crash? Maybe they?ll get a flat tire? Maybe they?ll run out of gas? They are Dominican after all! Any crazy, absurd and bizarre thing can still happen. They might even fall asleep during their get-away run. Crazier things have happened in this country. They happen every night. They?re happening right now at the bar.
Once I got past the Esso gas station and Viva Tangerine hotel, I couldn?t even see my own hand. It got dark. Really dark. I kept Miss Yamaha floored. I figured I had another 5 minutes before her engine would explode. I started daydreaming about what I was going to order at Sushi. Maybe spicy tuna. Maybe Kamakazi. Definitely a carafe of hot Saki. Maybe two Saki?s!?
While I engaged to Flux Capacitor on Miss Yahama, I must have hit, oh?I don?t know?maybe 35KM an hour. I saw another wheel chair pass us on the right. This was insane. It was a Turtle and Hare race. Naturally, I was the turtle here, and the thieves were the Hare (rabbit).
After a couple of minutes of driving, I saw what looked like two people pulled over underneath the Punta Goleta Bridge that crosses highway 5 right before Kite Beach. I asked the Redhead, ?Is that them??
?It looks like them!? she replied.
?No, that can?t be them!? I replied.
"Why not?" She asked.
Because thieves don?t? just stop on the side of the highway for no reason?unless their crack addicts, suffer from narcolepsy, need to urinate, just plain stupid?or Dominican. I started pulling up next to them (they were stopped on the right hand side of the road under the bridge). When they saw me, they took off, but they tried to do a U-Turn in the middle of the road and head back to Cabarete.
Perfect.
This was the opportunity I was looking for. Since I hadn?t stopped yet, I still had momentum on my side. I had a little too much momentum. I accelerated and ran directly into the side of them as fast as i could. I sent them flying off their motorcycle and across the street to the edge of the road. Unfortunately, the redhead and I also went flying off Miss Yamaha. All four of us were flying through the air?kicking and gauging, and twisting and screaming...in the mud, the blood, and the beer.
We all hit the ground and went tumbling into the grassy knoll like tumbleweeds. We were underneath the Punta Goleta Bridge. By the time I got up to chase them, they were already running along the highway and jumping back onto their motorcycle. I grabbed the redhead and the scooter, and we jumped on Miss Yamaha and went after them.
Round 2.
Miss Yamaha was angry at me. Very angry. No, she was furious. She refused to go over 15km an hour. She protested. She rebelled. She screamed. I tried sweet talking her, but she wasn?t hearing any of it. I tried talking logic to her, but you know temperamental women?she wasn?t listening to any logic right now.
We barely made it back to Cabarete. We found a beat up police car patrolling the Cayuhon de la Loma. We stopped them and told them the story. The next day I went around to a few Mobile/cell phone stores?the kind that jail-break phone software and wipe the phone clean in order to use it again. The redhead?s phone has a password lock on it. I was actually hoping that they would get into the phone?I was hoping that they would by-pass the password?without needing to wipe it clean. The reason I was hoping this was because I have a software on it called ?Camera Upload.? It uploads pictures to Dropbox where only I can see and delete the pictures. Every time a picture is taken, it automatically uploads the pictures up to a cloud service as soon as they connect to the internet. I was hoping for some good porn vides or photos of girlfriend?s crotches. (if they wipe the phone clean, they will take the Dropbox (cloud service) software off with it. In hindsight, I shouldn?t have a lock on the screen).
No Luck. No porn videos or photos.
I sent some motoconchos out to all of the other cell phone shacks in order to describe the phone to them and offer to buy the phone back. So far, no luck. Still, there is one last opportunity to find the phone. We went to the main Orange office today in Puerto Plata. We requested the phone records of every number called starting on Sunday and ending on Wednesday. I was hoping that the thieves took the SIM card out of the phone and used it on one another phone in order to enjoy the free minutes. No luck again. They never used the SIM card.
I think I will start leaving our phone screens unlocked. That way, if another one gets stolen, I may get lucky and the thieves may then use the phone to take naked pictures or videos of themselves or girlfriend's.
I could then turn around and make money off their porn videos and photos.
Now that would be sweet!
I've posted this video before, but last night i just learned how to use Google Maps in order to figure out how many kilometers i did in one day.
The trip took me 14.5 hours and started at 5:45 in the morning from Cabarete and went down the Haitian border.
The trip took me down the Haitian border and back around to Cabarete over a series of mountains. At the 2:50 mark, i enter a very crowded Haitian Market up in the mountains. There is a series of Military check points you must pass through on the Dominican side. I just Googled mapped the trip last night in order to figure out how many kilometers it was: I did roughly 900km in one day.
Google could not recognize a stretch of road along the Haitian border, and so, Google recorded the trip at 864km). it took me roughly 12 liters of gasoline for the entire trip, and as i mentioned, i left Cabarete at 5:45am and got home at 8:15 at night.
Note: The trip can be done in a reliable SUV or truck with good tires.
https://youtu.be/8ndllmiQ-YA
[video=youtube_share;8ndllmiQ-YA]https://youtu.be/8ndllmiQ-YA[/video]
The trip took me 14.5 hours and started at 5:45 in the morning from Cabarete and went down the Haitian border.
The trip took me down the Haitian border and back around to Cabarete over a series of mountains. At the 2:50 mark, i enter a very crowded Haitian Market up in the mountains. There is a series of Military check points you must pass through on the Dominican side. I just Googled mapped the trip last night in order to figure out how many kilometers it was: I did roughly 900km in one day.
Google could not recognize a stretch of road along the Haitian border, and so, Google recorded the trip at 864km). it took me roughly 12 liters of gasoline for the entire trip, and as i mentioned, i left Cabarete at 5:45am and got home at 8:15 at night.
Note: The trip can be done in a reliable SUV or truck with good tires.
https://youtu.be/8ndllmiQ-YA
[video=youtube_share;8ndllmiQ-YA]https://youtu.be/8ndllmiQ-YA[/video]
Last edited by a moderator:
I've posted this video before, but last night i just learned how to use Google Maps in order to figure out how many kilometers i did in one day.
The trip took me 14.5 hours and started at 5:45 in the morning from Cabarete and went down the Haitian border.
The trip took me down the Haitian border and back around to Cabarete over a series of mountains. At the 2:50 mark, i enter a very crowded Haitian Market up in the mountains. There is a series of Military check points you must pass through on the Dominican side. I just Googled mapped the trip last night in order to figure out how many kilometers it was: I did roughly 900km in one day.
Google could not recognize a stretch of road along the Haitian border, and so, Google recorded the trip at 864km). it took me roughly 12 liters of gasoline for the entire trip, and as i mentioned, i left Cabarete at 5:45am and got home at 8:15 at night.
Note: The trip can be done in a reliable SUV or truck with good tires.
https://youtu.be/8ndllmiQ-YA
[video=youtube_share;8ndllmiQ-YA]https://youtu.be/8ndllmiQ-YA[/video]
Good stuff Frank,
Hope all is good.....
I have a new book coming out in a few days called "Cabarete Diaries." It's the funniest book you will ever read about the insanity & madness of working in a restaurant/bar in the Caribbean and the expats & locals that make a place fun & insane to be around. There are quite a few deaths in the book, as well as a story of forgiveness and redemption.
Good stuff Frankie - a couple of things - I know its DR & it gets hot & Humid, but wear gloves when riding - I know its tough for ATGATT in that climate, but ur hands are usually the 1st to touch down in a moto crash. Get some vented (mesh) gloves - ur cock will thank me, post moto crash, as U'll still be able to jerk off! Wepa.
And Is that ur famous Red Head on the cover of new book?
And Is that ur famous Red Head on the cover of new book?
Here's a little sample from my book, "Cabarete Diaries." It's a true story that happened to me three years ago.
Chapter 11 (Heating Things Up with Big Red and Timmy’s Rule # 3)
I was late, so I left for work, but I had a terrible feeling inside me all day. I kept remembering what Big Red had said. I needed to re-kindle our fire. There had to be a way to reintroduce passion back into our relationship.
I realized that I needed Viagra. A lot of Viagra. Viagra would reignite our fire. I started chewing Viagra pills about an hour before I got off work. I wanted to be ready when I got home. But I also wanted to time things right. I didn’t want to be walking around the restaurant with an erection while customers asked me questions about their beef nachos.
Right before I got off work, Murphy’s Law kicked into gear. Timmy came running downstairs from the office. The staff and I could hear him sprinting down the steps, taking two steps at a time. This sounded like a herd of Water Buffalo stampeding while being chased by a pack of hungry lions. The staff started scurrying around the restaurant like a pack of rats looking for places to hide.
“Franky, come here right now! We have a new rule, effective immediately,” he announced, out of breath.
“Yes, sir,” I answered, looking around for the staff. They were hiding in walk-in closets and coolers.
“Where is all of the staff?” Timmy asked looking around the restaurant.
“They’re in the toilet right now,” I answered.
“All of them?”
“Diarrhea. Bad diarrhea,” I answered.
“Ok, well, look — this will be Rule # 3,” he announced proudly, looking down at my shorts. My erection had started too early. My shorts looked like a circus tent being propped up in the center of the ring. Yes, this was embarrassing. I was embarrassed.
“Yes, sir,” I answered, adjusting the position of my penis to a more neutral position. Timmy cocked his head sideways, unsure what to say.
“Ok, listen,” he said, looking down at my shorts, “our weekly overhead cost for sugar is through the ****ing roof, Franky.” He glanced down at my crotch again before continuing. “What the hell’s wrong with you, man?”
“Nothing, sir.” I answered, re-adjusting my penis again.
“You need to go to the bathroom?”
“Yeah, I need to urinate. I had a lot of coffee today. Too much.”
“Ok, well, I’ll make this fast. Listen, we are going through entirely too much sugar. We are going through more sugar then a ****ing sugar mill. This makes zero sense since we don’t require sugar for any of our food except for the brownies. So, starting right now, the staff is to no longer use sugar in their coffee. I do not want to see any staff using any more of my sugar, you understand?”
“Yes, sir, I understand.” I answered, looking over at the coffee machine. There was an open five-pound plastic bag full of brown sugar sitting next to the coffee machine. There were spoons laying all around the sugar bag from where the staff liberally poured spoonfuls of sugar into their coffee. Dominicans like a lot of sugar in their coffee. They like their coffee to have the consistency of quicksand. Once a Dominican gets hold of sugar, they pour enough sugar into their coffee to make twenty cakes. They pour so much sugar into their coffee cups that the sugar comes up and over the top of their coffee cups, spilling over. It’s insane. They create something that looks like an anthill. This cannot be healthy.
“Tell the staff, Franky,” he began — then he looked down at my shorts again. “For the love of god, man, go urinate, do something!”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. I turned to go to the storage room. I needed tape. A lot of tape.
“Wait a second, Franky,” he said, stopping me again, “Tell any staff that if they cannot adhere to this new rule, they can pick up their last paycheck and leave.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, adjusting my penis yet again. Then I looked around for the staff. Not one single one could be seen. They were all still in hiding, and probably all busily drinking their sugar-packed coffees inside our walk-in closets and coolers.
Timmy excused himself and went back up to his office. I went into the kitchen and grabbed some black electrical tape. Then I went into the liquor room and pulled my pants down to below my knees. I taped my penis flat up against my stomach. I put a lot of tape around myself. The tape went around my entire stomach and back three or four times. It looked like I was wearing a shiny black girdle. Above this I was wearing surfer shorts. These kinds of shorts are not conducive to Viagra induced erections.
Chapter 11 (Heating Things Up with Big Red and Timmy’s Rule # 3)
I was late, so I left for work, but I had a terrible feeling inside me all day. I kept remembering what Big Red had said. I needed to re-kindle our fire. There had to be a way to reintroduce passion back into our relationship.
I realized that I needed Viagra. A lot of Viagra. Viagra would reignite our fire. I started chewing Viagra pills about an hour before I got off work. I wanted to be ready when I got home. But I also wanted to time things right. I didn’t want to be walking around the restaurant with an erection while customers asked me questions about their beef nachos.
Right before I got off work, Murphy’s Law kicked into gear. Timmy came running downstairs from the office. The staff and I could hear him sprinting down the steps, taking two steps at a time. This sounded like a herd of Water Buffalo stampeding while being chased by a pack of hungry lions. The staff started scurrying around the restaurant like a pack of rats looking for places to hide.
“Franky, come here right now! We have a new rule, effective immediately,” he announced, out of breath.
“Yes, sir,” I answered, looking around for the staff. They were hiding in walk-in closets and coolers.
“Where is all of the staff?” Timmy asked looking around the restaurant.
“They’re in the toilet right now,” I answered.
“All of them?”
“Diarrhea. Bad diarrhea,” I answered.
“Ok, well, look — this will be Rule # 3,” he announced proudly, looking down at my shorts. My erection had started too early. My shorts looked like a circus tent being propped up in the center of the ring. Yes, this was embarrassing. I was embarrassed.
“Yes, sir,” I answered, adjusting the position of my penis to a more neutral position. Timmy cocked his head sideways, unsure what to say.
“Ok, listen,” he said, looking down at my shorts, “our weekly overhead cost for sugar is through the ****ing roof, Franky.” He glanced down at my crotch again before continuing. “What the hell’s wrong with you, man?”
“Nothing, sir.” I answered, re-adjusting my penis again.
“You need to go to the bathroom?”
“Yeah, I need to urinate. I had a lot of coffee today. Too much.”
“Ok, well, I’ll make this fast. Listen, we are going through entirely too much sugar. We are going through more sugar then a ****ing sugar mill. This makes zero sense since we don’t require sugar for any of our food except for the brownies. So, starting right now, the staff is to no longer use sugar in their coffee. I do not want to see any staff using any more of my sugar, you understand?”
“Yes, sir, I understand.” I answered, looking over at the coffee machine. There was an open five-pound plastic bag full of brown sugar sitting next to the coffee machine. There were spoons laying all around the sugar bag from where the staff liberally poured spoonfuls of sugar into their coffee. Dominicans like a lot of sugar in their coffee. They like their coffee to have the consistency of quicksand. Once a Dominican gets hold of sugar, they pour enough sugar into their coffee to make twenty cakes. They pour so much sugar into their coffee cups that the sugar comes up and over the top of their coffee cups, spilling over. It’s insane. They create something that looks like an anthill. This cannot be healthy.
“Tell the staff, Franky,” he began — then he looked down at my shorts again. “For the love of god, man, go urinate, do something!”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. I turned to go to the storage room. I needed tape. A lot of tape.
“Wait a second, Franky,” he said, stopping me again, “Tell any staff that if they cannot adhere to this new rule, they can pick up their last paycheck and leave.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, adjusting my penis yet again. Then I looked around for the staff. Not one single one could be seen. They were all still in hiding, and probably all busily drinking their sugar-packed coffees inside our walk-in closets and coolers.
Timmy excused himself and went back up to his office. I went into the kitchen and grabbed some black electrical tape. Then I went into the liquor room and pulled my pants down to below my knees. I taped my penis flat up against my stomach. I put a lot of tape around myself. The tape went around my entire stomach and back three or four times. It looked like I was wearing a shiny black girdle. Above this I was wearing surfer shorts. These kinds of shorts are not conducive to Viagra induced erections.
Here's another chapter from my book, "Cabarete Diaries." These are all true stories. Nearly everyone in this book lives in Cabarete or on the North Coast.
Chapter 31 (The Professor)
This past Sunday I sat at work for fourteen hours watching football until my eyes fell out of their sockets. I watched so much football that my brain swelled up and a blood clot formed behind my eyes. My vision blurred and I couldn't see.
By midnight, I had had enough football to last me the rest of the year. I told the wait staff that I would be upstairs in the office working if they needed anything. Then I went upstairs and lay down underneath the office desk. I took the office chair and pulled it up tight against the desk to make it look like no one was in the office. I needed to be prepared in case Timmy or Big Fred came up to the office looking for me. I lay underneath the desk perfectly still, lying on my back, with the office drawer about a half an inch above my left ear. I had to turn my head sideways in order to fit perfectly underneath the desk.
I was in the middle of a dream in which I was making love to a group of women when my phone rang. Actually, I was in the middle of an orgy. There were tall ones, short ones, round ones, brown ones, white ones and crazy ones. They were kinky crazy. It was beautiful. I was superman. I was a sex god. For five long minutes I made love to every kind of woman in the galaxy. Then my phone rang. I woke up from my beautiful dream with a cramp in my leg, stuck underneath the desk in a twisted, convoluted position that left me feeling like I had cerebral palsy.
Miguelina was on the phone. She told me to come downstairs right away. ?Right now!? she yelled into the phone and hung up. This had to be serious. Very serious. I?ve never heard Miguelina yell before. I pulled myself out from underneath the desk like a mechanic pulling himself out from underneath a car. Then I sprinted downstairs with my right leg asleep. I had to hop. I was hopping along as fast as I could on my left leg. I looked like a pirate.
?Go speak to the man sitting with Big Fred!? she told me.
?Why, what?s wrong?? I asked, completely out of breath. I couldn't breathe. I needed oxygen or a shot of whiskey. I took a shot of whiskey instead.
?He doesn?t want to pay his bill,? she said.
?Which man? There?s three men sitting with Big Fred right now, Miguelina.?
?The man in the white shirt with a baseball cap,? she answered, pointing at him.
?The professor?"
There was a professor sitting with Big Fred. Actually, there were two professors sitting with Big Fred. One from this island, and another from Quebec. The man Miguelina was pointing at was a professor on this island. I walked over to him and asked, ?What?s wrong Professor??
?I already paid my bill,? he said.
I turned to Miguelina and asked her in Spanish if he?d paid the bill.
?No. I?ve been serving him since 5 p.m. and he hasn?t paid anything.?
I turned to the professor and asked, ?When did you pay your bill, Professor??
?I paid it over there when I was sitting with you and Ben.?
I was confused. I asked, ?Are you thinking about the bill you paid at the shift change at 5 p.m.??
?Yeah.?
?Ok, well, look Professor, it?s now one in the morning. You?ve been drinking on this bill for eight hours now. You?re confusing this bill with the one from the first shift that ended at 5 p.m. You got here at 1 p.m., remember??
?I don?t care. I know what I drank, and that?s not my bill.?
?Let's look at it again. It says here that you had twelve Presidente beers, right??
?I didn?t drink them.?
"What are you drinking right now?" I asked, pointing at the drink in front of him.
"That's a Presidente."
?Hmm, okay, so, are you saying that you didn't drink anything on this check?" I asked, holding it up for him to look at. His check looked like the Lost Sea Scrolls. It was about two feet long. ?Or are you saying that this is your first beer of the evening?"
"I?m saying that I didn't drink all of those beers."
"Look professor, I bought you two beers with Ben, remember? Big Fred here has bought you another two beers as well. That?s four free beers. You've only been charged for twelve beers in a little over eight hours. That's only 1.5 beers an hour. Are you saying that you didn't drink roughly a 1.5 beers an hour??
?Listen, Frank, I?ve lived here a long time. I know when I?m being ripped off. I?m being ripped off.?
?Professor, if you think you?re being ripped off for even one single beer, I don?t want you paying the bill. Period. Your bill is only $1,800 pesos ($40 US dollars). Do you think we?re going to try and rip you off for $40 US dollars??
?There?s no way I drank all of those beers, Frank.?
?Professor, you've been here since 1 p.m. watching football. It?s now 1 a.m. Basically, you've been here for twelve hours. You paid your first check at 5 p.m. This here is your second check, from 5 p.m. until 1 a.m.?
?I know what I drank, Frank. I didn?t drink all of those beers. I know when I?m being ripped off? I?m not coming back here.?
I knew where this was heading. I?ve been down this road before. It?s not pretty. I?ve been in this exact situation dozens of times. If I had one dollar for every time someone thought they were being ripped off I would be rich. Stinking rich. If I had one dollar for every time someone thought that there was no possible way that they could have drunk all of the drinks on their bill, I would be a millionaire. If I had one dollar for every time someone thought the waitress or bartender was trying to take advantage of them, I?d be living like a king. Yes, there are times when we make mistakes. This happens. But normally, we?re the sober ones. Normally, the client leveling the theft charges at us is drunk. Very drunk. That?s why I always double check with the waitress or bartender to make sure that the check is right before addressing the issue.
The professor had had twelve drinks in eight hours (from 5 p.m. to 1 a.m.), not including all the beers he had had from 1 p.m. until 5 p.m. during the first shift. This was not counting the two free beers I?d given to both him and Ben. This was not counting the free beers Big Fred had bought him. The Professor had had too much to drink. A normal person would be dead or sleeping underneath the table after all that. But he was originally Canadian, so he was a professional drinker. Canadians come out of the womb with a beer or Crown Royal in their hand. Alcohol is like mother?s milk for them.
But these sorts of bar situations rarely end up with good feelings on the customer?s end. The customer thinks he or she is being ripped off. Period. Nothing I can say or do is going to change this fact. Basically, it?s a trust issue. He or she does not trust us, and nothing I say or do right now ? including ripping up their check up and telling them to forget about it ? is going to change their mind. Right now, there?s too much alcohol getting in the way of clear, concise thinking. There?s too much pride, and there?s too much ego. Nothing I say or do is going to change anything.
I told the Professor that he could pay his check tomorrow, and then I went back upstairs to see if I could finish the orgy I had been in the middle of before I got interrupted.
Chapter 31 (The Professor)
This past Sunday I sat at work for fourteen hours watching football until my eyes fell out of their sockets. I watched so much football that my brain swelled up and a blood clot formed behind my eyes. My vision blurred and I couldn't see.
By midnight, I had had enough football to last me the rest of the year. I told the wait staff that I would be upstairs in the office working if they needed anything. Then I went upstairs and lay down underneath the office desk. I took the office chair and pulled it up tight against the desk to make it look like no one was in the office. I needed to be prepared in case Timmy or Big Fred came up to the office looking for me. I lay underneath the desk perfectly still, lying on my back, with the office drawer about a half an inch above my left ear. I had to turn my head sideways in order to fit perfectly underneath the desk.
I was in the middle of a dream in which I was making love to a group of women when my phone rang. Actually, I was in the middle of an orgy. There were tall ones, short ones, round ones, brown ones, white ones and crazy ones. They were kinky crazy. It was beautiful. I was superman. I was a sex god. For five long minutes I made love to every kind of woman in the galaxy. Then my phone rang. I woke up from my beautiful dream with a cramp in my leg, stuck underneath the desk in a twisted, convoluted position that left me feeling like I had cerebral palsy.
Miguelina was on the phone. She told me to come downstairs right away. ?Right now!? she yelled into the phone and hung up. This had to be serious. Very serious. I?ve never heard Miguelina yell before. I pulled myself out from underneath the desk like a mechanic pulling himself out from underneath a car. Then I sprinted downstairs with my right leg asleep. I had to hop. I was hopping along as fast as I could on my left leg. I looked like a pirate.
?Go speak to the man sitting with Big Fred!? she told me.
?Why, what?s wrong?? I asked, completely out of breath. I couldn't breathe. I needed oxygen or a shot of whiskey. I took a shot of whiskey instead.
?He doesn?t want to pay his bill,? she said.
?Which man? There?s three men sitting with Big Fred right now, Miguelina.?
?The man in the white shirt with a baseball cap,? she answered, pointing at him.
?The professor?"
There was a professor sitting with Big Fred. Actually, there were two professors sitting with Big Fred. One from this island, and another from Quebec. The man Miguelina was pointing at was a professor on this island. I walked over to him and asked, ?What?s wrong Professor??
?I already paid my bill,? he said.
I turned to Miguelina and asked her in Spanish if he?d paid the bill.
?No. I?ve been serving him since 5 p.m. and he hasn?t paid anything.?
I turned to the professor and asked, ?When did you pay your bill, Professor??
?I paid it over there when I was sitting with you and Ben.?
I was confused. I asked, ?Are you thinking about the bill you paid at the shift change at 5 p.m.??
?Yeah.?
?Ok, well, look Professor, it?s now one in the morning. You?ve been drinking on this bill for eight hours now. You?re confusing this bill with the one from the first shift that ended at 5 p.m. You got here at 1 p.m., remember??
?I don?t care. I know what I drank, and that?s not my bill.?
?Let's look at it again. It says here that you had twelve Presidente beers, right??
?I didn?t drink them.?
"What are you drinking right now?" I asked, pointing at the drink in front of him.
"That's a Presidente."
?Hmm, okay, so, are you saying that you didn't drink anything on this check?" I asked, holding it up for him to look at. His check looked like the Lost Sea Scrolls. It was about two feet long. ?Or are you saying that this is your first beer of the evening?"
"I?m saying that I didn't drink all of those beers."
"Look professor, I bought you two beers with Ben, remember? Big Fred here has bought you another two beers as well. That?s four free beers. You've only been charged for twelve beers in a little over eight hours. That's only 1.5 beers an hour. Are you saying that you didn't drink roughly a 1.5 beers an hour??
?Listen, Frank, I?ve lived here a long time. I know when I?m being ripped off. I?m being ripped off.?
?Professor, if you think you?re being ripped off for even one single beer, I don?t want you paying the bill. Period. Your bill is only $1,800 pesos ($40 US dollars). Do you think we?re going to try and rip you off for $40 US dollars??
?There?s no way I drank all of those beers, Frank.?
?Professor, you've been here since 1 p.m. watching football. It?s now 1 a.m. Basically, you've been here for twelve hours. You paid your first check at 5 p.m. This here is your second check, from 5 p.m. until 1 a.m.?
?I know what I drank, Frank. I didn?t drink all of those beers. I know when I?m being ripped off? I?m not coming back here.?
I knew where this was heading. I?ve been down this road before. It?s not pretty. I?ve been in this exact situation dozens of times. If I had one dollar for every time someone thought they were being ripped off I would be rich. Stinking rich. If I had one dollar for every time someone thought that there was no possible way that they could have drunk all of the drinks on their bill, I would be a millionaire. If I had one dollar for every time someone thought the waitress or bartender was trying to take advantage of them, I?d be living like a king. Yes, there are times when we make mistakes. This happens. But normally, we?re the sober ones. Normally, the client leveling the theft charges at us is drunk. Very drunk. That?s why I always double check with the waitress or bartender to make sure that the check is right before addressing the issue.
The professor had had twelve drinks in eight hours (from 5 p.m. to 1 a.m.), not including all the beers he had had from 1 p.m. until 5 p.m. during the first shift. This was not counting the two free beers I?d given to both him and Ben. This was not counting the free beers Big Fred had bought him. The Professor had had too much to drink. A normal person would be dead or sleeping underneath the table after all that. But he was originally Canadian, so he was a professional drinker. Canadians come out of the womb with a beer or Crown Royal in their hand. Alcohol is like mother?s milk for them.
But these sorts of bar situations rarely end up with good feelings on the customer?s end. The customer thinks he or she is being ripped off. Period. Nothing I can say or do is going to change this fact. Basically, it?s a trust issue. He or she does not trust us, and nothing I say or do right now ? including ripping up their check up and telling them to forget about it ? is going to change their mind. Right now, there?s too much alcohol getting in the way of clear, concise thinking. There?s too much pride, and there?s too much ego. Nothing I say or do is going to change anything.
I told the Professor that he could pay his check tomorrow, and then I went back upstairs to see if I could finish the orgy I had been in the middle of before I got interrupted.
Chapter 315 (Dominican Shakespeare & Drama)
Dominicans amaze me. They really do. I’m standing in line in the Brussels airport and I’ve got about 200 people standing behind me. We’re all waiting for Jetairfly to announce yet another delay that will have us arriving in the DR sometime in the year 2017.
We’re standing in line like Lemmings waiting to commit suicide. I can’t understand a couple things here: First, how is possible that a flight, which only flies twice a week, can be so chronically late? The last two times I’ve flown Jetairfly, they were 5 hours late in departing. 5 hours late! How is this even possible? Are they getting lost in transit? I thought GPS and Autopilot was supposed fix planes getting lost in the Bermuda Triangle. I thought breathalyzer tests were administered to pilots nowadays?
The other thing I don’t understand is how is it possible that in the year 2015, Dominicans have not learned how to wait in line. I’m surrounded by 200 Dominicans waiting to check-in. About 20 different Dominicans have already managed to maneuver around me and cut directly in front of me. Not only have they blatantly pushed themselves around me, but they managed to pull off this feat while talking on their cell phones and tugging at their panties. About 10 Dominican women are now standing in front of me pulling on their jeans and itching their crotches.
This is insane.
Meanwhile, every white European is patiently standing in a line, patiently waiting their turn to check-in. Meanwhile, here comes the Dominicans…blatantly walking past everyone, yelling into their cell phones while by-passing me and the people in front of me. They’re acting as if we’re invisible. They treat the check-in line as if their inside their kitchen back home. They simply walk past the table, past everyone standing in line, and head straight to the refrigerator. They treat the check-in line as a mild inconvenience of which they are not subject to.
I stand back in awe. I stand back and study them. This is fascinating. This is field research. This is anthropology 101. You got to pay for this kind of study of natives outside of their natural habitat. Dominicans fascinate me. They enthrall me. Sometimes they even surprise me. but they never ever shock me.
I study the Dominican women standing in line in front of me. They’re all wearing high heels shoes that they cannot walk in. They all look like NHL players trying to walk around on ice-skates. They look like NFL line-backers walking back to the huddle on the football field. Few Dominicans can pull off high heel shoes. Another thing that fascinates me about Dominican females is this: Crotch itch.
All of these women in front of me are wearing jeans. Their jeans are way too tight. You can make out their birth canal in these jeans. They keep on tugging at their jeans—pulling them this way and that. They stretch them first left, and then right. They keeping making small, fine adjustments on their panties. They pull them up, and then push them back down; they tug at their crotches. And they do all of this while yelling into their cell phones in Spanish.
When they’re not arguing about their hair-do’s, they’re arguing about being made to wait in line for check-in. One theme that keeps coming up over and over is this: How are they and their hair-do going to survive a 9 hour flight? They are nearly screaming about their hair-do's falling apart while they stand in line. They want compensation. They want to get going. But more than this…they want to see a hairdresser right now…they need someone to freshen-up their hair-do.
I study the women. They are not happy right now. Not happy at all. And the fact that they are all cutting in line in front of me and daring anyone to open their mouths, tells you all you need to know about Dominican women and their hair.
I got another group of Dominican women standing in line behind me right now. They keep nudging me with their luggage cart. They somehow expect that the flight will leave sooner if they manage to push me up against the check-out counter and onto the carousel. I look back at them after they keep nearly tearing my Achilles heel off my foot. They say, “Oh, Ax-cuse me mister.” I just smile and turn back around. They don’t care. They keep hitting me in the back of my legs and pushing me forward like bumper cars in an amusement park.
I turn my attention back to the Dominican women in front of me. I swear they must have all went to the same beauty salon, clothes outlet, and the same shoe store. Not one of them can ****ing walk in these high heels that they’re wearing. They all look like penguins trying to walk on dry land. They wobble when they walk. They keep excusing themselves and running to the bathroom every 5 minutes. They keep messing with their hair. They never stop touching their hair. It’s an obsession.
I turn my attention to their luggage. Each Dominican woman must have the absolute biggest pieces of luggage I have ever seen in my life. They’re like the Grinch that Stole Christmas. I look around the line. Every Dominican woman has two to three massive pieces of luggage. They’re all wrapped heavily in blue plastic. All of them are pushing around a heavy duty steel luggage cart that are buckling underneath the weight of the luggage. They must have washing machines inside their suitcases.
The real fun starts when they get to the ticket counter.
The women behind the counter tell each Dominican woman they will have to pay extra money because they clearly have way, way too much weight. Not even the airport scale can register the total weight. Each piece of luggage weighs as much as a car. The airport scales only go up to 500lbs.
Now the real drama starts.
One by one, each Dominican woman turns around and faces a complete group of 200 or more strangers standing in and throw their hands up in the air while clutching their passports and start speaking rapidly in Spanish. They keep repeating the same phrase over and over again, “Dios mio! No es mi culpe.” Then they look around the crowd, looking for some kind of sympathy and support. They’re looking for some sort of validation from the crowd. They keep throwing their hands up in the air and speaking very rapidly in Spanish. This is a ****ing Shakespeare going on right here. This is better then any play on Broadway.
Someone is going to die. I can’t wait. I need popcorn. I really wish I had a video camera right now. This is priceless.
Another women steps up and proceeds to put a massive car size luggage on the conveyor belt. I’m expecting the conveyor built to snap in half any second now. The weight cannot even be registered by the scale.
Again, the ticket lady tells them that they have entirely way too much weight. Here it comes…here comes Act 2 of the Shakespeare theatrics…she starts throwing her hands up in the air and turning around 180 degrees to face the crowd. She refuses to communicate or talk calmly with the ticket agent. She is basically pleading her case to the public. The people standing in line is her courtroom of peers. The courtroom is now packed with 300 strangers waiting in line…waiting for their chance to put on their own version of Shakespeare. It’s the same pony-n-dog show all over again. It just keeps getting better and better. It just repeats itself over and over again. But the best part of this show…the part that I love is this: every time the ticket agent tells them that they have entirely way too much weight, they turn around and raise their voices to make sure the whole entire airport can hear their case in front of Judge Judy. Because basically, that’s what’s going on here. It’s Judge Judy hour.
This is the time where Dominicans get to display everything they have learned and perfected in the drama school of their living rooms. They start throwing their hands up in the air, they start turning in circles. This is no different than what dogs do when they are about to lay down…they turn in circles and trample the grass down below them.
There is always a brief moment of silence followed by Act 2: Now comes the crying and talking to oneself in the third person. This is always followed by a quick tugging at the jeans around the crotch area, which is then followed by a quick check of their hair-do, which is then followed by a quick 360 degree turn back around towards their people…the crowd of on-lookers. Then there is some more talking to themselves and this is followed by a plea for help and beautifully perfected victim re-enactment play.
This is insane. I don’t care who you are. This is ****ing Shakespeare drama 101 here.
I don’t care how much these ticket agents are making…it’s not enough. Not even remotely enough. There is no amount of money on this planet that could make me go through this day after day, flight after flight. The ticket agents must dread waiting on Dominican flights. They must relegate themselves to their fate. They must think that they have died and gone to either purgatory or hell. This is like combat training right here. This is Vietnam all over again. This is Shakesspeare meets Judge Judy. This is Ricky Lake meets the Beverly Hillbillies. The only thing missing here is some popcorn and beer.
Dominicans amaze me. They really do. I’m standing in line in the Brussels airport and I’ve got about 200 people standing behind me. We’re all waiting for Jetairfly to announce yet another delay that will have us arriving in the DR sometime in the year 2017.
We’re standing in line like Lemmings waiting to commit suicide. I can’t understand a couple things here: First, how is possible that a flight, which only flies twice a week, can be so chronically late? The last two times I’ve flown Jetairfly, they were 5 hours late in departing. 5 hours late! How is this even possible? Are they getting lost in transit? I thought GPS and Autopilot was supposed fix planes getting lost in the Bermuda Triangle. I thought breathalyzer tests were administered to pilots nowadays?
The other thing I don’t understand is how is it possible that in the year 2015, Dominicans have not learned how to wait in line. I’m surrounded by 200 Dominicans waiting to check-in. About 20 different Dominicans have already managed to maneuver around me and cut directly in front of me. Not only have they blatantly pushed themselves around me, but they managed to pull off this feat while talking on their cell phones and tugging at their panties. About 10 Dominican women are now standing in front of me pulling on their jeans and itching their crotches.
This is insane.
Meanwhile, every white European is patiently standing in a line, patiently waiting their turn to check-in. Meanwhile, here comes the Dominicans…blatantly walking past everyone, yelling into their cell phones while by-passing me and the people in front of me. They’re acting as if we’re invisible. They treat the check-in line as if their inside their kitchen back home. They simply walk past the table, past everyone standing in line, and head straight to the refrigerator. They treat the check-in line as a mild inconvenience of which they are not subject to.
I stand back in awe. I stand back and study them. This is fascinating. This is field research. This is anthropology 101. You got to pay for this kind of study of natives outside of their natural habitat. Dominicans fascinate me. They enthrall me. Sometimes they even surprise me. but they never ever shock me.
I study the Dominican women standing in line in front of me. They’re all wearing high heels shoes that they cannot walk in. They all look like NHL players trying to walk around on ice-skates. They look like NFL line-backers walking back to the huddle on the football field. Few Dominicans can pull off high heel shoes. Another thing that fascinates me about Dominican females is this: Crotch itch.
All of these women in front of me are wearing jeans. Their jeans are way too tight. You can make out their birth canal in these jeans. They keep on tugging at their jeans—pulling them this way and that. They stretch them first left, and then right. They keeping making small, fine adjustments on their panties. They pull them up, and then push them back down; they tug at their crotches. And they do all of this while yelling into their cell phones in Spanish.
When they’re not arguing about their hair-do’s, they’re arguing about being made to wait in line for check-in. One theme that keeps coming up over and over is this: How are they and their hair-do going to survive a 9 hour flight? They are nearly screaming about their hair-do's falling apart while they stand in line. They want compensation. They want to get going. But more than this…they want to see a hairdresser right now…they need someone to freshen-up their hair-do.
I study the women. They are not happy right now. Not happy at all. And the fact that they are all cutting in line in front of me and daring anyone to open their mouths, tells you all you need to know about Dominican women and their hair.
I got another group of Dominican women standing in line behind me right now. They keep nudging me with their luggage cart. They somehow expect that the flight will leave sooner if they manage to push me up against the check-out counter and onto the carousel. I look back at them after they keep nearly tearing my Achilles heel off my foot. They say, “Oh, Ax-cuse me mister.” I just smile and turn back around. They don’t care. They keep hitting me in the back of my legs and pushing me forward like bumper cars in an amusement park.
I turn my attention back to the Dominican women in front of me. I swear they must have all went to the same beauty salon, clothes outlet, and the same shoe store. Not one of them can ****ing walk in these high heels that they’re wearing. They all look like penguins trying to walk on dry land. They wobble when they walk. They keep excusing themselves and running to the bathroom every 5 minutes. They keep messing with their hair. They never stop touching their hair. It’s an obsession.
I turn my attention to their luggage. Each Dominican woman must have the absolute biggest pieces of luggage I have ever seen in my life. They’re like the Grinch that Stole Christmas. I look around the line. Every Dominican woman has two to three massive pieces of luggage. They’re all wrapped heavily in blue plastic. All of them are pushing around a heavy duty steel luggage cart that are buckling underneath the weight of the luggage. They must have washing machines inside their suitcases.
The real fun starts when they get to the ticket counter.
The women behind the counter tell each Dominican woman they will have to pay extra money because they clearly have way, way too much weight. Not even the airport scale can register the total weight. Each piece of luggage weighs as much as a car. The airport scales only go up to 500lbs.
Now the real drama starts.
One by one, each Dominican woman turns around and faces a complete group of 200 or more strangers standing in and throw their hands up in the air while clutching their passports and start speaking rapidly in Spanish. They keep repeating the same phrase over and over again, “Dios mio! No es mi culpe.” Then they look around the crowd, looking for some kind of sympathy and support. They’re looking for some sort of validation from the crowd. They keep throwing their hands up in the air and speaking very rapidly in Spanish. This is a ****ing Shakespeare going on right here. This is better then any play on Broadway.
Someone is going to die. I can’t wait. I need popcorn. I really wish I had a video camera right now. This is priceless.
Another women steps up and proceeds to put a massive car size luggage on the conveyor belt. I’m expecting the conveyor built to snap in half any second now. The weight cannot even be registered by the scale.
Again, the ticket lady tells them that they have entirely way too much weight. Here it comes…here comes Act 2 of the Shakespeare theatrics…she starts throwing her hands up in the air and turning around 180 degrees to face the crowd. She refuses to communicate or talk calmly with the ticket agent. She is basically pleading her case to the public. The people standing in line is her courtroom of peers. The courtroom is now packed with 300 strangers waiting in line…waiting for their chance to put on their own version of Shakespeare. It’s the same pony-n-dog show all over again. It just keeps getting better and better. It just repeats itself over and over again. But the best part of this show…the part that I love is this: every time the ticket agent tells them that they have entirely way too much weight, they turn around and raise their voices to make sure the whole entire airport can hear their case in front of Judge Judy. Because basically, that’s what’s going on here. It’s Judge Judy hour.
This is the time where Dominicans get to display everything they have learned and perfected in the drama school of their living rooms. They start throwing their hands up in the air, they start turning in circles. This is no different than what dogs do when they are about to lay down…they turn in circles and trample the grass down below them.
There is always a brief moment of silence followed by Act 2: Now comes the crying and talking to oneself in the third person. This is always followed by a quick tugging at the jeans around the crotch area, which is then followed by a quick check of their hair-do, which is then followed by a quick 360 degree turn back around towards their people…the crowd of on-lookers. Then there is some more talking to themselves and this is followed by a plea for help and beautifully perfected victim re-enactment play.
This is insane. I don’t care who you are. This is ****ing Shakespeare drama 101 here.
I don’t care how much these ticket agents are making…it’s not enough. Not even remotely enough. There is no amount of money on this planet that could make me go through this day after day, flight after flight. The ticket agents must dread waiting on Dominican flights. They must relegate themselves to their fate. They must think that they have died and gone to either purgatory or hell. This is like combat training right here. This is Vietnam all over again. This is Shakesspeare meets Judge Judy. This is Ricky Lake meets the Beverly Hillbillies. The only thing missing here is some popcorn and beer.
I think a Dominican's brain explodes if he doesn't push forward or sounds the horn whenever there is any kind of queue.
It's just a hypothesis of mine. I agree it's next to impossible to prove as Dominican's queuing up orderly is something I have not observed yet.
I love your posts, I just wish they were farther away from the truth.
It's just a hypothesis of mine. I agree it's next to impossible to prove as Dominican's queuing up orderly is something I have not observed yet.
I love your posts, I just wish they were farther away from the truth.