You Won’t Think It’s Funny

You won’t think it’s funny because it’s not funny. Not on the whole, not in its entirety. Vietnam is not funny, the commies were not funny — War, is never (never?) ever funny.

You keep saying it’s the best food in the city —my God it’s taken you a year to get into the place for your 27th birthday! (and you didn’t even mention your birthday until here, now, driving in a minivan with an automatic door and ‘ole Eugene Forest at the wheel).

Kotchka — the restaurant, the word — I taste the clinking syllables in my mouth for the first time. It feels new, kind of nice.

You keep saying it’s the best food and when cultural appropriation is done right — Really Done Right — well, it’s just bliss.

You wouldn’t think it’s funny because Russia isn’t inherently funny. Putin is kind of funny when he’s shirtless riding bareback on horse, but there is little wit in droll.

Eugene chimes in from the driver seat and I sense he’s tasted the word as well but doesn’t find the same satisfaction. “I can’t see how a place like that got good food, the best food? Naw — root vegt’bles an broths all they got over there. S’no way of life, aint none at all.” 70 years lived, he’s done past being convinced.

You got a little too high that evening and mistake his soft, papery wrinkles as kind — but I can see you both.

You won’t think it’s funny because getting kicked out of an Uber on the broadway bridge is most normally, never funny. Especially when you don’t see his rusty dog tags and Medal of Recognition hanging from the rear view.

We walk faster as it starts to rain. You imagine right now the warmth in your chest from taking that first swig of Good Vodka on Cold Night. I don’t need imagine; a fool's tongue runs before his feet and I can see the warm lights of the cozy corner from here. We’re not far off and I smile as I think, “I’ll meet you there”.