Chelsea Handler - Are You There, Vodka, It's Me Chelsea

Sarah and I walked into the restaurant and were seated in the back, next to an older couple. “I want a cigarette,” she declared.

“You don’t even smoke,” I responded.

“Well, everyone else is smoking, and it would be nice to just fit in after the day we’ve had. I don’t understand. Everyone’s been so nice up until today, and then it seems like everyone we talk to hates us.”

“You know what makes no sense?” I asked her. “We have more foreigners in our country than anyone, and we don’t treat them like that. I would never be mean to someone who was visiting America.”

“Yeah, we let everyone in our country. I mean, we complain about the people who can’t drive, but that’s about as bad as it gets.”

“And the people who own Seven Elevens,” I added. “But aside from that, I find myself to be very open-minded.”

“I really want a cigarette.”

“Well, don’t ask anyone here. They’ll just get mad at us for bumming one cigarette and blame our homeland.”

“You ask someone,” she said. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

I looked over at the older couple sitting to our right, who were both smoking. In my best British accent, I leaned in and asked, “Could I bum a fag?”

They were very nice and handed me one, which I handed to Sarah. “Thanks,” she said to the couple, and then leaned over. “I was too shy to ask for it myself.”

I looked at her, wondering what was the point of me asking for a cigarette if she was going to talk to the people anyway. Twenty minutes later, I was looking at her, wondering why we were still talking to this couple. And further, why I was being forced to continue speaking in a ridiculous English accent.

“So where exactly did you grow up?” the man asked. “You have such an interesting accent.”

“Yes,” Sarah chimed in, smiling, “it’s such an interesting story, tell them.”

“Well,” I began, searching my brain for something moderately plausible. “I was born in Devonshire, and my parents split up when I was five, when I moved to a little town called Lewisham, which is in South London.” The only reason I knew about Lewisham is because I had an ex-boyfriend who was from there and we had gone to visit his mother years earlier. It was the only outskirt town I really knew anything about.

“I’m very familiar with Lewisham,” the gentleman responded. “Which part did you live in?”

“Yes, Chelsea, which part?” Sarah asked.

I wanted to bitch-slap Sarah. Why was she continuing on with this when I was doing her the favor in the first place by bumming the fag? If I knew these two were going to become our new best friends, I would have spoken normally.

“Well, I don’t quite recall-I only lived there for a few years-but it was right across the park from Whiteheath.” I couldn’t remember the name of the street, but remembered there was a huge park across from a more upscale town that I thought was called Whiteheath.

“Do you mean Blackheath?” the man asked me.

“Righty-o! That’s it, I knew I was a bit off.” His wife and Sarah laughed as if they were on my side, but I could see the guy’s eyes growing more skeptical, and the questions wouldn’t stop.

“And then where did you live?” was his next question.

“When I was eleven, I was flown to a boarding school in California and I spent the next seven years there.”

“Bloody hell,” he said. “Well, how did you manage to keep your English accent?”

“I dated an English guy,” I told him. “He was pretty much the only person I talked to.”

“When you were eleven?”

“Oh, God no!” I blurted out, forgetting that had been the age I mentioned. “I was twelve when we started seeing each other.”

“Can I have another cigarette?” Sarah asked the woman.

“Really?” he asked me, with an overexaggerated question mark on his face. “Lewisham is kind of a working-class town. How were your parents able to afford such an education?”

I didn’t appreciate the rapid-fire style in which he would shoot one question after another at me, or the inappropriateness of his inquiry into my divorced parents’ income. That was none of his business, and it was clear that he did not grow up with the same etiquette that had been instilled in me by my English nun/auto shop teachers, or whoever was in charge at the boarding school I had never attended. I started to chew my fried cod slower and slower in order to give myself more time to come up with reasonable answers to my interrogator’s questions.

“Well, I got a scholarship, actually.”

“How fascinating,” his wife added. “So interesting.” I could tell she truly did believe what I was saying by her sincerity and good-heartedness, which shone through with every smile. He, on the other hand, was trouble.

“What kind of scholarship?” Hitler asked.

I knew my response had to be sharp and I wasn’t about to blurt out something ridiculous. After some consideration, I responded.

“Bowling.”

“Bowling, bloody hell? I didn’t even know you could get scholarships for that!” he wailed. That was when Sarah realized she needed to come to my defense.

“Oh, in the States, yes! It’s hugely competitive, and Chelsea is one of the best.”

“Enough about me,” I said. “How did you two meet?”

The woman, Anne, went on to tell us that she used to be a groupie of his band and they’d been together for twenty years. Sarah asked them what band he was a part of, and he said, “You’ve probably never heard of us, but we’re called the Eagles.”

“Shut up!” Sarah exclaimed. “Of course we’ve heard of you!” Even I, whose music library consists solely of Whitney Houston’s and Hilary Duff’s greatest hits, knew the Eagles were a big band. I couldn’t believe we were talking to Don Henley and his wife.

They went on to regale us with stories of touring through New Zealand and Ireland and of all the crazy drugs they had done, and parties they had gone to. I, of course, loved this part of the conversation, and asked them very pointed questions about the various strains of Ecstasy they were able to get their hands on. More important, the minute I heard the word “Ireland,” I needed to find out everything I could about leprechauns, but I knew that would be a hard word to say in a fake English accent. I was mouthing it silently to myself for several seconds until he asked me if I was okay.

“What are those tiny little green men called?” I asked.

“Frogs?”

“No, the ones that live in Ireland.”

All three of my companions looked at me, concerned, until Sarah came to my aid. “She likes little things,” she informed them. “She’s talking about leprechauns.”

“Anyway,” he went on, “we fell in love, managed to stay in love, and here we are today, past our prime, but happy as two clams at a swap meet.”

Sarah was practically drooling every time the guy opened his mouth. She couldn’t believe that we had run into such an icon at some random fish-and-chips restaurant. “This is so crazy!” she repeated, over and over and over again.

“Do you have any children?’ she asked them.

“No,” they responded. “How about the two of you?”

Sarah said no, and I was about to do the same until I remembered that I did indeed have two prides of joy.

“I do,” I told them. “I’ve got a nine-year-old and a fourteen-year-old. Different fathers.”

“What are their names?” the wife politely inquired.

“Earl…and Earl.”

Sarah interrupted me with more questions to him about all the awards his band had won and all the hit songs they’ve recorded. He was very flattered and downplayed everything. He was humble, and it was charming.