Bob is the new delivery guy at restaurant #1, and Hussein's replacement. He's also from Tehran, and he's at least three times as lazy as Hussein was.
The first time I met Bob, I spun around to find him helplessly shoving an empty coffee cup in my face. I said 'no thanks' and he said 'please, how do I have the coffee?' So I showed Bob how to make coffee. He marvelled as I poured the pre-measured bag into the filter, and I swear I heard him gasp as I dumped the water into the machine. His eyes nearly popped out of his fucking head when it actually started brewing. Ever since this event, he won't leave me alone.
I don't think Bob is a terrorist, but from what he's told me, I don't think it would take too many phone calls to have him taken in for questioning.
Bob says he left Iran for a 'secret' reason, that he is a specialist in animal husbandry and 'genetic study' and that he is looking for a farm where he might apply his skills. He says he knows things that 'nobody knows' about genetics, and that he could 'do incredible things' were he to be invited to work on a farm. (At the time he wouldn't tell me what these incredible things were, but just today he asked me if I'd ever seen white beef!) Unfortunately, he found no listings for anyone needing farm help in any of the city papers (strange, I know) and also, he doesn't want to have to do any physical labour, period.
Bob used to spend most of the day in the restaurant eating and reading Iranian newspapers, but now he's had to cut back on the eating a bit. He went for a check-up last week, and the doctor immediately prescribed a diet involving no meats or creams, and pretty much nothing outside of lettuce. He told Bob his health was in jeopardy, and that he better lose weight, post-haste. Bob's not the fattest guy in the world, but he's not all that tall either.
The diet made Bob really sad. He's been eating these enormous plates of salad with the countenance of a child force-fed brussel sprouts. Only two weeks earlier he had made a delivery to a photo shoot for a magazine, and asked me, in all seriousness, how you get to be one of the people they take the pictures of. In the nicest way possible, I carefully explained that for starters, you're should try and be good-looking.
He thought that over a minute and then said "well how much do they make?"
Everyday he begs me to teach him more slang, but I'm finding it hard to think of any. His slang-thirst is unquenchable. He really liked "What's poppin'?" for hello. But his real English teacher didn't understand it, and told him he should say something else. I said he should tell his English teacher to "fuck off." He asked me why. Explaining this to him made me realise how unfunny it was.
Still, he's a sweet man. He's gentle like a child, and he entertains me with stories about 'streep bars' he frequents all over the city. If I were to judge him on his work habits, I'd say he can't be making all that much money doing deliveries, but maybe there's another, more secret reason he's working at restaurant #1.
Posted by King at Mayo 01, 2002 07:52 PMIf I were you I would not be to sure about this Bob character, if that is indeed his real name. After a few days of investigation and some spying, I have come up with a few things that you might not know about this guy we call Bob. He seems to have a prostetic leg which causes him great agony if it is left on too long. This might explain his lack of energy on the job. It seems that he cant stand on the leg for long periods of time for, as it turns out, the prostetic leg is not customized to his body. After bugging his phone lines it turns out that the leg was stolen from Doncaster Medical Supplies as a last ditch attempt to look somewhat normal in our Western Society. He apparently is waiting for his friend Hassan Hussain to arrive from the Middle East and begin infiltrating our hospitals. Alongside this he has begun to smoke copious amounts of crack in his time off. It seems to be the only remedy for the open sores he has developed as a result of this not so form fitting leg. He talks to his mother regularly only to make sure that she is okay and that she is still honing her skills as a paratrooper. He hopes one day that she will be able to visit him in the Western world by parachuting from a plane only to bring him his favourite childhood snack of almonds soaked in goat shit. I will write back when I know any more.
Posted by: Monster on Mayo 10, 2002 11:36 AM .Wow. I don't know what to say Monster. I don't know who you are, or if any of what you say is true. I mean, I just find it hard to believe.
I only saw Bob briefly today, and I did try and get a closer look at his leg to see if it was prosthetic or not. I couldn't tell. However, I did make a discovery that I can't believe I missed before. Bob wears cowboy boots. But not just any cowboy boots, really, really tiny ones. Like for a child. He may have the smallest feet (proportionally) that I've ever seen.
He told me that cowboy boots were the first thing he bought when he arrived in Canada.
As far as everything else goes, well, I can't believe it's true. But I guess I can't prove that any of it is false either.
But am I supposed to believe that almonds soaked in goat shit really a snack? I mean, come on.
Posted by: king on Mayo 13, 2002 09:05 PM .