Lucky Devil

Jarrod has on one of those jogging suits.   Like the kind I'd imagine you'd see people wearing in Central Park in New York.  Only we weren't in New York City.

We were in a dive bar close to Mesa, Arizona.  Mesa is a city of few hundred thousand Mormons and undocumented workers.  Mesa is the 38th largest city in the United States.   Not that you'd ever know that Mesa is larger than Oakland or Miami, cities that get way more national exposure,  because Mesa shies away from being in the spotlight.

The citizens of Mesa prefer it that way.  There are well documented reports out of Ohio concerning  visitors from Mesa who they say have "passed out from shock" after seeing other cities "who's downtowns didn't consist of vacuum repair shops, second hand piano stores, and oddly realistic sculptures of people sitting on benches."

I take a sip from my beer and notice Jarrod taking a photo with his cell phone.  Jarrod's attempt at photography has a way of reminding me of all those photographs one see's on MySpace.  You know the one's where teen girls point the camera at themselves from flattering angles in order to make themselves appear skinnier than they are.  The girls pout their lips, strike a pose, and flash some gangster signs.

I am sure there in nothing more troubling to the minds of the disaffected youth of South Central L.A. than seeing some milk toast Mormon in Arizona flash a peace sign into the poorly aimed bathroom mirror for a self portrait.

Not that Jarrod is trying to hide his fat.  In fact, Jarrod is in quite good shape.  I don't know Jarrod very well, so maybe it would be unwise of me to characterize him so quickly for you, but you should imagine Jarrod as a person who likes to go to the gym quite often.

He is the kind of guy who lifts weights for no other reason than to shave the middle of his chest so that he can point out his 6 pack of abs to you in a totally non-homo kind of way that just says, "I like to take care of my body, and I don't mind if a male acquaintance of mine appreciates that fact for me."

Hopefully I just did for you.  I want to bond with you Jarrod.  Even though I've never used the word "bro" before.   I didn't call you "bro" but that's not because I'm uncomfortable with my sexuality.  I'm just not Italian enough.

Since I am not full blooded Italian I don't buy or apply mousse, wear gold jewelry, or use pet names for my male friends.  I think my lack of über maleness may have something to do with the fact that my Italian father abandoned me (and his half-Native American wife) shortly after I was born.

My mother hated her red skin.  Mom learned her self-loathing from her father (who enjoyed using 'the belt' on his grandkids), so I never asked him about my "Indian" side.

I'm not Italian, or Indian which is why I fit is so well in Mesa.  I'm the kind of guy who can be a regular at a bar for two or three years before any of the local patrons learn my name.  I don't stand out in physical appearance which is must be why I learned to be so charming and mentally acute.

I think Jarrod is drawn to my intelligence.  We are having a nice conversation about cell phones.  He's recently purchased a brand new HTC Droid Incredible.

His phone is amazing and I am unapologetically covetous towards it.   Jarrod enjoys showing off his phone to me.  He allows me to run through the various home screens, and shows me all the various features of the phone like the 8 mega pixel camera.

What I am truly impressed with is the speed of the browser.

"The internet on your phone is faster than the internet on my home computer."  I tell Jarrod.

Jarrod nods and smiles at me.  "Wow."  He says.  "That's pretty crazy."

The only complaint Jarrod has about his phone is the short battery life.  In the middle of our conversation Jarrod excuses himself so he can leave to recharge his phone.

Part 2 is when Jarrod returns to discuss clubs, hookers, and ecstasy, and why all the girls on his Facebook are insanely hot.