The Critic

[a bit of flash fiction, may flesh it out when I have time]

Their Manhattan vacation was fairly ruined -- Ruined! The weathermen were predictably wrong, and a second Canadian stormfront made Ruin! of relaxed strolls through Central Park and explorations down the long avenues. But even worse, their host--and presumed trail guide--was called away on business at the last minute. "Of course you should still stay here while I'm gone! Just don't forget to feed the cat!"

This was their first visit to The City, and the twin disasters left them confounded and lethargic. They were shy and not terribly adventurous on their own, and the departure of their energetic and city-savvy friend soon saw them falling into old rituals. They watched endless hours of television (cable!), drank endless cups of coffee, and wine, cooked dinner and read books, and passed the cat from lap to lap. It was like they had never left home.

By Thursday he had had enough. That night they would go see a movie and then eat dinner at some obnoxiously-priced world-class restaurant.

"Yes, I knew it--tons of cancellations with the weather!"

"Are you sure you want to do this? That's an awful lot of money for one dinner. And it's still just nasty outside."

"C'mon, honey, I'm going to go all Shining if we stay cooped up here any longer. And yes to the dinner--why not if this is the only restaurant we hit all week?"

In the end she was persuaded by his repeated references to psychosis and Psycho. Clearly he needed to get out and blow off some steam.

The movie was a critically-acclaimed Hong Kong export, but it was inexplicably subtitled in English, Japanese, French, and Malay. The rosetta stone of text often obscured half the screen, and the film sometimes changed the order of text, leaving the couple frustrated and unable to follow either the action or the dialogue. He was livid. "Can you believe that shit? How the fuck could anyone follow that? I can't believe we wasted our money on that garbage!"

He wouldn't stop ranting as they exited the theater, continuing to bitch with ever-increasing ferocity as they huddled closely by the curb, under the cheap umbrella he had purchased that morning. His frustration reached fever pitch as taxicab after taxicab flew by, all occupied and seemingly eager to re-douse their already-wet legs. "Fuck! We're gonna miss our reservation, you fucking assholes!"

Finally a cab appeared with a lit sign, slowing to a stop in front of them. Just as he reached for the door handle, another man's hand cut out in front of his.

"Excuse me young man, but I believe this cab as mine."

The old man stood there with an imperious scowl on his face, his considerably younger wife standing distant and pretty under her own umbrella.

This man was famous.

But the young husband was past the point of deference. "I don't think so. Asshole." He shoved past the older man and almost threw his wife into the cab. As they pulled away he lowered his window and shoved out his middle finger. "Fuck you, Salman! Your last book sucked!"