Saturday, June 25, 2011

Curries of India


“Go to Curries of India
“Go to Curries of India”
“Go to Curries of India”
“Go to Curries of India”

So many people have been recommending Curries of India to me lately that I said to myself, as I was walking downtown, “you know what? Just go in. Just do it. Give it a try. Come on.” And you know what? I did.

I picked up a smile about a block away from Curries of India in anticipation of what was to come. Nobody told me what was in there, but I was expecting Curry because it’s in the name—And I’m a fan of Curry, don’t get me wrong. I just, for one reason or another, had never gripped the opportunity when it presented itself. I approached the end of the block on Court St., paused momentarily in front of the last storefront and looked up. It said Curries of India in large cursive letters. I looked back down at the translucent entryway and walked in.

“After all this ranting and raving about Curries of India, it’s high time I order a dish!” I announced to the vacant mini-restaurant. I directed my exclamation at the Indian couple standing behind the counter. Their eyes widened and they each took a step backwards. I tilted my head toward my right shoulder and scrunched my brow a bit, the universal gesture of quizzicality.

“Hi there! I’d like a dish of your finest Curry!” I said as I walked briskly toward the counter. They cowered in fear. The woman wore a red sarong dotted with golden stars. She crouched low on her knees and held up folds of the sarong to shield her eyes from the sight of me. The man crouched not quite as low down as his wife, but nonetheless expressed his fear through the trembling of his voice.

“You get out of Curries of India!” He shouted, holding his pointer finger as if it were a dagger he was threatening to take my life with, shaking slightly.

I stood, puzzled.

“I’m sorry sir, I’m not sure what I did. I just wanted to—“

“GET OUT I SAY”

I turned around on the spot and marched swiftly out the door. I stood in front of Curries of India and I scratched my head. I looked up at the large cursive letters in search of some kind of answer but all it told me, all it would ever tell me was Curries of India. I decided to make a phone call.

“Hey Jeff, it’s Stephen. Good, I’m good. I just—remember when you told me I should go to Curries of India? …Jeff? What do you mean you didn’t recommend it? Of course you did, I just talked to you yesterday about it. Yes, yes I’m sure you have heard of Curries of India we literally just talked about it yesterday. You said you go there for lunch everyday. Hello? Jeff?”
 
Jeff hung up. My eyes grew wide and remained wide as a result. I looked about the street and saw passersby passing me by and I saw someone I knew across the way.

“Amanda!” I shouted. She glanced in my direction. There’s this thing called the cocktail effect that states that there are 20 or so words—different words for each person—swirling around everyone’s heads that can be used as an automatic trigger, an immediate call to attention; “Amanda” would be one of those triggers for Amanda.

Amanda made eye contact with me from across the street. She froze. The stance she settled in to at that moment reminded me of my cat Finnegan whenever I used to scream at him from my porch when I was little. Her back was slightly hunched, and her hands were held out in front of her, displaying crooked claws. She ran.  

Curries of India! You told me to go to Curries of India!” I yelled to her fast-moving backside.

I was bewildered. Flummoxed. Vexed. 

I walked along Court St. in search of something meaningful. People would walk past me on the sidewalk and mutter "Curries of India" under their breath and pretend they didn't. People I didn't even know. 

"You need to eat at Curries of India you asshole!" Someone shouted at me from a fire escape attached to the side of a building.

"Who the fuck are you?" I asked. 

The man who yelled it jumped back through the window of his apartment before I was able to clearly see who he was. I didn't know what to do. I looked at my watch to check the time and saw that written all over my skin, in tiny letters, everywhere, were the words "Curries of India" with a line under it and I started to panic. 

"Curries of India? Curries of India!?" I began asking everyone on the street. They pretended like they didn't know what I was talking about but they all knew. They definitely knew. I screamed louder, with more force. I questioned everyone. Nobody seemed to have an answer. 

I ran behind a building and huddled in a corner. I pulled my knees to my chest and hugged my kneecaps, the orbs of delight. I began to rock involuntarily, calming myself: "Curries of India. It's all OK. Curries of India. It will be alright." I sighed an orgasmic sigh as I saw a man walking towards me wearing a shirt that said Curries of India and carrying a greasy brown paper bag. 

"Curries of India," He said with a smile. 

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