“We live in Ridgewood,” I said, already getting annoyed at what he was getting at.
He wasn’t satisfied and since we look (and are) hipsters he said, “No, where are you from?”
“I’m from Florida,” Jon politely answered.
“I’m from Middle Village,” I answered not so politely, then said, “Where are you from?”
“Rockaway,” he said.
“Far Rockaway?” Jon asked.
“Do I look like I’m from Far Rockaway?”
He was white. My blood began to boil.
“Why are you asking us where we are from?” I said.
At this point I think Jon was trying to drag me away, luring me with the goldfish toss.
“I’m trying to assess the area ya know,” he said, “I thought you were
hipsters tourists. I mean, who takes a picture of a braciole sign?” He said it like BRA-JOEL.
“A photographer,” I said.
He walked away mumbling. I drowned my rage (and all the things I should have said like, “I’m sorry I didn’t know it was your job to “assess” where people are from?”) in a huge bag of zeppoles. It’s hard to hold back my loud mouth from Queens voice; sweet fried dough coated in powdered sugar works.