Billionaire Beast

“You know I don’t care that you’re from New Jersey, right?” I ask. “I’m willingly moving there.”

“Yeah,” he says, “I know. I guess it’s just easier to talk shit on Jersey. But where are my manners?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Where are you from?”

“Oh, that’s really not important,” I tell him.

“Come on,” he prods, “you had a good laugh at the expense of my home state. It’s only fair to share in the misery.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not from any of the states.”

I can feel the car slow as he turns to look at me.

“Where are you from?”

I sigh.

“It’s not that I’m ashamed of it. Really, it’s not. I’ve just had about the same experience telling people where I’m from that you’ve had telling people you’re from Jersey.”

I think my renewed laughter is killing any sympathy I might receive.

“Go on,” he says.

“You see, the difference here is that I don’t talk crap about where I come from, I just don’t bring it up.”

“Oh, will you just tell me.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’m from Waterloo.”

“Iowa?” he asks.

“Ontario.”

He’s unusually quiet.

“Canada?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s actually a really nice place to live.”

“People listen to death metal in Canada?”

And so the hilarity begins.

“People listen to all kinds of music in Canada,” I tell him.

“Wait, wait,” he says, trying to regain his composure. “Say ‘about.’”

“About.”

He’s disappointed and it’s lovely.

“I’m sorry, were you expecting something else?”