Infiltrating the Beautiful People
Infiltrating the Beautiful People
By Dave Fox
[This story first appeared on my original humor website, davethefox.com, on August 7, 2002. It is one of 12 stories included in my Amazon Kindle e-book, Loster: Hilarious Travel Tales Rescued from the Elusive First Edition of Getting Lost.]
I was dining alone at a family-run restaurant, in a little village called l’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue in France’s Luberon region, when, across the room, I spied the Beautiful People. They were the kind of people who average 16 hours in the bathroom each morning to make themselves Beautiful.
As I chewed my food, I suddenly felt seized with a desire to infiltrate this group. I wanted to inject myself into their conversation and find out what was going through their swollen heads. Maybe I’d learn something.
There were four people in their Beautiful Group – two Beautiful Girls, and two Beautiful Boys. The Beautiful Boys were tan and muscular. The Beautiful Girls were tan and anorexic. All in their late 20s, they had each spent an average of 73 years in tanning salons. They all spoke fluent English and broken French with hard-to-place Beautiful People European accents. They talked about Barcelona a lot. They all had Beautiful Silky Hair and bleached teeth. The boys dressed in tight black shirts and low-riding leather pants with Beautiful Thongs underneath that rose above their waste lines so the rest of us could see what Beautiful Underwear they wore.
My plan, being not of the Beautiful variety myself, was to befriend them and learn about their daily routine. I would go undercover, like that time in the early 1980s when Dan Rather disguised himself as a Mujaheddin warrior and slipped into Afghanistan to report on the war against the Soviets. The only difference was Dan had time to grow a beard and shop for a turban. In my more challenging situation, it was past dark in l’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. My chances of finding a toupée, leather pants, a thong, and fast-acting steroids on the spur of the moment in this little village were not good.
So I sat at my table in my scruffy tour-guide-on-vacation attire and observed. How, I wondered, did they get so Beautiful?
Diet surely had something to do with it. I chuckled smugly to myself when their food arrived. Anchovy salads all around.
I was in one of France’s most famous culinary regions. I was enjoying myself – straying for the first time in weeks from my new no-red-meat experiment and chomping on something with a fancy French name that translated to “barbecue sampler platter.”
Anchovy salads… HA! If only they knew what they were missing!
Then their next course arrived. Shrimp. Steak. Lamb. Duck. All slathered in the local specialty – garlic cream sauce.
This was unfair! How could they eat these things and maintain Beautiful Physiques?
One of the Beautiful Boys – the one with Beautiful Long Hair – started a conversation at the table about how a motorcycle ride across America would be “a good trip.” America, he explained to his Beautiful Friends, has ruler-straight roads that go on for days.
“Yes!” I thought. “America also has Hell’s Angels! Who eat Beautiful People like you for breakfast! In a garlic cream sauce!”
After the Beautiful Boy with long hair finished his musings on America’s highways, he excused himself to go do something Beautiful People don’t like to discuss. While he was emptying his Beautiful Bladder, his thong-flaunting short-haired Beautiful Friend called the waiter over.
“My friend doesn’t like his meat,” the short-haired Beautiful Boy said. “Is it possible to change it?”
Attention Beautiful People! Here is a safety tip for you: If you value your testicles, don’t ever question a French chef’s sautéing abilities.
“What’s wrong with it?” the waiter asked.
“It’s bitter,” the about-to-be-castrated Beautiful Boy said.
The waiter grimaced. “It’s supposed to taste that way.”
“But my friend says it’s bitter,” said the short-haired Beautiful Boy. His Beautiful Girlfriend, who had gazed silently at the commotion, put her legs in his lap to show her support.
“Taste it!” commanded the other Beautiful Girl – the girlfriend of the still-absent long-haired Beautiful Boy who was in the midst of the unmentionable urinary act.
So the waiter did. He whipped around, grabbed a knife and fork from a nearby basket of utensils, and, fast as a cricket rubbing its legs together, sawed off a hunk of steak. He popped it in his mouth and chewed furiously. Then he shrugged. “It tastes fine.”
“It’s just a little strange,” said the short-haired Beautiful Boy.
“C’est étrange,” translated the Beautiful Girlfriend of the still-urinating long-haired Beautiful Boy. “It’s bitter.”
The waiter hacked off another bite and chewed fast. “I am the owner of this restaurant,” he said. “It is normal. I change nothing.” He spun around and marched back toward the bar.
Finally… FINALLY… the Beautiful Boy on the unmentionable quest returned. His friends recapped their drama.
A few minutes later, another waiter came to their table.
“I didn’t mean to be difficult,” said the short-haired Beautiful Boy.
People say things like that when they’re being difficult.
They had ordered the menu – the multi-course meal with choices for an appetizer, main course and dessert. Now it was time to order their Beautiful Ice Cream.
“I’m sorry,” the waiter said. “We are out of ice cream.”
A skirmish ensued in which one of the Beautiful Girls called the waiter a no-good ice-cream-withholding liar.
I couldn’t take anymore. I asked for my bill and left.
Back in my hotel room, I sat down to write about the Beautiful People. I never did infiltrate them. Once I saw them in action, I didn’t want to. Early in the evening, I had thought, if I could just act cool, maybe they would allow me to infiltrate for a while. Maybe I would learn something about how to eat multi-course meals slathered in cream and still maintain washboard abs and silky hair and unwrinkled thongs. But once I started observing them, I had no desire to hang out with these people who thought they were so Beautiful. All creatures are supposed to have some purpose in nature, but what good were these egomaniacs – strutting around in too-tight clothes, flashing bleached teeth and spending six hours a day at the gym? Who did these judgmental snobs think they were, looking down on the rest of us from their superficial world where there is no bitterness?
Then it occurred to me: For the last two and a half hours, I had sat and judged them. I had critiqued their every move. They had not judged me for one second. They hadn’t even noticed me.
You can order the full Kindle book, Loster: Hilarious Travel Tales Rescued from the Elusive First Edition of Getting Lost, from Amazon.com.