E.Godz by Robert Asprin; Esther Friesner

Author:Robert Asprin; Esther Friesner
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Science Fiction
ISBN: 0743436059
Publisher: Baen Publishing Enterprises
Published: 2003-05-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

The people who live in the greater Los Angeles area take umbrage when outlanders think of them and their sun-kissed life-style solely in terms of media clichés. Dov Godz had been made aware of this fact on the first of his many non-business-related trips to the Left Coast, when he had casually remarked to his dining companion about how many impossibly perfect-looking people he'd seen since his arrival.

"Even more than in South Beach," he said. "I guess there must be something in the water, huh?"

He meant it as a joke. It was not taken as such. Indeed, he was promptly taught that he had said the Wrong Thing. He would never forget that lesson. He thought about it every time he returned, mostly because the earache he contracted from the ensuing lecture/rant never cleared up completely.

Now, watching the hazy landscape below come closer as his plane made the final approach to L.A. International, the memory came drifting back as it always did. Once more he was seated at one of the best tables at Marozia's, the Pacific-Rim-Italian-Macrobiotic-Thai-Fusion restaurant du moment, listening to his ladyfriend Brytanni calmly explain to him how he had erred.

"Oh wow, I mean, like, what is it with you people from Back East?" she shrilled. (Having a native-born SoCal accent, her pronunciation made Back East sound like Among the Lepers.) She crossed her long, tan, lotion-sleeked legs, revealing a number of fascinating views easily ogled through the glass tabletop. Dov nearly choked on his brioche, but Brytanni was oblivious.

"You're all, so, like, L.A. is all palm trees and smog and movies and Porsches and Rodeo Drive and crap. It's all: You're from L.A., you must be shallow. As if! I mean, my friend Wyndsong is from Marin, if you want to talk about posers, and even she's smart enough to know that we are not all body-image-obsessed media slaves around here." She took another mouthful of imported Finnish mineral water and chewed it carefully, making every calorie count. "If we were that two-dimensional, would I have agreed to meet you now, right when they're announcing the winners of the Shimmies?"

"Uh, what's the Shimmies?" Dov had asked, wiping soggy brioche crumbs from his chin.

"Oh . . . mah . . . gawd!" Brytanni was so taken aback by his woeful ignorance that she slapped her forehead. Then, realizing the harm she might have inadvertently wrought to her skin's elasticity, she broke open a collagen capsule, slathered it over the assaulted area, used her cell phone to speed-dial her plastic surgeon for reassurance and to make a just-in-case maintenance appointment, and finally replied: "The Shimmies are only the numero uno premier award to recognize the achievements of spokesmodels in the cellulite reduction appliance field! I can't believe you didn't know that. And you call us shallow!"

Dov had apologized most sincerely for his lack of cultural awareness, but the damage was done: Brytanni was so upset that she actually ate a piece of cheese out of his chef's salad before rushing from the restaurant and driving off in a huff to see her guru.

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