He dominated the conversation, hardly allowing me to defend my own point of view. When I told him that my parents migrated from Cuba on a boat, he slammed his drink on the bar stool and yelled, “A BOAT, LIKE AN ACTUAL BOAT?! LIKE SCARFACE!??” I was tempted to blurt out, “No, they flew here using their superpowers because all Cubans have wings,” or better yet, tap my inner Tony Montana and yell back, “Say hello to my little friend!”
Seven times (yes, I counted) he told me that my parents were lucky to be in this country, adding that I should be thankful for the kindness the United States has shown to me; that if it wasn’t for the U.S., I would be working in a sugar plantation right now. “America is the greatest country in the world!” he bellowed. “No other country on Earth even remotely compares!” He chastised me for voting for President Obama. “I’m sorry,” I said, with a sarcastic smile.
I realized I couldn’t absorb all this hate and anger without alcohol so I flirted with the bartender and asked him for another apple martini, and got comfortable. If the date itself was not going to amount to anything, I should at the very least amuse myself.