Franco received a fancy-looking letter that morning. With an eye-roll he opens the envelope that contains a Hampton invitation.
The Hampton invitation is quite rare and fancy. Franco, without knowing what the heck that was, irresponsibly asked his neighbor “What the fuck kind of bill is this? Are you getting this?” To which she replied, “Aw hell naw. Bitch you got a Hampton lettah.” And to which he muttered, “Fuck.” Now, everyone in the neighborhood knew he got a Hampton letter. And again, Franco’s reputation twitched up high.
He dressed his fanciest, as the letter demanded. He went to Lower East Side Manhattan and met a fancy-looking butler in three-piece suit. The butler – who looks like Alfred from Batman – talks English in French-Canadian accent.
“Woah. Are you French?” Franco asked.
“Em afraid non, Sir. Em French-Canadian.” The butler said.
“So half-French, half-Canadian?”
“It wouz require a history lezzon to explain.”
“Cool. Do people often ask you to speak more? Because I would ask you to speak more.” Franco excitedly said.
The butler faced him and raised a brow. “Zat is not the usual reactions I get.”
Franco cocked his side in wonder. “Then what? What else but awe?”
The butler faced away and continued walking. “Something like… you sound like fake French.”
“Is it because you’re not French?”
“Mister, I am not French, but French-Canadian. Em not from France, em from Quebec, that’s why they say I’m no real French.”
Franco, like the loose he is, laughed. “Fake French? Man, people just say what they want. What’s next? When I visit Italy and try to speak Italian, would they say I sound like fake Italian? Heck yeah, I guess. I may have Italian blood and appearance but I grew up in USA. I do not have the energy to own being Italian. I don’t even know how to speak Italian, for the love of god. Oh, but I know how to sing that song. You wanna hear?”
“Non.”
“O Partigiano. Portami Via. O bella ciao! Bella ciao! Bella ciao! Ciao! Ciao!”
“En knew it.” The butler sighed. And if he wasn’t so formal, he would palm his face.
“But then, aren’t they right? That you woulz be fake Italian?”
“I have no fucking idea if I’m considered fake or not. My grandpa is pure Italian and I’m a pretty much a washed down Italian with no knowledge about the culture. I do not consider myself Italian simply because I’m not Italian citizen. It’s that simple. Sometimes people just want to tell you things not to put you down, but to feel better than you. To act snotty, to have an excuse to be rude.”
“The French are fond of that.” The butler smiled. They both laughed at that, a Quebecois who had been told well enough to shut up, and a paralegal who had been shut down for being right. They don’t know each other, and they don’t know they have this similarity, but the French-Canadian learned at that moment that Franco could probably be the craziest most unfanciest guy he’s ever met. “You are definitely not Italian, Mister.”
“Is it because of my Californian accent?” Franco asked.
“Non. Is because you have no sense of fashion.”
“Eh?” Franco wrinkled his nose and looked down at his simple suit. He has light blue dress shirt and a dark brown slacks that doesn’t reach his ankle. His shoes are black (without socks) while his belt is grey. The butler concluded that the man lives alone if nobody is kind enough to point out this fashion disaster. “Do I look bad?”
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Tensions and Attentions
Humor[Completed, new upload] [Book 2 of Bro of my Life] In the High Society Upper East Side of New York, tensions happen. Quinn is a pompous, bratty, and genius capitalist, while Franco is a simple political advisor/activist who just wants to punch his f...
