As I opened my eyes from a pained wince (which I faked, totally), the pomade-topped face of JB hovered worriedly over me. In a maddeningly soothing, over-educated voice that could only belong to a poet, polished through decades of talking to oneself in the form of imaginary Shakespeare characters as friends, he cooed, “Are you okay, eh, buddy? “ Perfect. Then was my opportunity; for the first time, I spoke to Jalapeno Bootyhole. I spoke to him in the gayest, most conceited Ivy-league-hipster voice I could muster.

“What ho, good man, I seem to have tripped,” I said, still lying helpless on my back. Appearing helpless, I mean. I can definitely get up off the floor on my own. Anyway, JB reached out a hand, as I knew he would, and hefted me with muscles obviously hewn from hours of squat-thrusts directly in front of a large mirror.

“There,” he said. “You gonna be all right, man?”

The “man” part was obviously just to make himself sound cool, but I withheld my rage as I responded.

“Thank you for helping me up after surely tripping me on accident. You, sir, are a gentleman and a scholar.” I knew the latter phrase would appeal to JB’s internet-nerd self. I continued. “Your bumistance in my time of need was almost… poetic.”

I allowed that word – poetic – to hang in the air like a snare, and JB walked right into it, as I knew he would.

“Hah! Well, I actually am a poet, if you want to know,” he said, as I nodded, “and as a matter of fact, I’m going to the National Beatnik Smackdown finals tonight. I came all the way from Canada for it, even.”

The way he emphasized “Canada” to make either the country, travel, or both sound important made me want to vomit. It may have also been due to eating twelve White Castle burgers an hour earlier. Still, I knew I had to continue…for the sake of the mission, and because I was hungry. If I vomited, I’d only get hungrier. I contained myself.

“Well, isn’t that respectable of you! You seem like such a nice guy, sir, with great taste in culture and clothing alike. Are you here for the Art Fair, perchance?” As I spoke, JB didn’t seem quite convinced enough of my [in]sincerity as I wanted. Quickly, I added, “… old bean?” It worked.

“Oh, actually, yeah, I am. You here for it, too?”

“Boy howdy. I mean, indeed yes. I know the fair well. In fact, as I strive to be an upstanding member of the art community by supporting these local artists. I come to this venue every year.” JB seemed to be paying attention. “Say,” I suggested, “What say you that I repay your kindness by showing you around?”

There was only a slight pause before the answer. “Actually, yeah, that’d be cool.” And so our day began.