Scot on the Rocks

very nice fashion accessory — Californians seem to experiment quite a bit more with color than their New York counterparts.

“Now, remember, it’s not an English accent. It’s very distinct,” I instructed Jack. We had found a table right in the center of the terrace and were sitting down.

“Why, Trip, old boy, old chap, nice to meet you,” he said in a very bad English accent. English accent? Didn’t we just cover that?

“Okay, that was really bad,” Vanessa said, reading my mind.

“Yeah, he doesn’t talk like that,” I explained. “He says fuck a lot, so try to say that. But not in front of Trip’s mother. Or grandmother.”

“Well, no one’s ever actually met Douglas, so I don’t have to sound like him, I just need to sound Scottish, right?”

“That’s true,” I said, and felt an unexpected stab of sadness as I said it. I let the feeling pass. “But I think that Scottish people say fuck a lot in general.”

“That’s kind of a sweeping generalization. Do they really?” Vanessa asked. What is she, the accent police? Can’t she see that we’re working here?

“I think so,” I abruptly answered.

“Well, did his mother say fuck a lot when you met her?” she asked. Sometimes it’s annoying when all of your friends are litigators.

“Bond, James Bond,” Jack said, this time with a perfect accent. A perfect English accent.

“No!” I said.

“I thought it was pretty close,” Vanessa said. “Anyway, who’s really going to notice the difference anyway?”

“Do you think that just because they live in California,” I asked her, “they’re stupid?”

“You think that just because they’re from Scotland,” Vanessa explained, “they say fuck a lot.” Who brought the lawyer?

“Sean Connery is Scottish,” Jack said.

“But James Bond is English! Jeez! More Braveheart than Bond.” This was getting to be worse than when I used to tutor the Nelson twins in Spanish. (Twin no. 1: Why can’t we just put an o on the end of everything? Me: Because in Spanish, they use masculine and feminine forms of their words. Twin no. 2: Well, we’re going to just put an o at the end of everything. Me: If you do that, it will make you sound dumb. Twin no. 1: Mom, Brooke just called us dumb!)

“But they — can never take — our freedom!” Jack cried out so loud that the people around us began to stare. At least he did it with a Scottish accent, though.

“Please don’t say that at the wedding,” I instructed him.

“They’re magically delicious!” Jack said, sounding a bit like the Lucky Charms leprechaun.

“Was that Irish?” Vanessa said.

“Are you making fun of me?” I said.

“You know what, I just need to do some of my acting exercises. I’m not warmed up,” he explained. And with that, he began to make strange sounds with his throat. It was like something out of the Animal Channel. Vanessa and I sat very still, so as not to be eaten alive or anything. A waitress approached our table and I feared for her life.

“What can I get you to drink?” she asked, not thinking twice about the strange throat noises Jack was emitting.

“May we see your martini menu, please,” Vanessa said.

“They’ll take a look at the martini menu,” Jack interrupted, with a Scottish accent no less. “I’ll have a Scotch on the rocks, please.” The waitress nodded and it looked like he really had her. I was impressed — he had actually fooled our waitress! As a smile came to my face, Jack said, “For fuck’s sake!” and the waitress walked away looking confused. She probably went to go and spit in our drinks.

“Could you please not say fuck this much around me?” Vanessa asked.

“Jack, that was really good!” I said. Positive reinforcement. Another thing I learned from the Animal Channel. “That sounded, like, totally Scottish! Soon you’ll be eating haggis and talking about World Cup soccer!”

“Football?” he asked with a full Scottish accent. “You mean football? Ah, you Americans…”

“Now he’s on a roll!” I said, looking to Vanessa like a proud parent.

“Put another shrimp on the barbie!” he cried in a perfect accent. A perfect Australian accent.

“And now he’s not,” Vanessa said, as the waitress returned with our drinks.

“Cheers!” Jack said, back in full Scottish accent. He also did a slight head tilt thing that I’d never seen before.

“Cheers,” the waitress said with a flair. I think that she may have winked, too. Either way, it was an unequivocal flirt.

“Oh, my God. I think that you actually had her fooled,” I said, my hand accidentally reaching for his leg. I must have gotten a bit carried away with the whole positive reinforcement thing.

“No, he didn’t,” Vanessa said. “Maybe she was just turned on by the throat exercises.”

“Okay, cheers was good. Use that,” I said, slowly removing my hand from his leg, as quietly as a gazelle, so as to not let anyone notice that it was there.

“I think that that’s English, though, not necessarily Scottish,” Vanessa said, seemingly oblivious to what was going on under the table.

“Well, I don’t know what it is, but it sounds good, Jack, go with it,” I said.

“I thought that we were going more Braveheart than Bond?” Jack asked, grabbing for my hand once it was almost detached from his leg.

“We are, but when in doubt, default back to English,” I instructed, pulling my hand back to my own lap.

“I think that we’re just confusing things now,” Vanessa said, looking down like a child who has just caught her parents kissing.

“No, I’m a professional. You forget. I can handle this. I thrive on good direction,” Jack said, arms flailing about, presumably to demonstrate what a wonderful thespian he was.

“You are not really thriving, thus far, on our direction,” Vanessa pointed out.

“I said good direction,” Jack countered.

“Just — whatever you do — do not lapse into that Australian accent,” I said.

“A guy makes one mistake….” Jack said to no one in particular.

“I just don’t even know where that came from,” I explained. “I mean, they are, like, totally separate continents.”

“I would like to see you try to do better,” Jack challenged.

“Okay, point taken,” Vanessa refereed. “But so was Brooke’s — more Braveheart than Bond. But Bond is acceptable in an emergency. And never, ever, resort to Crocodile Dundee. Understood?”

“Got it.” Jack was practically panting and ready to begin.

“Now, go grasshopper, and make us proud,” Vanessa said.

Jack hopped up from the table like a lion let out of his cage and started circling his prey. It was actually fun to watch. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he decided which group of lovelies to approach. Men are so predictable. He’ll probably start with some easy conquer — one of the lonely lambs seated at the bar. The sure thing, the easy pounce.

I watched and waited until he finally made his move. He sat down at a table with three women. Impressive. Now, this is a man who clearly loves a challenge. I waited for the pack to eat him alive, but, within moments, it was clear that these women were completely charmed by him. I could have sworn I heard one woman ask, “So, like, do you know how to play a bagpipe and stuff?” To which Jack nodded his head in a knowing way as if to say, “But of course!”

Women really do love an accent. I should know — I used to be one of them. One of those naive, unsuspecting women who thought that a man with an accent meant a mature, sophisticated man. Not a man who would cheat on you and get engaged to another woman and leave you boyfriend-less for your ex-boyfriend’s wedding.