.06.

As the cab sped off, I reached out for something to steady myself as I hung on to what little sobriety remained.

The city sped by in a dizzying spell of lights and sounds.

The conversation inside the taxi generally focused on us and how great we thought New York was. The dialect became a song. A free-flowing melody all too easy to take part in and enjoy.

However, as moments emerged where our gullible guests found themselves looking out the windows at the city, Adam and I found each other staring at each other, carrying on another conversation, silently, with our eyes and less-than-subtle facial expressions, unbeknownst to our fellow travelers, concerning our current situation.

What the--?
I know.
How did--?
I don't know.
Can you--?
Heck, no. You?
Never.
Man.
You're an idiot.
I know.

Or at least, so the inner monologues played out in my mind.

We got to the diner, found a table, and began perusing the menus. Immediately I realized my first problem. I really wanted eggs over easy with toast and hash browns. That didn't sound very British to me.

Ah well, I thought, I'll have a go at an American breakfast. And to complete the ensemble, I ditched the hot tea and ordered a coffee. Black.

As we waited for the food to arrive, the first large speed bump of our little game emerged. Or, perhaps, I should say, the first large speed bump that I noticed emerged.

Christine looked directly across the table at me and said, "So how come you didn't have such a strong accent earlier at the bar and now you do?"

Gulp. I had to think quickly. Especially since between the gulp and me thinking about how quickly I had to think, several seconds had passed and Shatarsky had not come to my rescue. Even he was stuck. This was bad.

"Did I do that?" I bought a little bit of time. "Was I speakin' like an Irishman? I sometimes do that when I'm pissed." (Had to remember the old slang) "Or at least, so I've been told."

"I don't know. It definitely sounded different." She thought. "Yeah, that could have been it."

My God, these women were priceless.

Adam finally decided to ring in now that I had alleviated the situation, but I was thankful none the less as he turned the conversation over on them. He was a ladies' man, through and through, which is why, I imagine, he did so. Either way, I was relieved.

We talked about how they were both from Georgia, how Debra was recently divorced, and 32-years-old (we, the sly devils we were, definitely played the charmers and told her she didn't look a day over 24, which she didn't really), and how the two of them were up on a "Ladies Weekend" that they do every year with their friend Sherri who was back at the room. Sherri, the married one, was apparently not the partying type. She was 38. Christine, as it turns out, was 26 (again... not a day over 23... again, not too much of a stretch).

Somehow, the women managed to work the conversation back over to the two of us and the screenplay that we were to shoot that week. Christine asked me about it, and I described it as best I could.

"Wow," she commented. "Very interesting. I'm a writer as well."
"Oh really," I said, "what do you write?"
"Novels."

She said it in a very forced, very bad British accent. She did this quite often throughout the evening. It usually caused Adam and myself to laugh, which in turn caused both of them to smile. It was little things like that that made me believe that although I was going to hell for my actions that evening, perhaps I would at least get stuck in the slow lane... the one with the gorgeous view on the way down.