Staten Island Satyr

You’re wondering how I became banished to Staten Island (of all places, for god sakes!). That is a reasonable thing to wonder, and I salute you for your curiosity and inquisitiveness. It isn’t every day you hear people using the words “banished” and “Staten Island” in the same sentence, although it isn’t as rare as you may think.

Rather than bore you with a drawn-out story of my social demise and such, know that I’ve done some horrible things in my life. So I won’t argue that I didn’t deserve my present unpleasant plight. It isn’t my fault I do these awful, awful things, but stuff happens (isn’t that what they say?) and that potato will never be the same.

I’m a Satyr, to which you’re saying. “Yeah, sure, guy. Right.” You’re picturing some sort of faun or Minotaur. This was Potato’s mistake. “What in Creation is a Satyr, and why should I care?” I hear you asking. It’s a fair, if a somewhat insulting question. I’ll give you the Wiki version to save time, because we all know how important your time is to you, don’t we? Sorry if I sound a little hostile, but how much better would my story be if I didn’t need to leave details on the cutting floor for fear that you might lose interest before denouement?

Okay, so Webster’s dictionary says a Satyr is a “deity in Greek mythology having certain characteristics of a horse or goat and fond of Dionysian revelry.”

I don’t love it. First, I don’t have “certain characteristics of a goat,” and the only thing a horse and I may have in common, I’ll get to a bit later in this tale. I do, however, enjoy a bit of the revelry. Who doesn’t want to get zooted now and then? Especially on the weekends? Don’t judge me! Who are you to disapprove of me? My dad? Well, you didn’t raise your hand to me, so either you’re not him, or it’s gonna be a good day.

Dictionary.com’s definition is a bit more expansive. It says a Satyr is “one of a class of woodland deities, attendant on Bacchus, represented as part human, part horse, and sometimes part goat and noted for riotousness and lasciviousness.” Okay, first, Dionysus and Bacchus are the same dude. I’m no slag. That dude appreciates a good party even more than I do! I sense your judgment and I’m holding up a mirror.

Next, I wish these dictionary guys would emphasize the “human” aspect more and talk less shit about the part-goat, part-horse thing. Sheesh!

Lastly, both definitions were kind enough to call me a deity. That’s “god” for all you lay folks. That means I can do shit that you can’t, so save your drama and show some freaking respect, okay?

Now neither of those entries reference the thing about Satyrs that makes me proud. Literally bursting with pride. If this were a visual medium, the camera would tilt from my horned head to my hoofed feet, and it would linger for a bit at right below my midsection—where the action is. You’re not stupid, so you get the picture, right? Imagine me arching and waggling my thick eyebrows at you. Now you’re getting it.

So I’m a Satyr. And one night, I’m leaning against the bar at a Midtown Manhattan watering hole when this guy comes up and parks himself closer to me than was necessary. But these things happen to me.

Perhaps I should explain that I’m being expansive when I say “guy.” This was, more or less, a potato of a man. No, seriously, this was a potato man. Yes, literal meaning intended here. But, hey, it was a Tuesday night and the hotties do not come out on Tuesday nights, so needs-must, as my British friends say. Nope, I don’t have any British friends. That was something I said so you would think I was cool.

So we’re in this Midtown bar, and Potato-Dude asked, “What’s a nice faun like you doing in a place like this?” Perhaps these tired lines work with Fauns, and perhaps they work wherever the human-sized Potato People roam, but the shit doesn’t work with me, here on Planet, uh, let’s call it “Earth” to keep things simple.

I gave a terse reply. “Fawn, sir, I am not. I am fully grown, not a baby deer.” I watched his, uh, let’s call it a face, as he worked through the permutations of what the fuck I could mean. I am witness to it as the light comes on.

After way too much time, Potato responded, “Sir, we have only met, so I will thank you not to call me either ‘baby’ or ‘dear’ so soon.” Our conversation wasn’t going well, and I looked for any excuse to exit. But Mr. Potato Man thought we were flirting, so he added, “So if not a faun, what are you, friend?” I objected to the familiar tone he took with me.

“Sir,” said I, “My friends are of a higher caliber than you.” Insulted, Mr. Potato turned toward the door to storm off, leaving his wallet on the bar. As surly as he was—kind of an asshole, really—I thought he shouldn’t have to replace his driver’s license and credit cards if he could avoid it, so I chased him down.

Within several inches of him, I called out. “Mr., um, Pot—, um, Sir!” He turned around and stopped short. As a Satyr, my baser self, shall we say, is always turgid. It is, by the way, the horse-like part to which I referred earlier. I’m not bragging. I’m trying to give you a clear picture. As my Christian friends say, “Judge not lest you be judged.” Okay. I don’t have any Christian friends either. I saw that on a bus bench somewhere in the South.

Anyway, Poor Potato Guy stopped short and I stopped long. It pierced him in the side when he stopped. I dare say it was a better feeling for me than it was for him. Delightful, really. For me, but, I bet, not for him.

His dying words: “I see now that you’re a Satyr. Damn it.”

Told you so. Don’t judge me.You’re wondering how I became banished to Staten Island. That is a reasonable thing to wonder. Rather than bore you with a drawn-out story, just know that I’ve done horrible things. It isn’t my fault I do these things, but that potato will never be the same.

I’m a satyr, to which statement you’re saying. “Yeah, sure, guy. Right.” You’re picturing some sort of faun or minotaur. This was Potato’s mistake. He misjudged me.

In a Midtown bar, he asks, “What’s a nice faun like you doing here?”

I replied, “Fawn, sir, I am not. I am fully grown, not a baby deer.”

Potato replied, “Sir, we have only met, so I will thank you not to call me either ‘baby’ or ‘dear’ so soon.” Our conversation wasn’t going well. I looked for any excuse to exit.

He added, “So if not a faun, what are you, friend?” I objected to the familiar tone he took with me.

“Sir,” said I, “My friends are of a higher caliber than you.” Insulted, Mr. Potato turned toward the door to depart, leaving his wallet on the bar. As surly as he was, I thought he shouldn’t have to replace his drivers license and credit cards, so I chased him.

Within several inches of him, I called out. He turned around and stopped short. As a satyr, my baser self, shall we say, is always turgid. It pierced him in the side when he stopped.

His dying words: “I see now that you’re a satyr. Damn it.”