Nea Fane – Un Biet Român Pripășit în America / A Hapless Romanian Stuck in The US

Four or five years ago, a friend of mine told me something along the lines of, “If you ever get into politics, I’d vote for you.”

We were both mildly toasted. He was in one of those life chapters where he loved me. (In others, he hated me. I’ve never been entirely sure whether it was me he hated, or what my father represented, namely, the Romanian nobility.)

I laughed pretty hard.

But the seed was planted. And once I got home, I opened a beer and I started thinking.

The obvious answer was Absolutely not.
But the real question was: why not?

First of all, I don’t lie.
Well, I do. A little. Here and there. I’m only human. Like, did you read Terms and Conditions?
But to be a politician, you don’t just have to lie, you have to lie well. And lying requires an excellent memory. You need to remember your lies, string them together, keep them consistent. Frankly, that sounds exhausting. I can barely remember where I parked.

Then there’s the recognition factor. I don’t remember faces. Or names. I’ve always admired those people who, a year later after talking to you only once, still greet you by name, and throw in something about your family, your dogs, or your favorite breakfast cereal, just to show off. I usually stare at people like I’m trying to solve a CAPTCHA.

I also don’t know how to say No. In any group setting, I’m the guy who ends up being asked to give something, or do something. Apparently, I have what a very perceptive friend once called “a good boy face that invites exploitation.”
In a word, my face spells sucker. With capital “S“.

I’m also the guy people use as a benchmark for minimum achievement, as in “If even Stefan managed to…”

• bake bread
• get a second Master’s Degree
• get promoted
• lose weight

It doesn’t matter what the achievement is. If I did it, it immediately loses prestige.
I’m the hallmark of the “not impressive.”

And spontaneity? Forget it.
I completely ignore the ubiquitous “how are you” because I know that nobody actually wants to know how I am, but I know that any other question about my escapades or whereabouts deserves a lengthy dissertation. I need a solid three days and a Word document to come up with a response to “How was your weekend?”
I once missed the perfect comeback in an argument, and it still shows up in my dreams.

I’m also quite clumsy. I drop food on my shirtfronts with impressive regularity. My shirts are so colorful I get bibs for Christmas. 

But, if someone ever zooms in on a campaign photo of me, I guarantee there will be a mysterious sauce stain in frame. Sometimes more than one. Like the whole menu.

And when it comes to convincing people of things?
Let’s just say that I once tried to talk a friend into switching phone providers, and he ended up selling me his old Blackberry. I’m not a persuader, I’m barely a negotiator. A bad one. When I buy a car, the dealer tells me the price, and all I say is “OK.” The last car I bought, I was quoted a 7.9% interest rate. In the Finance lady’s office, she looked at me with a “how can you be OK with this rate? Haggle a little” face. I ended up with 2.9% out of the goodness of her heart. Sometimes, out of pity, they also lower the price without me even asking.
That’s the level I’m operating on. I don’t negotiate, I just surrender politely.

And finally, there’s my true legacy: I’m That Guy.

You know the one.
When my dad once proudly told a group of construction workers that I had just came from the U.S., in vacation, they all turned to him and exclaimed, “Who? That guy?!?”
When a high-school friend introduced me to his buddies, he “forgot” my name entirely and went with,
“This is that guy who’s worked in a bank for twenty years, and somehow still has a job.”
There are more That Guy stories, but I really don’t want to develop a complex.

So, after eighteen minutes of deep thought, I’ve come to the only logical conclusion: This guy? No politics. Ever.

And I opened another beer.