My name is Alexis Pereira. I live in NYC, where I dabble in writing and acting. My work is regularly featured on Funny or Die and I've even created some original work for Funny or Die's Youtube page.
I currently write and perform at a monthly show at UCB, and I was even once on a house improv team there!
In this tumblr, you will find what I hope are interesting essays about my life. I like to think of myself as a statesman, though I may not know what that means exactly.
If you want to see and hear more about me, please visit alexispereira.net
Having forgotten my Morrissey autobiography at home, I just stared straight ahead at the subway map on my way home, when I heard a girl who was standing in front of me blurt out:
"You’re so pretty."
I looked up and there was a very striking 25-year-old brunette smiling abashedly at the the girl sitting next to me, a blush slowly growing on her cheeks. She looked like she was coming from work, wearing the requisite pencil cut grey miniskirt and white blouse. The girl next to me, a blonde I didn’t dare look at, was obviously stunned but managed to slightly laugh and respond:
"Oh, God, thank you - you’re so pretty. I love your hair."
The brunette, now with perhaps 20 pairs of eyes looking at her and in full blush, refused to believe the veracity of this returned compliment, and just shook her head and looked down and muttered:
A few stops later, without another word to each other, the brunette got off the train.
Carpe diem, young lady. Carpe diem.
My bank constantly makes me uncomfortable and I’ve recently learned it’s all for naught.
Whenever I walk into my bank, some manager/greeter in a suit sorta walks up to me and says, “Hey, welcome to Capital One! How are you? Can I do anything for you?”
I hate this.
I just want to walk into my bank and use the ATM or make a deposit like an old man by dealing with as few people as possible. Maybe there are middle-aged idiots who enjoy this “service,” but it is not a service, as they’re just gonna pass you off anyway.
So anyway I walked into my bank to deposit my coins when I was accosted as usual. However, as I tried I ignore him, I noticed they got rid of their coin machine.
For the first time, I accepted bank manager/greeter’s offer.
"Uh, I need to deposit coins, where’s the machine?"
"Oh we got rid of it," he answered.
"So I gotta pack the coins?"
"Do you have any packing slips?"
"Yep! You can just wait in line and ask the teller for some slips!"
I waited in line for 15 minutes, got the slips, and then sat at a table for an hour filling slips. These times are underestimations.
By the time I finished, the line was enormous. There were about 20-25 people waiting, and tellers were clocking out, with two tellers left. I unfortunately had to give up, and I started walking out.
"How was everything today?!" asked the manager/greeter.
In a last ditch effort, I again said something.
"It took too long to pack the coins and now the line is gigantic."
He gave me a big smile and said, “All right. Have a great day.”
We often speak with trepidation about the day robots will take over every job, turning humans into gelatinous husks. However, if my bank were run by robots, and I had this exact same experience, people would be up in arms and force everything about it to be reprogrammed.
Robot bothering you when you enter? No.
Robot finding a way to actually assist you? Yes.
Programming is easy!
Instead, I have to battle my social anxiety while entering and leaving the bank. And what do I get for it?
It’s not nice to be nice. Sometimes it’s just annoying.
"Do you have a dollar?"
She was rifling through her purse as a man on the subway train played a zampoña, an Andean pan flute which served as decoration for every Latino-American household. It’s an Inca instrument, and my uncle once yelled at me for confusedly thinking the Incas may have also lived in Colombia.
"WHAT? No! They lived in Peru!"
"What about the Mayas?"
"THE MAYAS!? What the hell are they teaching you at this school?!"
I continued reading, imagining she was talking to somebody on her left side. But now she looked up at me, catching my eye as I looked up from my book, and asked again:
"Do you have anything? I wanna give him something."
She was a pretty young Latina, possibly Dominican. We had been sitting next to each other since I first got on the train and now I was apparently her boyfriend.
"Sorry," I muttered, and it was true. Though my innate NYC defense protocol warned me not to pull out my wallet to a stranger, no matter how many stops we sat next to each other.
"Oh wait, I got something. Here!" she called out to the man in the poncho as he collected money. I went back to my book and we ignored each other the rest of the way.
However, I couldn’t stop turning the incident over in my mind. Is she crazy? Should I just chalk it up to her being Dominican?
But then I had a new idea. Perhaps there was a slimy dude on the train making eye contact with her, and she wanted him to think I was her boyfriend. I had been wearing my jacket, making me seem more menacing than usual. This wasn’t an act of hubris or insanity, but a smart move on her part.
I liked that explanation, and I’m glad I started my day with a good deed.
Women on the subway often read the books I am reading. By that I mean they often look over my shoulder and read along.
I know this is some kind of faux pas, but I’ve never minded it. Today during a particularly gruesome death scene in “The Light in the Ruins,” I made an audible groan, and the young lady sitting next to me reading along also groaned.
I looked up and we both laughed.
Never a more exciting time in New York City than the first nice summer Monday, when women break out their newly-laundered warm-weather work dresses. Into the depths of their closets go the heavy coats and heavy hearts. No longer are they misshapen woolly caterpillars, but beautiful butterflies bouncing in the breeze.
Goodbye spring cardigans! Say hello to the world, legs!
I went back to reading, and she pulled out a cell phone.
Meanwhile, the man on my right sat with his legs spread open enough for a baby his own size to pass through his asshole.
A large man with a cane got on the train yesterday morning in a particularly foul mood.
"Where are the trains today?!" he asked. "I gotta be wet AND wait for this damn train?!"
And it was true, the express was 13 minutes away and so everybody piled into the local. Unfortunately that meant a crowded train.
"Oh God, only one train for everybody!" he yelled again.
I could see everybody was a little perturbed by the man, especially as he made his way to the center of the car to get to a seat. The passengers quietly got out of his way. However, as he tried to sit, he slipped and fell onto his seat.
"How are people supposed to sit down?! There’s no bar and I’m breaking my damn ass here!"
I could see several people glancing over to see who was this man yelling out loud. But he just closed his eyes.
That is until a woman started belting the first few notes of a gospel song.
Everybody’s eyes went from the man to the woman a few yards away. It was one of those NY moments where everybody in unison drops their shoulders, shakes their heads, and mouths, “now what?” But after a few lines of her song, the large man spoke up:
"NO! NO! SORRY! NOT TODAY! YOU NOT SINGING THAT SHIT IN HERE! NOPE!"
The woman stopped singing and angrily looked over at the man, but he stared her down. She then just walked through the doors into the next train car. He again closed his eyes as everybody now gave him an appreciative smile.
That man was a hero.
The first joke I ever told on the first date I ever went on was when I was 18. We decided to meet at Queens Blvd, which was and continues to be a dangerous street to cross.
She was a couple minutes late, and she asked if I had waited long.
"No, I decided to cross Queens Blvd a few times. It was exhilarating."
She laughed and I laughed and I felt great having gotten her to laugh.
But really I had been waiting an hour and a half.