‘Charades’
"To a life well played."
"Cheers!" I happily congratulate myself. With the flick of the wrist I toss back a gin and tonic, my third, I think, or was it my fourth? Well, it makes no difference really; after all, this is a celebration.
"What a dreadfully delightful party," I say to myself.
"Could one have better company on such a dearly special occasion?" I wonder aloud.
"I highly doubt it," I reply seriously.
"Still, it is a shame though," I reflect through a half merry, half wistful smile, "that we are the only ones who can enjoy this parade."
"Indeed it is," I reply gravely.
With beaming eyes and a radiant glow that only a series of well-toasted gin and tonics can give one, I look at the passersby and begin to whistle a little ditty my grandfather taught me.
"Did I say parade? Yes, yes I did. I think I meant Charade."
A light flickers, on, then off for a few seconds, and then on, like the fluttering heart of a young lover or the nearly dead.
"Yes, charade," being now quite convinced that it is a charade.
I suddenly realize that I have yet to toast the charade. "To a charade well played! For what better life is there than the life that never was. Cheers!" and with the flick of the wrist, I toss back my third gin and tonic, or was it my fourth?
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Here's something I wrote one time
Life among the obscenely rich and beautiful is quite lovely. There is an endless gala of parties, gifts, rich food and delightful company, or so I hear.
My life is not so much among the obscenely rich and beautiful as it is 3 blocks from the ghetto and 2 doors down from the obscene.
This is not a story about life, privilege, or even deprivation. The truth is, this isn't an actual story. It is a series of words compiled in such an order so as to sound exactly like a story. It benefits no one except the author, who realizes that it is actually a joke, meant to mislead publishers into actually writing him a check.
My name is Mark, and I live the rotting little town of Hogswallow. It is a wonderfully scenic little town nestled between the sparkling Atlantic and the edge of humanity. Incidentally it smells of 3-day-old soggy bread.
I am 22 years old, yes, thank-you, I am still very young, I realize this, and you, having the beginnings of a receding hairline and crows feet, are also acutely aware of this fact as well, I'm sure.
I'm 22 and I work in a small coffee shop on the corner. It is a wonderfully cliché' little place. Luke-warm coffee, chili and a 30 year old sign which in an enduring act of protest, continues to insist that the shop is open, very rudely I might add, while I am taking my indefinite lunch break.
I "serve" a large number of interesting people with interesting stories. Before I continue, I feel it necessary to clarify that the quotations about the word 'serve' are not to indicate that I find my job demeaning, or the position of servant unbecoming, it simply means that I do not serve my customers, generally, they either leave in a huff, or accept it as it is and help themselves around me.
The interesting part begins here, in this crummy little coffee shop.
It's 6:30 in the evening, and in walks a most beautiful woman with cascading curls of auburn hair and a body that Davinci couldn't master.
In fact, she was so fetching in her tight black dress and high heeled boots, I was nearly tempted out of the comfort of my stool, but, thinking better of it, I chose to stay in place and let her come to me.
I didn't know it at the time, but that women was Gina something or other, I'm terrible with last names.
Anyway, that women, unbeknownst to young and innocent me sitting there on the stool, was a professional temptress. With her soft ivory skin and delicate pink lips, Gina got everything she wanted.
Upon entering the diner that October evening, Gina had already decided what she wanted and how she wanted it, (a bit of a habit with her). After taking a seat at one of the faded booths, she glanced sharply at me. I knew then that she wanted me. So with every bit of macho-ness that I could muster, I swaggered over to her table, and in my best attempt at a cool James Dean nonchalance, I asked her exactly what she hoped I would ask her.
"Would you like to hear about our specials today?"
"No," she replied caustically, but I could tell that she really meant, 'yes, please give it to me.' So I did, I gave it to her. "Today's special is the corned beef with green bean surprise, and your choice of wheat or white bread."
She glared at me for a moment, pretending to be insulted, and replied, "I'll just have a coffee, thank-you."
"Yes ma’m. I'll have that right out to you," I lied, and resumed my post of comfort next to the register.
As I leafed through a year old copy of AARP I could feel her staring intently at my backside, and suddenly I was very aware that I had a backside. Momentarily I wondered how it must look and hoped that she enjoyed the view.
"Sir..."
"Sir..."
"Hey!" Yelled the temptress, "what's your problem? I'm waiting for my coffee!"
"Oh yes," I replied, feeling a blush of embarrassment creeping to my cheeks. "I'm sorry. The mugs are on the blue cart and coffee is over there next to the radio."
Well the beautiful customer stared at first in disbelief, and I feeling very generous replied with a, if I do say so myself, adorable smirk. I suppose that she thought I was getting fresh because she walked over to the coffee maker, grabbed the coffee pot, walked ever so seductively over to me and poured its contents in my lap.
I at once felt a rush of discomfort and relief. Discomfort because a beautiful women had just poured coffee all over my lap in front of my one tipping customer, and relief came with the realization that I had never plugged in the machine, so it was yesterday's, thankfully, cold coffee.
"Now, fix me a cup of coffee," ordered the temptress.
That was the last straw. I was going to show her who gave the orders around here. I was just about to take her right there in the diner, but noticing her well-developed biceps, I thought it best to be the gentleman and walk away from that particular fight.
So, I did as any red-blooded man would do. I made a fresh pot of coffee and served it to the woman.
"Why don't you join me?" she asked as I poured her coffee.
I just stared in shock, like a deer caught in the headlights. Of course I could think of a number of good reasons why I shouldn't have joined her, but then that just ruins all the fun of experience.
Pulling up my sopping wet britches, I took a seat opposite of her. "I'm Mark, and you are?" I enquired. "I'm Gina, Gina Something or other." she replied.
"It's very nice to meet you," I said.
"Indeed," she replied.
"Now look, I don't have a lot of time, so here it is. You stink at your job, and I think that it's because you're unhappy."
"My," I said, pretending to be taken aback, "what an astute observation. Don't tell me you're a detective?"
"No, you smart ass. But I am someone who can help you make a lot more money than you're making now and help you attain true inner happiness."
“It's so hot when she calls me names” I thought. "Oh really, and how's that?" I asked.
"Reliction," she replied
"Excuse me?" I asked, having the vague feeling that I had read about it in a sex ed pamphlet.
"Reliction, is a movement that has helped tens of people to realize that true enlightenment doesn't come from God, it comes from fictional characters placed in well written stories, which are created by the spiritual compass of the author."
At this point, I was pretty sure that Gina was not planning on using me to satisfy her most secret bad-boy fantasies, so I was ready to bail.
"Listen, it's been nice talking to you doll, but I've got to get going."
"Wait," she looked so desperate with her pleading soft blue eyes, that I did, I waited. "I know that you think I'm crazy, but I really need someone to help me sell this or I'm going to get canned." she said and pushed a paperback book entitled, 'God is an Alien.' toward me.
"I work for a publishing company called 'Word Rite' and my boss is a Relictionologist."
"O.k., well, this is weird. What do you want from me?"
"I need a regular guy with no motivation and even less personality to be my advertisement. I need you to be my proof that Relictionology is real."
"Lady, are you off your rocker? You can't be serious." I said flabbergasted.
"Oh, I can see how you might get confused. Of course I know that this isn't a real religion. Reliction was cooked up by a 73-year-old publishing executive named Collin Lears during an exceptionally wild acid trip. But, this has the potential to bring in billions of dollars to the industry, and most of that would be going to the founding publisher." Looking me up and down, she continued, "here's my card. Think it over tonight, and give me a call tomorrow if you're interested."
As she was walking to the grungy glass door to leave, I said, "I just have one question. How much does this pay?" I had to ask, fool that I was I had to ask.
"One hundred and fifty thousand dollars a month." she said
"Hold on, let me get my coat." I replied.
My life is not so much among the obscenely rich and beautiful as it is 3 blocks from the ghetto and 2 doors down from the obscene.
This is not a story about life, privilege, or even deprivation. The truth is, this isn't an actual story. It is a series of words compiled in such an order so as to sound exactly like a story. It benefits no one except the author, who realizes that it is actually a joke, meant to mislead publishers into actually writing him a check.
My name is Mark, and I live the rotting little town of Hogswallow. It is a wonderfully scenic little town nestled between the sparkling Atlantic and the edge of humanity. Incidentally it smells of 3-day-old soggy bread.
I am 22 years old, yes, thank-you, I am still very young, I realize this, and you, having the beginnings of a receding hairline and crows feet, are also acutely aware of this fact as well, I'm sure.
I'm 22 and I work in a small coffee shop on the corner. It is a wonderfully cliché' little place. Luke-warm coffee, chili and a 30 year old sign which in an enduring act of protest, continues to insist that the shop is open, very rudely I might add, while I am taking my indefinite lunch break.
I "serve" a large number of interesting people with interesting stories. Before I continue, I feel it necessary to clarify that the quotations about the word 'serve' are not to indicate that I find my job demeaning, or the position of servant unbecoming, it simply means that I do not serve my customers, generally, they either leave in a huff, or accept it as it is and help themselves around me.
The interesting part begins here, in this crummy little coffee shop.
It's 6:30 in the evening, and in walks a most beautiful woman with cascading curls of auburn hair and a body that Davinci couldn't master.
In fact, she was so fetching in her tight black dress and high heeled boots, I was nearly tempted out of the comfort of my stool, but, thinking better of it, I chose to stay in place and let her come to me.
I didn't know it at the time, but that women was Gina something or other, I'm terrible with last names.
Anyway, that women, unbeknownst to young and innocent me sitting there on the stool, was a professional temptress. With her soft ivory skin and delicate pink lips, Gina got everything she wanted.
Upon entering the diner that October evening, Gina had already decided what she wanted and how she wanted it, (a bit of a habit with her). After taking a seat at one of the faded booths, she glanced sharply at me. I knew then that she wanted me. So with every bit of macho-ness that I could muster, I swaggered over to her table, and in my best attempt at a cool James Dean nonchalance, I asked her exactly what she hoped I would ask her.
"Would you like to hear about our specials today?"
"No," she replied caustically, but I could tell that she really meant, 'yes, please give it to me.' So I did, I gave it to her. "Today's special is the corned beef with green bean surprise, and your choice of wheat or white bread."
She glared at me for a moment, pretending to be insulted, and replied, "I'll just have a coffee, thank-you."
"Yes ma’m. I'll have that right out to you," I lied, and resumed my post of comfort next to the register.
As I leafed through a year old copy of AARP I could feel her staring intently at my backside, and suddenly I was very aware that I had a backside. Momentarily I wondered how it must look and hoped that she enjoyed the view.
"Sir..."
"Sir..."
"Hey!" Yelled the temptress, "what's your problem? I'm waiting for my coffee!"
"Oh yes," I replied, feeling a blush of embarrassment creeping to my cheeks. "I'm sorry. The mugs are on the blue cart and coffee is over there next to the radio."
Well the beautiful customer stared at first in disbelief, and I feeling very generous replied with a, if I do say so myself, adorable smirk. I suppose that she thought I was getting fresh because she walked over to the coffee maker, grabbed the coffee pot, walked ever so seductively over to me and poured its contents in my lap.
I at once felt a rush of discomfort and relief. Discomfort because a beautiful women had just poured coffee all over my lap in front of my one tipping customer, and relief came with the realization that I had never plugged in the machine, so it was yesterday's, thankfully, cold coffee.
"Now, fix me a cup of coffee," ordered the temptress.
That was the last straw. I was going to show her who gave the orders around here. I was just about to take her right there in the diner, but noticing her well-developed biceps, I thought it best to be the gentleman and walk away from that particular fight.
So, I did as any red-blooded man would do. I made a fresh pot of coffee and served it to the woman.
"Why don't you join me?" she asked as I poured her coffee.
I just stared in shock, like a deer caught in the headlights. Of course I could think of a number of good reasons why I shouldn't have joined her, but then that just ruins all the fun of experience.
Pulling up my sopping wet britches, I took a seat opposite of her. "I'm Mark, and you are?" I enquired. "I'm Gina, Gina Something or other." she replied.
"It's very nice to meet you," I said.
"Indeed," she replied.
"Now look, I don't have a lot of time, so here it is. You stink at your job, and I think that it's because you're unhappy."
"My," I said, pretending to be taken aback, "what an astute observation. Don't tell me you're a detective?"
"No, you smart ass. But I am someone who can help you make a lot more money than you're making now and help you attain true inner happiness."
“It's so hot when she calls me names” I thought. "Oh really, and how's that?" I asked.
"Reliction," she replied
"Excuse me?" I asked, having the vague feeling that I had read about it in a sex ed pamphlet.
"Reliction, is a movement that has helped tens of people to realize that true enlightenment doesn't come from God, it comes from fictional characters placed in well written stories, which are created by the spiritual compass of the author."
At this point, I was pretty sure that Gina was not planning on using me to satisfy her most secret bad-boy fantasies, so I was ready to bail.
"Listen, it's been nice talking to you doll, but I've got to get going."
"Wait," she looked so desperate with her pleading soft blue eyes, that I did, I waited. "I know that you think I'm crazy, but I really need someone to help me sell this or I'm going to get canned." she said and pushed a paperback book entitled, 'God is an Alien.' toward me.
"I work for a publishing company called 'Word Rite' and my boss is a Relictionologist."
"O.k., well, this is weird. What do you want from me?"
"I need a regular guy with no motivation and even less personality to be my advertisement. I need you to be my proof that Relictionology is real."
"Lady, are you off your rocker? You can't be serious." I said flabbergasted.
"Oh, I can see how you might get confused. Of course I know that this isn't a real religion. Reliction was cooked up by a 73-year-old publishing executive named Collin Lears during an exceptionally wild acid trip. But, this has the potential to bring in billions of dollars to the industry, and most of that would be going to the founding publisher." Looking me up and down, she continued, "here's my card. Think it over tonight, and give me a call tomorrow if you're interested."
As she was walking to the grungy glass door to leave, I said, "I just have one question. How much does this pay?" I had to ask, fool that I was I had to ask.
"One hundred and fifty thousand dollars a month." she said
"Hold on, let me get my coat." I replied.
