I’m not talking about that old world, mister. I’m trying to forget I ever lived there. All those bastards had ants in their pants, and you’d think it wouldn’t be possible to cram that many drunken jackasses in a Volvo, but you’d be sadly mistaken. I saw it all with my own eyes.
Oh, Lord, now you’ve got me started. Katie bar the door.
There used to be this punchy little Irishman who worked as a doorman in my building, and I couldn’t even tell you all the beatings that hateful devil gave me over the years. He was what I’d guess you’d call a stickler, and I had –or so he avowed– issues with compliance. You name it.
What it really boiled down to, what it always boiled down to, was that the fellow didn’t like the cut of my jib. He said as much, on more than one occasion. He’d accuse me of ‘randy couplings,’ and the absurdity of that unjust allegation can still make my blood boil. I was –and remain– a gentleman through and through.
Whatever it was I tried to carry into the building, whether briefcase or grocery sack, the Irishman would insist on ‘having a little peek in my trunk.’ There were scenes, I can assure you, that went beyond mere humiliation into the territory of violence and perversion. Just the thought of the little storage closet he had there in the lobby makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
Believe me, I saved my pennies, and when they began to take reservations for the rocket ship off that godforsaken planet I was among the first to put down a deposit. I’m happy as a clam these days until some miserable, homesick joker starts prattling on about the good old days and then –just like that– I’m right back in that storage closet with the Irishman.
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