I was trying to remember where I’d seen the guy before, and it was driving me crazy. I had an image in my head, but I couldn’t quite find the proper context.
Was he the sullen waiter with the black eye who’d recently served me at that awful new Italian restaurant in St. Louis Park? Or was he the bass player in Jews in Orbit, the band that had played a friend’s wedding reception back in July?
I decided he was the Jews in Orbit guy. I was almost certain.
Resolve is what’s called for here, I heard him say. It was clear from his deadpan delivery that he was being ironic.
The youngster at his side confessed that he didn’t understand the meaning of resolve. In his mind, he said, he pictured a television advertisement for…what was it? A laundry detergent?
The other fellow –a still youngish man, some kind of father, I suppose, but it was obvious to even the boy that he was in way over his head– said, Steely resolve. You need to learn to exercise some self control, to check your desires.
It’s my money, the boy said.
The man shook his head sadly and continued to flip through the racks of CDs. He was wearing a dirty Boston Red Sox cap, a tattered Feelies tee-shirt, long, baggy shorts, and flip-flops. At no time during this brief exchange had he diverted his attention from his browsing. He didn’t so much as look in the direction of the boy who was bouncing anxiously at his side.
The boy had thick black eyeglasses and an unruly head of brown curly hair. It’s my money, he said again. I want to buy this Iron Maiden CD.
The man finally turned and addressed the boy directly.
I want you to understand this, he said, placing his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Are you listening to me? If you buy that Iron Maiden CD I can guarantee you that there will come a day in the not so distant future when you’re going to feel very, very stupid. Do you understand what I’m saying? That is a guarantee.
It’s my money, the boy said.
The man snatched the disc from the boy’s hands, shoved it back in the rack, and resumed flipping through the CDs.
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