Every three or four years, after I've gotten hold of one of the antique rifles from my Uncle's parlor cabinet, I like to initiate a whirlwind of activity to blunt inevitable deferrals here at the Battery. The woman who eventually went on to pose holding a package of burnt filigrees seemed to virtually magnetize all who lacked the primrose badges to take them over the bridge without incident. I'd always try to keep my thoughts muffled against psychic perimeter incursions. Once, when I thought I was all alone, a very brave individual was caught duplicating my tragicomic delivery switch in a place where no one would ever think to look, if that. The thing was, it looked just like another 'inside job'. There is a definite curtain on wage growth in the Third Sector. For that, we call in a few of the guys for a round-robin. Usually someone will spark for the chits. I'm good for a few myself. Just please don't ask me to bring anyone down to my level. It never gets this crowded unless the kids show up with glue-on moptops. Then you can hang me by my thumbs. I just don't care.
One day when I asked my assailant what his preferred posture was for pedestalizing demand-side weemus, he turned and revealed a side of him which I'd heretofore found hard to stomach. There's an Air Force veteran who collects dipts to distribute at the Mental Hygiene Clinic here in town. He's told me on more than one occasion that I make him feel very much at home when I sling back a few while I keep my resting pulse at or below 765 nautical miles per second. The house he shares when I'm out of town is where he likes to take pictures of wall damage in case anyone gets persnickety. There's always a trust issue here in the Lower Twelfth. The kids often tell me that they think I'm just making everything up in my head as I go along. I reply that not all people of a certain age can be persuaded to make do with an isolation chamber of their own when everyone else on the train seems to be associated with one particular villain. His name is Charles Otis. One time he handed out stuff in flagrant disregard for clothing regulations the world over. I took him to task for employing coarse language while applying for a massage therapy course at the local Extension. He made it seem like I'd had too much to drink. And besides, where does it say that people under my tutelage are liable to rip up a piece of paper before engaging in one of your 'little games'? Nowhere I've ever heard, that's where.
__________________________________
No comments:
Post a Comment