The Perils of Market Week -- Continued

"Come with me to my cousin's wedding, Harry. She's marrying a Jew," Pauline bugged for like the tenth time."I promise you a good time."

"I promise you that won't happen, because for the tenth time, I don't want to go."

"Maybe you change your mind?"

Although Harry hated to admit it, even just to himself, he admired Pauline's persistence and sheer chutzpah, the right stuff in life that separates the haves from the have-nots.

"Maybe you leave me alone? You're not for me."

But that really wasn't true, Harry didn't want her to leave him alone. That was another thing he liked about Pauline but would never admit; she liked him a lot and wasn't afraid to show it.

"What's not for you? A blow job?"

"..."

A little bit tempting. Lately Harry's dark side had made considerable inroads in what had once been Pollyana country. Eat your Cheerios, do your homework, believe in God. Like that worked. And so if he was getting a little weak in the groin for a nasty little thing like Pauline, what did it matter? Who cared? Who really cared?

Harry did. Cave in to the power of the she-devil during a fleeting moment of weakness and hate yourself for life. Better to take a deep breath and play, 'Hey, I'm a cool guy.'

"Thanks for the kind offer, Pauline, but I'll take a pass. I haven't had all my shots yet."

"You are such a putz..." Harry loved to hear a shikse say that word. "That's probably why I like you so much."

"Everyone loves putz... I can't go to that wedding with you because I just fell in love with a girl I met this week...Now why am I telling you this? Oh right, because I am a putz."

"Love strikes like lightning...Then it's gone. You can still come to the wedding with me."

Harry rolled his eyes and sighed. Another ridiculous chick conversation. The belt business was turning him into mental mush. The week before he tripped into another moronic exchange with another intellectual lightweight, this boutique owner from Trois-Rivieres decked out in fushia-streaked hair and Elton John glasses. She asked Harry for a simultaneous French translation the Stevie Wonder song, I Just Called to Say I Love You, playing in the showroom at the time. And like a simpering fool, Harry actually did it. Not that his off-key, sing-song, pidgin French translation made any sense or could be understood. The look on her face -- as if she was watching a freak show. The fact that his mouth that wouldn't stop, couldn't stop the rambling gibberish spewing out like a stream of verbal diarrhea. The horror, the horror. Yes, it was time to leave the belt business behind, to go to LA and to make it big.

"Okay, I'll go."

But first Harry would have to get through Market Week.