"I won't end up rotting away at Shugar Belt, ma. I've got a plan."
"Plans are good....""
"Yeah, me and Finkie--"
"Finkie?"
"Yeah, we're--"
"Plans can also be bad."
"We're going to write for television."
"Enough foolishness. Go back to school."
"I hate school. The profs are all dick-heads."
"Everyone is a dick-head for you. Become a radiologist."
"What?"
"Radiologists are the highest paid specialists and all they do is look at x-rays. This one has spot on it, that one doesn't. How hard can that be?"
"Where is radiology stuff coming from?"
"Susan Berger's son, Morrie, is a radiologist in Toronto--"
"Morrie with the carbuncle on his neck?"
"That's Dr. Morrie and he got the carbuncle removed. Meanwhile he's a doctor and he doesn't even have to touch a patient. How much smarter could one get? Be a radiologist, Harry. It's clean, it's easy and the money is nice."
"I have no interest in being a radiologist. None."
"Then become a pharmacist. So you count pills all day. How hard can that be?"
"You want me to count pills?"
"Today they have machines that do all the counting. All you have to do is read a number and print a label. How hard can that be?"
"Maybe I should get a job as a toll-booth collector? How hard can that be?"
"So you have a plan with Finkie? A plan for disaster I say."
That's what ma said. Dad said,"First an actor, now you want to be a writer. That's dopey."
"You always told me to do what I want."
"But I never said, 'Do something dopey.' That's all the world needs, another starving writer."
"But television writers make big money."
"When did you ever want to write? I never saw you writing, only prancing around reading scripts."
"Who was prancing? I was studying my lines."
"You liked it so people should watch you. That's prancing enough for me. Go make some money selling belts. Live at home, save your money and never eat in restaurants. Then go buy a building. By sixty, you'll be set. How hard can that be?"
What did they know? What does anyone know? Harry knew one thing...two things:
1) That Finkie's plan gave him something to dream about again.
2) That he liked working at Shugar Belt and hated that he liked it. Selling belts seemed so marginal.
What could you ever hope to accomplish selling belts? Who remembered the greats of the belt world, like the inventors of the reversible belt, or the inlaid buckle, or the turned edge? Giants of the belt industry. But where was the glory selling belts? Writing the Feldman spec script was all that mattered.
It would've been easier if Finkie could write, but at least he always had a family story to tell:
Uncle Hershie's boot factory was really a front for a cocaine smuggling operation. (True).
The feds were trying to frame his father for a telemarketing scam. (Not true, his father was a crook).
His sister-in-law kidnapped her own kids, fled to Israel and was living underground. (True).
Sigh. If only his script ideas were as good as the stories.
"Let's give Herb gonorrhea."
"Let's end the scene with Lisa farting."
"Let's make Herb and Weiner gay lovers."
And despite it all, despite it all, the script was getting written, despite the naysayers, despite the inane drivel, despite Finkie's distracting tales of woe. The struggle, the wonder, the delight of words on a page after every session.
LISA
Do I detect a bit of discomfort?
Does it bother you that Herb is
dating an exact replica of your
girlfriend?
GARY
Bother me? It should be illegal.
LISA
Gary Feldman. I can’t believe you’d
begrudge your best friend a little
ray of sunlight into the black hole
of his existence.
GARY
Lisa, I believe in The Bill of Rights.
I believe that all men are created equal
in the eyes of God. But if Herb Pulaski
is dating my girlfriend’s twin sister,
than Armageddon must be right around the
corner.
LISA
(SMIRKING) Oh, I get it. If you’re
dating twins, by definition, Herb
is doing as well as you. And that
bugs you.
GARY
(LEANING ACROSS THE TABLE) If Herb
and Jill make it, Herb will have
effectively seen my girl naked. It’s an
invasion of my privacy. He’s breaking
the unwritten code among men.
LISA
I thought the unwritten code among
men was, “No eye contact in public
urinals.” Besides, this is Herb we’re
talking about. He’ll blow it within a week.
GARY
What if this time the gods smile
on Herb? He’s due, you know.
LISA
C'mon, the gods have more sense than
that. (MOCK SERIOUS) But what if he
made a pact with the devil?
GARY
(DEAD SERIOUS, CONSIDERING THE
POSSIBILITIES) Yeah, what if?
CUT TO:
END OD ACT l:
Writing a script wasn't hard at all.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Saturday, January 28, 2012
A Good Plan
Finkie, last friend standing. Everyone else grew up and left town. Time to reinvent. Best friends #'s 1,4 and 6 - to Toronto, #3 - to Florida, #5 - to Boston, #7 - to New York and #8, the born-again insane religious zealot, there's always one in every gang - to Israel. The party, the way we were, over. Harry and Finkie, leftovers on the plate of adolescence.
St. Claire, a wonderful wasteland for a gang of two, where Harry sells belts, stupid-pieces-of-leather-that-hold-up-your-pants, and Finkie, the film school drop-out, shoots Fellini-esque videos of bar mitzvahs, sweet sixteens and weddings. At least that's what he calls it, Fellini-esque.
Consider the Simpkin bar mitzvah where Finkie shot thirty-five minutes of the dwarf aunt dancing the hora.
"A dwarf in a hora! Satyricon revisited!"
"And Simpkin punched you in the nose when he saw it."
"But paid me for dropping assault and battery charges."
Consider the Cohen wedding with twenty-two minutes of close-ups of the father-of-the-bride's bad toupée.
"Rug-head Cohen in the Temple of Jews. Hailed by Rolling Stone as comedy of the year."
"You were the only who laughed, Finkie...Okay, I thought it was hysterical too. But your client refused to pay you."
"Did I tell you he's also suing me?"
But the pièce de résistance was the Schlein Sweet Sixteen.
"I don't blame the father for trying to run you over with his car. You took a bush-shot of his daughter at her own Sweet Sixteen!"
"A bouquet of pubes! Cinema verité! When it happens, Harry, it just happens.
"Just happens? Just happens?! You shot that from under the table."
"It's not my fault the chick doesn't use Neat."
It was never Finkie's fault.
Not when he dropped out of film school.
"The profs were all dick-heads."
Not when he walked off the set of the first cinematographer job he got on a real film.
"The director was a dick-head."
Not even when he broke up with his girlfriend on her twenty-first birthday.
"She was a dick-head."
"But she loved you, Finkie. She actually loved you."
"That's why she was such a dick-head."
Dick-heads, dick-heads. In the world according to Finkie, everyone was a dick-head.
And that became his new mantra. Before long, the only job that Finkie could get was working as a shipper in his Uncle Hershie's boot factory. Then one week he didn't get paid for overtime.
"A little tight with the cash flow, now. The bank is squeezing my balls." Hershie explained. "I'll make it up to you later, but family's gotta bite the bullet first."
"So you bite the bullet, Uncle Hershie! You're the big boss driving a Mercedes, not me."
"Who taught you to open up such a mouth? Not my sister. Understand this big-mouth. I keep you as a favor to your mother, my sister. If you're not happy, leave."
So he did. Anyhow, Finkie had better plans.
"Fuck all these dick-heads!" he told Harry. "We're going to write a killer Feldman spec script, go down to L.A. and make it big, like Stevie Dash. Now he's directing big budget movies, making millions."
Yeah, but Stevie Dash meant business. He was money from day one.
"It's all good, man, it's all good."
And it was. The law of attraction in motion.
And Stevie Dash had a way with people.
"Be well, man, be well."
And sometimes he meant it.
Write a Feldman spec script. Really nail it. Go down to L.A. Get an agent. Score writing jobs on a sitcom. Makes lots of money, lots of it, then create new series . The plan was sound, but was Finkie?
Still, Harry thought,"Why not?"
St. Claire, a wonderful wasteland for a gang of two, where Harry sells belts, stupid-pieces-of-leather-that-hold-up-your-pants, and Finkie, the film school drop-out, shoots Fellini-esque videos of bar mitzvahs, sweet sixteens and weddings. At least that's what he calls it, Fellini-esque.
Consider the Simpkin bar mitzvah where Finkie shot thirty-five minutes of the dwarf aunt dancing the hora.
"A dwarf in a hora! Satyricon revisited!"
"And Simpkin punched you in the nose when he saw it."
"But paid me for dropping assault and battery charges."
Consider the Cohen wedding with twenty-two minutes of close-ups of the father-of-the-bride's bad toupée.
"Rug-head Cohen in the Temple of Jews. Hailed by Rolling Stone as comedy of the year."
"You were the only who laughed, Finkie...Okay, I thought it was hysterical too. But your client refused to pay you."
"Did I tell you he's also suing me?"
But the pièce de résistance was the Schlein Sweet Sixteen.
"I don't blame the father for trying to run you over with his car. You took a bush-shot of his daughter at her own Sweet Sixteen!"
"A bouquet of pubes! Cinema verité! When it happens, Harry, it just happens.
"Just happens? Just happens?! You shot that from under the table."
"It's not my fault the chick doesn't use Neat."
It was never Finkie's fault.
Not when he dropped out of film school.
"The profs were all dick-heads."
Not when he walked off the set of the first cinematographer job he got on a real film.
"The director was a dick-head."
Not even when he broke up with his girlfriend on her twenty-first birthday.
"She was a dick-head."
"But she loved you, Finkie. She actually loved you."
"That's why she was such a dick-head."
Dick-heads, dick-heads. In the world according to Finkie, everyone was a dick-head.
And that became his new mantra. Before long, the only job that Finkie could get was working as a shipper in his Uncle Hershie's boot factory. Then one week he didn't get paid for overtime.
"A little tight with the cash flow, now. The bank is squeezing my balls." Hershie explained. "I'll make it up to you later, but family's gotta bite the bullet first."
"So you bite the bullet, Uncle Hershie! You're the big boss driving a Mercedes, not me."
"Who taught you to open up such a mouth? Not my sister. Understand this big-mouth. I keep you as a favor to your mother, my sister. If you're not happy, leave."
So he did. Anyhow, Finkie had better plans.
"Fuck all these dick-heads!" he told Harry. "We're going to write a killer Feldman spec script, go down to L.A. and make it big, like Stevie Dash. Now he's directing big budget movies, making millions."
Yeah, but Stevie Dash meant business. He was money from day one.
"It's all good, man, it's all good."
And it was. The law of attraction in motion.
And Stevie Dash had a way with people.
"Be well, man, be well."
And sometimes he meant it.
Write a Feldman spec script. Really nail it. Go down to L.A. Get an agent. Score writing jobs on a sitcom. Makes lots of money, lots of it, then create new series . The plan was sound, but was Finkie?
Still, Harry thought,"Why not?"
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Over Dinner
"Alvy, why do you keep Harry if he's stealing from you?" Candy asked over dinner at Moishe's.
"Gives me something on him. The poor schmuck doesn't know there's a hidden camera in the showroom."
"That's not nice, Alvy."
"Not nice! Who's stealing from who?"
"But you set it up, Alvy. You screw around with his commission and then you put him around cash all day. Poor Harry..." An aching bolt of lust tingled up her quivering crotch. "Anyone would steal under those circumstances."
"Like you, baby. If you never stole from me and didn't get caught, you would've never gone out with me."
"I had to if I wanted to collect my modelling fee."
"Modelling? What modelling? I just wanted a simple blow job!"
"And I just wanted a sugar daddy. So now we're even."
"I'm still amazed you married a prick like me."
"Women love bad boys. But you're not a real bad guy, Alvy, and you know it..."
"Tell me about it, baby. Last year I gave twenty-five K to Combined Jewish Appeal and they didn't even put my name on a fucken plaque. NOT ONE FUCKEN PLAQUE! And still, people have the chutzpah to call me a crook!"
"You're more like a Batman villain."
"Really?....Like which one?"
"You reminded me of Egghead."
"Egghead? Fucking Egghead?! Do I look like an Egghead? Am I bald? Do I have a cone-head?"
"I meant, you're smart like Egghead."
Alvy grunted. "Why am I always the bad guy? People still look down on me. Meanwhile I give to every charity that fleeces me for money, I employ two hundred and fifty people and run a multiple-million dollar operation. Fuck, I'm the good guy!"
"Of course you are, honey. But a good guy with edge...And that's still such a turn on..."
Alvy squirmed in his chair.
"What's wrong, sweetie?"
"I'm still fucking waiting for my carnutzel! That's what's wrong." Alvy stood up from his chair, waved his arm at the waiter and mouthed, "Carnutzel," then muttered, "Jerk-off."
"Come on, Alvy, stop acting so mean. You're really a softie, letting Harry get away with stealing." Another bolt of passion raced up her crotch teasing her G-spot.
"Remember one thing, Candy. Harry is family. If you can't steal from your family, who can you steal from?"
"You have a heart of gold, Alvy," she said while noting her moistness.
"A weakness, Candy, don't remind me. Harry's family. But in the end, Alvy Shugar still comes up on top."
"Oh baby, how I know, how I know..." Candy moaned, imagining herself straddling Harry.
The waiter finally arrived with the carnutzel. Alvy grunted with delight and stabbed into the spicy sausage with gusto. A projectile of fat juice squirted out, landing bullseye on his Hermes tie.
"Shiiiit! This is a $145 tie I bought retail, full price. Now it's ruined! That waiter, the mumzer, gave me the Evil Eye!"
Alvy lifted his left buttock and farted a twenty-one gun salute. Candy recoiled in disgust.
"Relax, Candy. I was blowing away the Evil Eye. My late grandmother, rest her soul, believed that. Fortunately I was born the with the ability to fart at will."
"You're just gross, Alvy," she said while vowing to fuck Harry to get back at Alvy. Maybe she could get in a quickie at their daughter's wedding? There would be plenty of opportunities to finally screw Harry's brains out.
"Mustard!" Alvy barked to the waiter. "What am I, a putz-magnet?"
"Gives me something on him. The poor schmuck doesn't know there's a hidden camera in the showroom."
"That's not nice, Alvy."
"Not nice! Who's stealing from who?"
"But you set it up, Alvy. You screw around with his commission and then you put him around cash all day. Poor Harry..." An aching bolt of lust tingled up her quivering crotch. "Anyone would steal under those circumstances."
"Like you, baby. If you never stole from me and didn't get caught, you would've never gone out with me."
"I had to if I wanted to collect my modelling fee."
"Modelling? What modelling? I just wanted a simple blow job!"
"And I just wanted a sugar daddy. So now we're even."
"I'm still amazed you married a prick like me."
"Women love bad boys. But you're not a real bad guy, Alvy, and you know it..."
"Tell me about it, baby. Last year I gave twenty-five K to Combined Jewish Appeal and they didn't even put my name on a fucken plaque. NOT ONE FUCKEN PLAQUE! And still, people have the chutzpah to call me a crook!"
"You're more like a Batman villain."
"Really?....Like which one?"
"You reminded me of Egghead."
"Egghead? Fucking Egghead?! Do I look like an Egghead? Am I bald? Do I have a cone-head?"
"I meant, you're smart like Egghead."
Alvy grunted. "Why am I always the bad guy? People still look down on me. Meanwhile I give to every charity that fleeces me for money, I employ two hundred and fifty people and run a multiple-million dollar operation. Fuck, I'm the good guy!"
"Of course you are, honey. But a good guy with edge...And that's still such a turn on..."
Alvy squirmed in his chair.
"What's wrong, sweetie?"
"I'm still fucking waiting for my carnutzel! That's what's wrong." Alvy stood up from his chair, waved his arm at the waiter and mouthed, "Carnutzel," then muttered, "Jerk-off."
"Come on, Alvy, stop acting so mean. You're really a softie, letting Harry get away with stealing." Another bolt of passion raced up her crotch teasing her G-spot.
"Remember one thing, Candy. Harry is family. If you can't steal from your family, who can you steal from?"
"You have a heart of gold, Alvy," she said while noting her moistness.
"A weakness, Candy, don't remind me. Harry's family. But in the end, Alvy Shugar still comes up on top."
"Oh baby, how I know, how I know..." Candy moaned, imagining herself straddling Harry.
The waiter finally arrived with the carnutzel. Alvy grunted with delight and stabbed into the spicy sausage with gusto. A projectile of fat juice squirted out, landing bullseye on his Hermes tie.
"Shiiiit! This is a $145 tie I bought retail, full price. Now it's ruined! That waiter, the mumzer, gave me the Evil Eye!"
Alvy lifted his left buttock and farted a twenty-one gun salute. Candy recoiled in disgust.
"Relax, Candy. I was blowing away the Evil Eye. My late grandmother, rest her soul, believed that. Fortunately I was born the with the ability to fart at will."
"You're just gross, Alvy," she said while vowing to fuck Harry to get back at Alvy. Maybe she could get in a quickie at their daughter's wedding? There would be plenty of opportunities to finally screw Harry's brains out.
"Mustard!" Alvy barked to the waiter. "What am I, a putz-magnet?"
Monday, January 23, 2012
Over Steak
"Alvy, why do you keep Harry if he's stealing from you?" Candy asked over a Friday night steak dinner at Moishe's.
"I screw him on commission, he steals. We're almost even. I now have something on him. Have it all on tape. Meanwhile the putz doesn't know about the hidden camera in the showroom. Wait'll he finds out!"
"You're so evil, Alvy. Sometimes I feel like I'm married to a Batman villain."
"Yeah? Which one?"
"Egghead. He was so smart, like you."
"Egghead? Do I look like Egghead? Do I have a giant cone-head?"
"I meant, you're smart like Egghead."
Alvy grunted. "I'm no villain, two hundred and fifty people count on me for their livelihoods. I'm the good guy."
There was some truth to that. Alvy had
"Of course you are, Alvy. But a good guy with edge...And that's such a turn on..."
Alvy squirmed in his chair.
"You seem bothered, Alvy."
"I'm still fucking waiting for my Polish sausage! Of course I'm upset!" Alvy stood up from his chair, 'rewaved his arm at the waiter and mouthed, "Polish sausage," then muttered, "Jerk-off."
"Last time you caught the shipper stealing from you, Alvy, you had him arrested."
Alvy beamed, reflecting on that memorable moment when the police escorted and hand-cuffed the head shipper, Tommy with the fucked-up tooth, out of the factory while all the 250 Shugar Belt employees looked on in fear.
"Wearing his Che Guevara T-shirt!" Alvy liked to remind everyone. "Vive le criminal record libre, I say," and then he'd inevitably break up into hysterical laughter.
"That was different, Candy. That commie bastard was really stealing. With Harry, it's more like an arrangement--"
"You have a heart of gold, Alvy."
"A weakness, Frema, don't remind me. Harry's family, and besides, I underpay the little prick. So he tries to make up for the shortfall, but trust me, doesn't come close. A salesman as good as Harry is worth double the money. Easily. So I turn a blind eye. But in the end, Alvy Shugar still comes up on top."
The waiter finally arrived with Alvy's Polish sausage. The Belt King grunted with delight and stabbed the spicy sausage with gusto. A projectile of fat juice squirted out, landing bullseye on his Hermes tie.
"Shiiiit! This is a $145 tie, now ruined. That's coming off the fucker's next paycheck!"
Alvy lifted his left buttock and farted.
"This kid is killing me. First thing Monday, he's out!"
Candy sighed, hoping that Alvy would forget about it over the weekend. She didn't relish the thought of yet another Alvy-initiated family war, especially a couple of months before the wedding of Stacey, their youngest daughter. It wasn't the time to start a family war, the wedding would be held in the Ritz Carlton ballroom and the Shugars needed heads. Afterwards, there'd be plenty of time to pick fights with relatives.
"Mustard!" Alvy barked to the waiter. "What am I, a jerk-magnet?"
"I screw him on commission, he steals. We're almost even. I now have something on him. Have it all on tape. Meanwhile the putz doesn't know about the hidden camera in the showroom. Wait'll he finds out!"
"You're so evil, Alvy. Sometimes I feel like I'm married to a Batman villain."
"Yeah? Which one?"
"Egghead. He was so smart, like you."
"Egghead? Do I look like Egghead? Do I have a giant cone-head?"
"I meant, you're smart like Egghead."
Alvy grunted. "I'm no villain, two hundred and fifty people count on me for their livelihoods. I'm the good guy."
There was some truth to that. Alvy had
"Of course you are, Alvy. But a good guy with edge...And that's such a turn on..."
Alvy squirmed in his chair.
"You seem bothered, Alvy."
"I'm still fucking waiting for my Polish sausage! Of course I'm upset!" Alvy stood up from his chair, 'rewaved his arm at the waiter and mouthed, "Polish sausage," then muttered, "Jerk-off."
"Last time you caught the shipper stealing from you, Alvy, you had him arrested."
Alvy beamed, reflecting on that memorable moment when the police escorted and hand-cuffed the head shipper, Tommy with the fucked-up tooth, out of the factory while all the 250 Shugar Belt employees looked on in fear.
"Wearing his Che Guevara T-shirt!" Alvy liked to remind everyone. "Vive le criminal record libre, I say," and then he'd inevitably break up into hysterical laughter.
"That was different, Candy. That commie bastard was really stealing. With Harry, it's more like an arrangement--"
"You have a heart of gold, Alvy."
"A weakness, Frema, don't remind me. Harry's family, and besides, I underpay the little prick. So he tries to make up for the shortfall, but trust me, doesn't come close. A salesman as good as Harry is worth double the money. Easily. So I turn a blind eye. But in the end, Alvy Shugar still comes up on top."
The waiter finally arrived with Alvy's Polish sausage. The Belt King grunted with delight and stabbed the spicy sausage with gusto. A projectile of fat juice squirted out, landing bullseye on his Hermes tie.
"Shiiiit! This is a $145 tie, now ruined. That's coming off the fucker's next paycheck!"
Alvy lifted his left buttock and farted.
"This kid is killing me. First thing Monday, he's out!"
Candy sighed, hoping that Alvy would forget about it over the weekend. She didn't relish the thought of yet another Alvy-initiated family war, especially a couple of months before the wedding of Stacey, their youngest daughter. It wasn't the time to start a family war, the wedding would be held in the Ritz Carlton ballroom and the Shugars needed heads. Afterwards, there'd be plenty of time to pick fights with relatives.
"Mustard!" Alvy barked to the waiter. "What am I, a jerk-magnet?"
Sunday, January 22, 2012
The Kingdom
Shugar Belt, land of the living dead, home of the beaten, the broken, the chopped-up and diced.
Shugar Belt, Alvy's kingdom where frantic serfs scurry about to nowhere. A warehouse of lost souls, a vacuum of dreams, an empire built on the anti-matter of hope.
Shugar Belt, an island fortress devoid of dignity where shadows of men like crow-faced Rusty Applebaum shake and shudder thirty-seven-and-a-half hours a week, not more, never less.
Don't cross Rusty unless you want your meager paycheck whittled away. His simple joy in life is to dock your pay, withold your check, piss you off. Rusty Applebaum, a bespectacled humanoid form of life with distended whiskered nostrils and two black spots for eyes. Rusty Applebaum, a spectre stewing in the juices of frustration.
"Rusty!" Alvy barks.
See Rusty jump. See how he jumps.
"Get me two grand in US dollars for my trip to New York!"
See Rusty run. See how he runs.
"Rusty, there's a mistake on this month's trial balance! Rusty, you paid this invoice twice! Rusty, are you listening to me?"
Rusty, Rusty, Rusty.
See Rusty cry. See how he cries.
Shugar Belt, it's possessed.
"Pedro!" Fat Nat, the factory manager bellows. "You shipped the Bloomingdales order with two styles missing! You idiot! You moron! I told you it has to go complete!"
"Bbbb-but the cancellation date--"
"The rest of the order is getting tagging! Don't you fucking know what's going on in the factory?!"
"But there was a printing mistake on the--"
"What are we selling?! Books?! Who the fuck reads the tags besides wetback idiots like you!"
"But, Nat..."
"Just get the fuck out of my office before I crush your brainless Mexican skull."
Pedro stumbles out of Fat Nat's office overlooking the plant. He trips on the last stair and rips his pilled polyester pants. Fat Nat and his three assistants, Jean-Claude, Jean-Paul and Jean-Guy-with-the-fucked-up-tooth, howl with laughter. Pedro curses his fate in Spanish. Back in another life he was on the Mexican Equestrian Olympic team and drove a Mercedes. Then things went wrong.
"Easy to go down in life, hard to go up," Harry's mother liked to say.
Pedro gets up quickly and slams the door behind.
"Remember this, boys," Fat Nat says to his three chumps."Pedro is here for one reason; for me to shit on," and he breaks out in a maniacal laughter. The chumps think that their boss is hysterical.
On the other hand, Pena, the accounts receivable manager with the gorgeous manicured blood-red talons, the anklet and the toe-ring, loves her job. The pay is good - not great, she's got an air-conditioned office and a company car. And she's pretty good at her job, loves to collect her money. And that makes Alvy happy. Almost as happy as their daily 'receivables reviews,' when Pena gets down on her knees between his legs.
"The best time to call the parasites; the lawyers, the bankers, the accountants."
"He's sharing this with me?" Harry thinks.
"You know you've made it when you're telling those dick-head parasites to fuck themselves while you're getting blown. Pure bliss, Harry, pure bliss."
And how could you honestly disagree?
"A great time to be alive, Harry, a great time to be alive."
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
"Get out of there, Harry, before it's too late."
"When the timing is right, ma. When the timing is right."
Alvy's away on business in New York. Pena calls Harry into her office for a 'house account credit review.' She locks the door. Harry evens the score. Almost.
"Money is money," Harry's father liked to say.
And Harry wanted what was due to him. So he began skimming from the cash sales. In any case, it was really stealing if you only what you were owed. He only stole to balance the books. Harry Starr was no thief.
Shugar Belt, Alvy's kingdom where frantic serfs scurry about to nowhere. A warehouse of lost souls, a vacuum of dreams, an empire built on the anti-matter of hope.
Shugar Belt, an island fortress devoid of dignity where shadows of men like crow-faced Rusty Applebaum shake and shudder thirty-seven-and-a-half hours a week, not more, never less.
Don't cross Rusty unless you want your meager paycheck whittled away. His simple joy in life is to dock your pay, withold your check, piss you off. Rusty Applebaum, a bespectacled humanoid form of life with distended whiskered nostrils and two black spots for eyes. Rusty Applebaum, a spectre stewing in the juices of frustration.
"Rusty!" Alvy barks.
See Rusty jump. See how he jumps.
"Get me two grand in US dollars for my trip to New York!"
See Rusty run. See how he runs.
"Rusty, there's a mistake on this month's trial balance! Rusty, you paid this invoice twice! Rusty, are you listening to me?"
Rusty, Rusty, Rusty.
See Rusty cry. See how he cries.
Shugar Belt, it's possessed.
"Pedro!" Fat Nat, the factory manager bellows. "You shipped the Bloomingdales order with two styles missing! You idiot! You moron! I told you it has to go complete!"
"Bbbb-but the cancellation date--"
"The rest of the order is getting tagging! Don't you fucking know what's going on in the factory?!"
"But there was a printing mistake on the--"
"What are we selling?! Books?! Who the fuck reads the tags besides wetback idiots like you!"
"But, Nat..."
"Just get the fuck out of my office before I crush your brainless Mexican skull."
Pedro stumbles out of Fat Nat's office overlooking the plant. He trips on the last stair and rips his pilled polyester pants. Fat Nat and his three assistants, Jean-Claude, Jean-Paul and Jean-Guy-with-the-fucked-up-tooth, howl with laughter. Pedro curses his fate in Spanish. Back in another life he was on the Mexican Equestrian Olympic team and drove a Mercedes. Then things went wrong.
"Easy to go down in life, hard to go up," Harry's mother liked to say.
Pedro gets up quickly and slams the door behind.
"Remember this, boys," Fat Nat says to his three chumps."Pedro is here for one reason; for me to shit on," and he breaks out in a maniacal laughter. The chumps think that their boss is hysterical.
On the other hand, Pena, the accounts receivable manager with the gorgeous manicured blood-red talons, the anklet and the toe-ring, loves her job. The pay is good - not great, she's got an air-conditioned office and a company car. And she's pretty good at her job, loves to collect her money. And that makes Alvy happy. Almost as happy as their daily 'receivables reviews,' when Pena gets down on her knees between his legs.
"The best time to call the parasites; the lawyers, the bankers, the accountants."
"He's sharing this with me?" Harry thinks.
"You know you've made it when you're telling those dick-head parasites to fuck themselves while you're getting blown. Pure bliss, Harry, pure bliss."
And how could you honestly disagree?
"A great time to be alive, Harry, a great time to be alive."
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
"Get out of there, Harry, before it's too late."
"When the timing is right, ma. When the timing is right."
Alvy's away on business in New York. Pena calls Harry into her office for a 'house account credit review.' She locks the door. Harry evens the score. Almost.
"Money is money," Harry's father liked to say.
And Harry wanted what was due to him. So he began skimming from the cash sales. In any case, it was really stealing if you only what you were owed. He only stole to balance the books. Harry Starr was no thief.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
The Kingdom
Shugar Belt, land of the living dead, home of the beaten, the broken, the chopped-up and diced.
Shugar Belt, Alvy's kingdom where frantic serfs scurry about to nowhere.
Shugar Belt, a warehouse of lost souls, a vacuum of dreams, an empire built on the anti-matter of hope.
Shugar Belt, an island fortress devoid of dignity where shadows of men like crow-faced Rusty Applebaum shake and shudder thirty-seven-and-a-half hours a week, not more, never less.
Don't cross Rusty unless you want your meager paycheck whittled away. His simple joy in life is to dock your pay, withold your check, piss you off. Rusty Applebaum, a bespectacled humanoid form of life with distended whiskered nostrils and two black spots for eyes. Rusty Applebaum, a spectre stewing in the juices of frustration.
"Rusty!" Alvy barks.
See Rusty jump.
"Get me two grand in US dollars for my trip to New York!"
See Rusty run.
"Rusty, there's a mistake on this month's trial balance! Rusty, you paid this invoice twice! Rusty, are you listening to me?"
See Rusty cry.
Shugar Belt, a place to exorcise demons.
"Pedro!" Fat Nat, the factory manager bellows. "You shipped the Bloomingdales order with two styles missing! You idiot! You moron! I told you it has to go complete!"
"Bbbb-but the cancellation date--"
"The rest of the order is in for tagging! Don't you fucking know what's going on in the factory?!"
"But there was a printing mistake on the--"
"What are we selling?! Books?! Who the fuck reads the tags besides idiots like you!"
"But, Nat..."
"Just get the fuck out of my office before I crush your brainless Mexican skull."
Pedro stumbles out of Fat Nat's office overlooking the plant. He trips on the last stair and splits his pants. Fat Nat and his three assistants, Jean-Guy, Jean-Paul and Jean-Claude with the fucked up tooth, howl with laughter. Pedro curses his fate in Spanish. Back in another life he was on the Mexican Equestrian Olympic team. Pedro gets up quickly and slams the door behind.
"Remember this boys," Fat Nat says to his three chumps."Pedro is only here for me to shit on," and he breaks out in a maniacal laughter. The chumps think that their boss is hysterical.
On the other hand, Pena, the accounts receivable manager with the gorgeous manicured nails, loves her job. The pay is good - not great, she's got an air-conditioned office and a company car. And she's pretty good at her job, loves to collect her money. That makes Alvy happy. Almost as happy as her daily receivables review with Alvy when she's on her knees between his legs. They never forget to lock the doors.
Shugar Belt, Alvy's kingdom where frantic serfs scurry about to nowhere.
Shugar Belt, a warehouse of lost souls, a vacuum of dreams, an empire built on the anti-matter of hope.
Shugar Belt, an island fortress devoid of dignity where shadows of men like crow-faced Rusty Applebaum shake and shudder thirty-seven-and-a-half hours a week, not more, never less.
Don't cross Rusty unless you want your meager paycheck whittled away. His simple joy in life is to dock your pay, withold your check, piss you off. Rusty Applebaum, a bespectacled humanoid form of life with distended whiskered nostrils and two black spots for eyes. Rusty Applebaum, a spectre stewing in the juices of frustration.
"Rusty!" Alvy barks.
See Rusty jump.
"Get me two grand in US dollars for my trip to New York!"
See Rusty run.
"Rusty, there's a mistake on this month's trial balance! Rusty, you paid this invoice twice! Rusty, are you listening to me?"
See Rusty cry.
Shugar Belt, a place to exorcise demons.
"Pedro!" Fat Nat, the factory manager bellows. "You shipped the Bloomingdales order with two styles missing! You idiot! You moron! I told you it has to go complete!"
"Bbbb-but the cancellation date--"
"The rest of the order is in for tagging! Don't you fucking know what's going on in the factory?!"
"But there was a printing mistake on the--"
"What are we selling?! Books?! Who the fuck reads the tags besides idiots like you!"
"But, Nat..."
"Just get the fuck out of my office before I crush your brainless Mexican skull."
Pedro stumbles out of Fat Nat's office overlooking the plant. He trips on the last stair and splits his pants. Fat Nat and his three assistants, Jean-Guy, Jean-Paul and Jean-Claude with the fucked up tooth, howl with laughter. Pedro curses his fate in Spanish. Back in another life he was on the Mexican Equestrian Olympic team. Pedro gets up quickly and slams the door behind.
"Remember this boys," Fat Nat says to his three chumps."Pedro is only here for me to shit on," and he breaks out in a maniacal laughter. The chumps think that their boss is hysterical.
On the other hand, Pena, the accounts receivable manager with the gorgeous manicured nails, loves her job. The pay is good - not great, she's got an air-conditioned office and a company car. And she's pretty good at her job, loves to collect her money. That makes Alvy happy. Almost as happy as her daily receivables review with Alvy when she's on her knees between his legs. They never forget to lock the doors.
Monday, January 16, 2012
3%
"Get it on paper," Harry's mother warned him.
But he didn't.
"Don't work for Alvy."
But he did.
"He's a goniff."
"I know, ma, I know--"
"When he was a butcher he used to water the meat."
"I know, ma, I know--"
"When he was a stock promoter, he sold phony stock."
"I know, ma, I know--"
"And he got caught in that bogus invoicing scheme."
"I know all that ma, I've heard it a hundred times."
"Your father wouldn't speak to him--"
"--for twelve years for reasons too unsavory to repeat."
"Then why are you going to work for him, Harry?"
"I don't know." Which wasn't true. Alvy had that mobster allure about him. He got what he wanted, whatever it took and Harry wanted a piece of that. He could learn the game of life from a guy like Alvy.
"Don't come crying to me when he screws you. It's just a matter of time."
Six weeks actually, that's when Harry got his first commission check for his first month at Shugar Belt - $62.45, on sales of $36,892.
"At 3% commission that's $1044.31 short...According to my records," Harry complained to Alvy.
"Oh it is...According to your records, eh? What about house accounts where there is no commission, and discount sales where the commission is bupkis, and credit notes and returns or orders that don't pass credit? Bring me new business, bring me good business and I'll gladly give you your three per cent."
"But, but, but," Harry blubbered. He hated it when he blubbered.
"Business ain't about buts, Harry."
It ain't about the buts.
"I told you not to come to me crying, Harry, " his mother said.
"I'm not crying. I'm just super pissed..."
"That's why my voice is cracking--"
"Yeah..."
"And you're tearing?"
"Cuz he's cheating me, ma, he's cheating me..."
And this little piggy went crying wa wa wa wa, all the way home.
"Sixty-two bucks plus change, on top -- on top of your salary. Good scratch for a pisher living in the basement of his parent's duplex," Alvy said
"But it's not even close to what you owe me, Alvy. We had a deal."
"A few weeks in a showroom eating cookies with perfumed broads and now you're the big deal-maker. Putz. Anyhow, we have a flexible deal. It's like an open mortgage that adjusts itself according to the floating interest rate."
"You offered me 3% commission on my sales, Alvy. So you owe me over a grand."
"I never said a straight 3%, there's exceptions. Ask anyone in the business."
"That's bullshit, Alvy. I'm the in-house sales rep, I service the customers who walk in."
"And speaking of walking, Harry. If you're not happy, go walk."
And that's how those conversations always ended. "Go walk."
Go walk. Go fuck yourself. Language of the guy who's made it. The language of power, the language of dreams. Answer to no one.
Harry would've walked, should've walked, but to where? All that mattered would be the story of working for Alvy. The stories, the benchmarks of life. It was all about the stories. He'd own Alvy through the story. He'd use Alvy for the story and the big putz would't have a clue. Getting even would just be the icing on the cake.
But he didn't.
"Don't work for Alvy."
But he did.
"He's a goniff."
"I know, ma, I know--"
"When he was a butcher he used to water the meat."
"I know, ma, I know--"
"When he was a stock promoter, he sold phony stock."
"I know, ma, I know--"
"And he got caught in that bogus invoicing scheme."
"I know all that ma, I've heard it a hundred times."
"Your father wouldn't speak to him--"
"--for twelve years for reasons too unsavory to repeat."
"Then why are you going to work for him, Harry?"
"I don't know." Which wasn't true. Alvy had that mobster allure about him. He got what he wanted, whatever it took and Harry wanted a piece of that. He could learn the game of life from a guy like Alvy.
"Don't come crying to me when he screws you. It's just a matter of time."
Six weeks actually, that's when Harry got his first commission check for his first month at Shugar Belt - $62.45, on sales of $36,892.
"At 3% commission that's $1044.31 short...According to my records," Harry complained to Alvy.
"Oh it is...According to your records, eh? What about house accounts where there is no commission, and discount sales where the commission is bupkis, and credit notes and returns or orders that don't pass credit? Bring me new business, bring me good business and I'll gladly give you your three per cent."
"But, but, but," Harry blubbered. He hated it when he blubbered.
"Business ain't about buts, Harry."
It ain't about the buts.
"I told you not to come to me crying, Harry, " his mother said.
"I'm not crying. I'm just super pissed..."
"That's why my voice is cracking--"
"Yeah..."
"And you're tearing?"
"Cuz he's cheating me, ma, he's cheating me..."
And this little piggy went crying wa wa wa wa, all the way home.
"Sixty-two bucks plus change, on top -- on top of your salary. Good scratch for a pisher living in the basement of his parent's duplex," Alvy said
"But it's not even close to what you owe me, Alvy. We had a deal."
"A few weeks in a showroom eating cookies with perfumed broads and now you're the big deal-maker. Putz. Anyhow, we have a flexible deal. It's like an open mortgage that adjusts itself according to the floating interest rate."
"You offered me 3% commission on my sales, Alvy. So you owe me over a grand."
"I never said a straight 3%, there's exceptions. Ask anyone in the business."
"That's bullshit, Alvy. I'm the in-house sales rep, I service the customers who walk in."
"And speaking of walking, Harry. If you're not happy, go walk."
And that's how those conversations always ended. "Go walk."
Go walk. Go fuck yourself. Language of the guy who's made it. The language of power, the language of dreams. Answer to no one.
Harry would've walked, should've walked, but to where? All that mattered would be the story of working for Alvy. The stories, the benchmarks of life. It was all about the stories. He'd own Alvy through the story. He'd use Alvy for the story and the big putz would't have a clue. Getting even would just be the icing on the cake.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
A New Role
No one was more surprised that Harry liked his new job than Harry. It was soothing, relaxing, numbing to do something as simple as selling belts.
"This is gorgeous, that's a runner, the one with the inlaid brass buckle comes in cabretta and suede."
All Harry had to do was show up to work. Once he was in the showroom, the rest took care of itself.
Brew a pot of coffee, open a box of poppy seed cookies, place them on the showroom table and let the buyers stuff their faces. Throw in a few jokes, flirt, ooh and ah over the latest styles and by the time the the chi chi boutique owner left the showroom, there was a sale of at least a grand.
Harry was plagued with guilt about his unabashed enjoyment selling belts in a showroom. Stupid-fucken-strips-of-leather-that-hold-up-your-pants. Or skirts and dresses as a fashion accessory. But what was there not to like about luxuriating the days sequestered away in a comfy showroom with dolled-up sweeties whose mission on earth was nothing more than dispensing good taste?
And so Harry found himself dressing better:
"I love your cashmere sweater, Harry."
Splashing on designer colognes:
"You smell so yummy, Harry. Is that Yves St. Laurent?"
Initiating inane chat:
"Did you see what Meryl Streep wore to the Oscars?"
Land of the brain-dead. Home of the beaver. Where still the mighty moose wanders at will.
Boom tittie boom boom. Boom tittie boom boom. Boom tittie boom boom. Boooom.
Showroom sales rep: the role that the strapping, tall dark and handsome Harry Starr was born to play? And it made him ill. He had recurring dreams of belts turning into hissing snakes and biting him.
He could't allow himself to get too caught up in the pleasantries of the job, Harry still had a mission in life, he just hadn't figured out what it was. But it certainly wasn't selling belts for his chiseling cousin Alvy.
"No commission on Boutique Glitz, that's a house account."
"Commission on the House of Iris, you're kidding? They take a 60% mark-up with a 3% warehouse discount!"
"Of course I docked fifty bucks off your paycheck, Harry! You don't expect me to pay for getting your teeth polished at the dentist? This ain't Hollywood, pretty boy." That was true.
And so on and so on, until Harry chose to play a new role.
"This is gorgeous, that's a runner, the one with the inlaid brass buckle comes in cabretta and suede."
All Harry had to do was show up to work. Once he was in the showroom, the rest took care of itself.
Brew a pot of coffee, open a box of poppy seed cookies, place them on the showroom table and let the buyers stuff their faces. Throw in a few jokes, flirt, ooh and ah over the latest styles and by the time the the chi chi boutique owner left the showroom, there was a sale of at least a grand.
Harry was plagued with guilt about his unabashed enjoyment selling belts in a showroom. Stupid-fucken-strips-of-leather-that-hold-up-your-pants. Or skirts and dresses as a fashion accessory. But what was there not to like about luxuriating the days sequestered away in a comfy showroom with dolled-up sweeties whose mission on earth was nothing more than dispensing good taste?
And so Harry found himself dressing better:
"I love your cashmere sweater, Harry."
Splashing on designer colognes:
"You smell so yummy, Harry. Is that Yves St. Laurent?"
Initiating inane chat:
"Did you see what Meryl Streep wore to the Oscars?"
Land of the brain-dead. Home of the beaver. Where still the mighty moose wanders at will.
Boom tittie boom boom. Boom tittie boom boom. Boom tittie boom boom. Boooom.
Showroom sales rep: the role that the strapping, tall dark and handsome Harry Starr was born to play? And it made him ill. He had recurring dreams of belts turning into hissing snakes and biting him.
He could't allow himself to get too caught up in the pleasantries of the job, Harry still had a mission in life, he just hadn't figured out what it was. But it certainly wasn't selling belts for his chiseling cousin Alvy.
"No commission on Boutique Glitz, that's a house account."
"Commission on the House of Iris, you're kidding? They take a 60% mark-up with a 3% warehouse discount!"
"Of course I docked fifty bucks off your paycheck, Harry! You don't expect me to pay for getting your teeth polished at the dentist? This ain't Hollywood, pretty boy." That was true.
And so on and so on, until Harry chose to play a new role.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
The Buffet Line
Alvy Shugar elbowed his way next to Harry at the buffet line and stabbed at a potato knish.
"So what's my cousin the famous actor doing now?" he asked.
Harry cringed and regretted going to the bar mitzvah. The family affair; a place to get grilled, a gathering of inquisitors.
"How ya doing? What ya doing? Where ya going?"
Questions, questions, questions.
"I'm in between things," Harry answered while counting the knish flakes pasted to Alvy's face. Harry instinctively bobbed his head to the right, narrowly avoiding a volley of errant knish shrapnel spewing from Alvy's mouth. Harried inquiring minds like to eat and talk in unison.
"So you're doin' nothin' now," Alvy snorted while wiping the sweat off his upper lip with the sleeve of his cashmere jacket.
"Well...no..." The snappy answer to the obnoxious comment, nowhere to be found.
Again.
"Then come work for me, Harry boy. The best salesman are actors. Selling is a show."
"Well...ummm...what're..."
A job? A job? Could be a good follow-up to dropping out of school. A job? Money. A job? Time to prick up your ears.
"In-house sales, Harry. You may not be the next William Shatner, but you've got something going...What I don't know. But you're family and most important, I need someone I can trust with the cash...At least more than I can trust a goy."
"But I don't know anything about sales.
Alvy speared another knish from the buffet and stuffed it into his mouth. "Feh! Tastes like sawdust." He winced and spat out the masticated knish into a napkin. A man in desperate need of a carbonated beverage. "Diet Coke, Diet Coke. Pass the Diet Coke!" he cried.
Alvy leaned over the table, grabbed a bottle of Diet Coke and poured himself a fizzy glass, chugging it down in one impressive swig.
Burp!
"Excuse me."
Not really.
Gasp for air.
"What's there to know, Harry? You'll be selling belts. Strips of leather to hold up your pants. You're not selling shoes, with tongues and heels and soles and sizes, a crazy business, I don't know how they make money. But belts! Belts are simple, belts are beautiful - the ultimate fashion accessory. And to imagine that my Shugar Belt Incorporated is the largest belt manufacturer in the country."
"..."
Still intimidated by cousin Alvy. Admire him, despise him.
"Harry, I'll pay you twenty-five hundred a month plus fff...three per cent commission. Not bad for an unemployed actor, eh? Whaddaya say, Sir Laurence Olivier?"
"Let me think about it."
"What's there to think? Thinking is for shtummers. What's there to think? You can read Shakespeare to your mother all day, or you can have a golden opportunity with Canada's belt king?"
"..."
"Too good to be true, I know. Call me on Monday. Your mother has my direct office line."
"..." Again. Yet perversely drawn towards the belted vulgarian.
Why? I don't know. But Harry could already smell adventure among the tanned hides of leather. Whatever happened, it would be well worth the story.
Alvy grabbed a used napkin from the buffet table, then wiped more sweat off his forehead before it dripped on the platter of egg rolls.
"So you said twenty-five hundred a month and three per cent commission?"
"You heard what I said...Except for February, twenty-three hundred, it's a short month. Now stop talking already and pass the egg rolls."
Alvy slapped Harry on the back and moved on to the next plate of hors d'oeuvres.
"Pigs-in-blankets," Alvy grunted while elbowing a tubby aunty standing guard by the platter.
"So what's my cousin the famous actor doing now?" he asked.
Harry cringed and regretted going to the bar mitzvah. The family affair; a place to get grilled, a gathering of inquisitors.
"How ya doing? What ya doing? Where ya going?"
Questions, questions, questions.
"I'm in between things," Harry answered while counting the knish flakes pasted to Alvy's face. Harry instinctively bobbed his head to the right, narrowly avoiding a volley of errant knish shrapnel spewing from Alvy's mouth. Harried inquiring minds like to eat and talk in unison.
"So you're doin' nothin' now," Alvy snorted while wiping the sweat off his upper lip with the sleeve of his cashmere jacket.
"Well...no..." The snappy answer to the obnoxious comment, nowhere to be found.
Again.
"Then come work for me, Harry boy. The best salesman are actors. Selling is a show."
"Well...ummm...what're..."
A job? A job? Could be a good follow-up to dropping out of school. A job? Money. A job? Time to prick up your ears.
"In-house sales, Harry. You may not be the next William Shatner, but you've got something going...What I don't know. But you're family and most important, I need someone I can trust with the cash...At least more than I can trust a goy."
"But I don't know anything about sales.
Alvy speared another knish from the buffet and stuffed it into his mouth. "Feh! Tastes like sawdust." He winced and spat out the masticated knish into a napkin. A man in desperate need of a carbonated beverage. "Diet Coke, Diet Coke. Pass the Diet Coke!" he cried.
Alvy leaned over the table, grabbed a bottle of Diet Coke and poured himself a fizzy glass, chugging it down in one impressive swig.
Burp!
"Excuse me."
Not really.
Gasp for air.
"What's there to know, Harry? You'll be selling belts. Strips of leather to hold up your pants. You're not selling shoes, with tongues and heels and soles and sizes, a crazy business, I don't know how they make money. But belts! Belts are simple, belts are beautiful - the ultimate fashion accessory. And to imagine that my Shugar Belt Incorporated is the largest belt manufacturer in the country."
"..."
Still intimidated by cousin Alvy. Admire him, despise him.
"Harry, I'll pay you twenty-five hundred a month plus fff...three per cent commission. Not bad for an unemployed actor, eh? Whaddaya say, Sir Laurence Olivier?"
"Let me think about it."
"What's there to think? Thinking is for shtummers. What's there to think? You can read Shakespeare to your mother all day, or you can have a golden opportunity with Canada's belt king?"
"..."
"Too good to be true, I know. Call me on Monday. Your mother has my direct office line."
"..." Again. Yet perversely drawn towards the belted vulgarian.
Why? I don't know. But Harry could already smell adventure among the tanned hides of leather. Whatever happened, it would be well worth the story.
Alvy grabbed a used napkin from the buffet table, then wiped more sweat off his forehead before it dripped on the platter of egg rolls.
"So you said twenty-five hundred a month and three per cent commission?"
"You heard what I said...Except for February, twenty-three hundred, it's a short month. Now stop talking already and pass the egg rolls."
Alvy slapped Harry on the back and moved on to the next plate of hors d'oeuvres.
"Pigs-in-blankets," Alvy grunted while elbowing a tubby aunty standing guard by the platter.
Friday, January 13, 2012
The Curse of the Flunkers
Not really. Dropping out was a preemptive measure.
"I was flunking every course, Finky. Figured it's better to drop out than to flunk out."
"So you dropped out 'cause you were flunking out."
"Technically speaking, so to speak."
"Does that make you a flunker like..."
Beno Wax who flunked third grade and at seventeen, was run over by a pizza delivery car while crossing the street on the way to Pooties's in Fort Lauderdale. He never lived to see that Wet T contest.
Kenny Frick who flunked fifth grade and at nineteen, was shot dead by police while breaking into the home of his former elementary school principal, Irving Lesniak. And while Frick managed to squeeze in taking a dump on the desk in Lesniak's oak-paneled study, he never lived to savor that sweet act of revenge.
One-Ball Speigel, St. Claire Pool's famed belly-flop artist, who flunked sixth grade, and at twenty-one, choked to death on a chicken bone at Tito's Bar-B-Q during his annual bowling banquet. He never lived to hold his MVP trophy of the St. Claire Adult Bowling league.
If there was some cruel and mystical pattern attached to scholastic failure in Harry's humble St. Claire neighborhood, then his days left were few.
"No it doesn't Finky, I'm now officially a drop-out. My transcript will have straight incompletes instead of straight F's. Big difference."
"Not really, Harry. You're doomed like Beno Wax, Kenny Frick and One-Ball Speigel."
"I don't think so. Besides, that kind of freaky shit happens in threes, not fours."
"But there's a pattern to the flunkers' deaths. Wax died at seventeen, Frick at nineteen and One-Ball at twenty-one. In two years you'll be twenty-three."
"Fuck off you ghoul...and stop looking at me that way."
"What way?"
"Y'know, that ghoulish beady-eyed-look way."
"That's just the way I look, Harry. I have deep inset eyes and a fairly large nose."
"A fucking beak, man, a fucking beak."
"That's it Harry. We weren't all blessed with your good looks."
"What good will that do me? According to you I have less than two years to live."
"Yeah," Finky laughed."Can you leave me in your will your hockey card collection. You know how much that Bobby Orr rookie card would mean to me."
"You're not funny, finky. I feel like you're hexing me."
"Nah, it's just my ghoulish beady-eyed look."
"I don't think we should've smoked that second joint, Finky."
"I do, this is funny." Finky stared at Harry and laughed. "Look at the bright side, we'll all die sooner or later, at least you'll leave behind a handsome corpse. I'd take your good looks over mine any day even with the curse."
"Since we can't exchange faces you'll have to settle for the curse. I now transfer it to you, Ronnie Finkelstein. But first, let's smoke another joint."
"And still you wonder why you flunked out."
"Dropped out, you mean."
Finky shot Harry a ghoulish beady-eyed look and laughed. "You roll."
"I was flunking every course, Finky. Figured it's better to drop out than to flunk out."
"So you dropped out 'cause you were flunking out."
"Technically speaking, so to speak."
"Does that make you a flunker like..."
Beno Wax who flunked third grade and at seventeen, was run over by a pizza delivery car while crossing the street on the way to Pooties's in Fort Lauderdale. He never lived to see that Wet T contest.
Kenny Frick who flunked fifth grade and at nineteen, was shot dead by police while breaking into the home of his former elementary school principal, Irving Lesniak. And while Frick managed to squeeze in taking a dump on the desk in Lesniak's oak-paneled study, he never lived to savor that sweet act of revenge.
One-Ball Speigel, St. Claire Pool's famed belly-flop artist, who flunked sixth grade, and at twenty-one, choked to death on a chicken bone at Tito's Bar-B-Q during his annual bowling banquet. He never lived to hold his MVP trophy of the St. Claire Adult Bowling league.
If there was some cruel and mystical pattern attached to scholastic failure in Harry's humble St. Claire neighborhood, then his days left were few.
"No it doesn't Finky, I'm now officially a drop-out. My transcript will have straight incompletes instead of straight F's. Big difference."
"Not really, Harry. You're doomed like Beno Wax, Kenny Frick and One-Ball Speigel."
"I don't think so. Besides, that kind of freaky shit happens in threes, not fours."
"But there's a pattern to the flunkers' deaths. Wax died at seventeen, Frick at nineteen and One-Ball at twenty-one. In two years you'll be twenty-three."
"Fuck off you ghoul...and stop looking at me that way."
"What way?"
"Y'know, that ghoulish beady-eyed-look way."
"That's just the way I look, Harry. I have deep inset eyes and a fairly large nose."
"A fucking beak, man, a fucking beak."
"That's it Harry. We weren't all blessed with your good looks."
"What good will that do me? According to you I have less than two years to live."
"Yeah," Finky laughed."Can you leave me in your will your hockey card collection. You know how much that Bobby Orr rookie card would mean to me."
"You're not funny, finky. I feel like you're hexing me."
"Nah, it's just my ghoulish beady-eyed look."
"I don't think we should've smoked that second joint, Finky."
"I do, this is funny." Finky stared at Harry and laughed. "Look at the bright side, we'll all die sooner or later, at least you'll leave behind a handsome corpse. I'd take your good looks over mine any day even with the curse."
"Since we can't exchange faces you'll have to settle for the curse. I now transfer it to you, Ronnie Finkelstein. But first, let's smoke another joint."
"And still you wonder why you flunked out."
"Dropped out, you mean."
Finky shot Harry a ghoulish beady-eyed look and laughed. "You roll."
Thursday, January 12, 2012
What?
"I don't know if I'll make it through the first semester, Joey. I hate business school."
"Stick to it, Harry. Some day it will pay off big time. Happy to see that at least you got acting out of your system. You wanna drive a BMW someday or what?"
"I'd never drive a German car. And who says acting is out of my system? It's just suppressed, like everything else."
"Stop being such a putz already."
"I'm ready for another beer, Joey. You still buying?"
"Of course m'man. It's gotta be spent, Harry. It's gotta be spent."
****
Harry took a deep hall and held in his breath until he exhaled the pungent smoke. Lucky that Finky's parents were away for the weekend. He studied the Kiss poster on the wall next to Finky's bed. Pathetic, just pathetic. Best friends with a member of the Kiss army? How embarrassing. Not the time to bug Finky again for enlisting, not with business school messing up the head.
"My big buddy at school is this trollish guy I hate...Sheldon."
"Sheldon...figures. It's a well known fact that Sheldons are assholes."
Like the Kiss army. "Yeah," Harry laughed. "This Sheldon guy's in my study group and all my classes too. He's married and has a beard."
"I don't get beards, it's like wearing a pussy on your face..."
"Yeah, it's like we lost all this body hair through evolution. We don't need to be hairy monkeys anymore to survive. So why go back to the beard? I don't get it and I really don't get this Sheldon guy. Don't know if he's just thick, nervous, or hard of hearing. If I say something to him, he yells back, YELLS - in near hysteria, "WHAAAAT?!"
"How about a coffee break now?"
"WHAAAAT?"
"We have a quiz on Thursday."
"WHAAAAT?!"
"Do you have to say, 'WHAAAT', after everything I say?"
"WHAAAAT!?"
****
"What do you mean you're dropping out of business school, Harry?"
"It's exactly what I mean, mom. I hate it."
"Like everything else," she sighed. "Like everything else."
"That's not true," he lied. "There's lots of stuff I like."
"Like what, Harry. Like what?"
"Like Penthouse Forum," he muttered under his breath.
"What did you say, Harry? What did you say?"
"Do you always have to repeat everything? It bugs me...Umm, by the way, I dropped out of school today," he mumbled. It felt good to say that. Say it again.
"I dropped out school." Imaginary drum roll. Cymbals.
"Stick to it, Harry. Some day it will pay off big time. Happy to see that at least you got acting out of your system. You wanna drive a BMW someday or what?"
"I'd never drive a German car. And who says acting is out of my system? It's just suppressed, like everything else."
"Stop being such a putz already."
"I'm ready for another beer, Joey. You still buying?"
"Of course m'man. It's gotta be spent, Harry. It's gotta be spent."
****
Harry took a deep hall and held in his breath until he exhaled the pungent smoke. Lucky that Finky's parents were away for the weekend. He studied the Kiss poster on the wall next to Finky's bed. Pathetic, just pathetic. Best friends with a member of the Kiss army? How embarrassing. Not the time to bug Finky again for enlisting, not with business school messing up the head.
"My big buddy at school is this trollish guy I hate...Sheldon."
"Sheldon...figures. It's a well known fact that Sheldons are assholes."
Like the Kiss army. "Yeah," Harry laughed. "This Sheldon guy's in my study group and all my classes too. He's married and has a beard."
"I don't get beards, it's like wearing a pussy on your face..."
"Yeah, it's like we lost all this body hair through evolution. We don't need to be hairy monkeys anymore to survive. So why go back to the beard? I don't get it and I really don't get this Sheldon guy. Don't know if he's just thick, nervous, or hard of hearing. If I say something to him, he yells back, YELLS - in near hysteria, "WHAAAAT?!"
"How about a coffee break now?"
"WHAAAAT?"
"We have a quiz on Thursday."
"WHAAAAT?!"
"Do you have to say, 'WHAAAT', after everything I say?"
"WHAAAAT!?"
****
"What do you mean you're dropping out of business school, Harry?"
"It's exactly what I mean, mom. I hate it."
"Like everything else," she sighed. "Like everything else."
"That's not true," he lied. "There's lots of stuff I like."
"Like what, Harry. Like what?"
"Like Penthouse Forum," he muttered under his breath.
"What did you say, Harry? What did you say?"
"Do you always have to repeat everything? It bugs me...Umm, by the way, I dropped out of school today," he mumbled. It felt good to say that. Say it again.
"I dropped out school." Imaginary drum roll. Cymbals.
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