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.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
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.
Monday, October 31, 2011
The Queen of England Flushes
"Take away the Bic lighter, Finkie. I'm warning you."
"You don't think I'll do it, do you?"
"No, you're just being dramatic and infantile. You'd never torch my application."
"Maybe not, but how about a blue angel." Finkie bent over and lit a fart.
"You're such a moron, Finkie. This is why I have to go to business school. To get away from all the this."
"You don't think CEO's look before they flush? Everyone does, even--"
"--the Queen of England..."
"Yes, I know, it's one of your great theories. Give me back the application. I'm going to business school."
"You hate business, Harry."
"I'll hate you more if you don't give me back that application."
"You'll hate yourself more if you do. How could you drop acting just like that
"You don't think I'll do it, do you?"
"No, you're just being dramatic and infantile. You'd never torch my application."
"Maybe not, but how about a blue angel." Finkie bent over and lit a fart.
"You're such a moron, Finkie. This is why I have to go to business school. To get away from all the this."
"You don't think CEO's look before they flush? Everyone does, even--"
"--the Queen of England..."
"Yes, I know, it's one of your great theories. Give me back the application. I'm going to business school."
"You hate business, Harry."
"I'll hate you more if you don't give me back that application."
"You'll hate yourself more if you do. How could you drop acting just like that
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