Sunday, August 11, 2013

162. Revenge

As always, I dread the times that C.W. wants a job. This time, I found him at the kitchen table, in a form resembling the late William Faulkner, complete with pipe and mustache. He was busy at the keyboard and scarcely noticed me. A pile of printed sheets lay neatly on the table. He finally looked up, nodded, and puffed on his pipe.

“Big Dope,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“Don’t let my wife catch you smoking that thing in here.”

“You seem to be wound up somewhat tightly this morning, walking in as if there were two ghosts within you, one a remnant of the past stirrings of history and the other a sprite born of this fecund soil bursting forth among the ancient growths of hyacinth, pine, and sycamore trusting, not in yourself completely but perhaps somewhat and even then not totally but knowing that there are more sins amidst this ancient place than the soil can nourish and make clean with its everlastingness.”

“Did you make coffee?”

“Am I not a man born of necessity and lost amidst the yearnings of the past?”

“You are an alien, and a troublesome one at that.”

“My hope for mankind endures.”

I walked to the coffee pot. “Three level scoops and a half more for body?”

“As you prefer,” he said. “Now, begone. I have work to do.”


“Yes, work. Important work.” He blew a cloud of smoke toward me.

“Doing what, this time?”

“I shall be a writer,” he said. “A writer probing the subterranean sources of the soul’s wanderings upon earth.” He quickly entered several strokes on keyboard. He looked at what he had written. “Sweet,” he said.

I groaned.

“As a modern Proust,” he said, “I shall explore mankind’s essence through remembered memories created by sounds, scents, and secret fantasies born of eternal longings. That’s how I see myself.”

“Others see you as a complete idiot,” I said. “The ones who can see you at all.”

He ignored me and began typing. I walked, coffee in hand, to the table and picked the top sheet from his stack of writings. I read the following.

“Dearest Mikey: I noticed with some degree of surprise, that, following our breakup, you have indulged in what is commonly referred to as ‘revenge porn’ by posting a video of what I considered to be one of our most tender moments on the internet. As certain dishes are best served cold, I am including a copy of the video in a birthday gift of rare cheeses to your Granny Taylor. You know … the one who controls your trust fund. Oh, and by the way, a wee bit of surfing uncovered several other productions starring grandson himself. I am sure that she will enjoy the serialization. Ta ta, as they say. Signed, Linda.”

Revenge may be a green-eyed monster,
but isn't he a hunk, girls? - C.W.
“C.W.,” I said. “What the hell is this?”

“Put that  back,” he said, reaching for it. I let him have it and picked up the next sheet. It read as follows.

“Hi Barry. I am not unaware that you have developed the habit of referring to me as ‘that little faggot’ in conversations with our classmates. I have also heard that each week, one of the starting defensive linemen on our school’s football team receives a dozen red roses from you with a poem attached. That is so sweet of you. If your actions continue, the offensive line shall surely enjoy your favors, a prospect that offers a more salacious (look it up, asshole) prospect as more than one of them are what you refer to me as. Oh, and better hold on to your soap when you shower. Love, Timmie.”

I looked at him. He smiled and shrugged. “It’s called ‘’ and I’m already flooded with orders.”

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