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"When Chris was here...." and I tuned-out, not wanting to hear this rest, Doug and Bartok Obumble'.
Bartok wanted to borrow a cigarette, his usual thing in Sharod, wandering the streets without pocket money, on the eternal bum, scaring up money.
And then there, was he trying to relate to me? Talking about buggies in the parking lot? Did he see my uniform? Did he care?
I had devoted too many brain cells, and went-off musing about Doug thinking my car was a Buick, though much too small to be a Buick of that era, he thought that, and he was motorbike was Japanese, his eyesight not so good, his hair as white as his worldview, a kind of talk-radio Santa Claus, and I was the one, silently kicking myself for my ingenuity, talking about Limbaugh and Obama.
The very gayest mullet and the most sexually alluring 55 year old black woman in the world, tumbling over one another like a pair of socks in the wash.
They loved Chris, and at the time, it was a contention for me, like that rebuked me somehow, that liking Chris was a rebuke on me, a condemnation.
Originally, I was in an awful frame of mind, but later, I of course conceded that Chris had his fair points, and we had always been friendly because he was amiable sort.
To his credit, he was like that with pretty much everybody.
Just like a neighborhood mutt.
He was of course, the caucasian exigence of Extra Crispy, too.
I had broke the lanyard on my badge, so it was in my shirt pocket, but the shirt had two patches on it saying my department name. Not a buggie guy at all. I handled the big iron.
I even had a brand new iron in the trunk of my car, but the most rip-shit thing of all was being able to get McCafe in the selfsame building, just a few footsteps away form it at all times, and me not quite the bloodless fiend for it then that I would become later.
"Strategic action point" while he droned-on: to finish my shift with an acceptable load of nicotine in my bloodstream.
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