from two ugly Catholic School girls in maroon stadium coats. I could see Charlene's bra and slip outline' through her waitress whites. She was emaciated and tall. Sunlight blasted through the wispy ringlets of her teased hair. Charlene always reminded me of mummies—she had high cheekbones, pinched lips and weird middled-aged skin, taut and glossy, as if she preserved it in diaphragm jelly. I touched her back. "Excuse me." I leaned toward the girls. "Do you mind if I borrow your waitress for a few minutes?" I gently squeezed Charlene's shoulder. "I need to have sex with her." Charlene, clucked, slapping my arm with her order pad. The girls giggled and snorted into their fists, and I moved on down the line.
"So anyways, I ast this guy if he got a couple of minutes, you know, so, ah, we could talk about mis." Al winked up at me and continued. "An' he says to me, 'Bawh? Ah doan hayv tahm to shake man dick after ah take a pee, an you wan a coupla minutes? Hayl no!'" Jerry and Maurice broke up. Al basked in their laughter, sat fat and sassy like a vanilla pimp in his Windsor knot, matching cuff links and tie pin.
"Hey." He raised an arm to me, still glowing, "Death of a salesman!"
"Death of a salesman you." I smirked sliding in next to Jerry. Some joke. I parked my case under the table and poured myself some coffee.
"Hey." Al nudged me. "Maurice got a joke. Maurice, tell him your joke."
Maurice chortled as he scratched furiously at his head, loosening enough dandruff to snow in Buffalo. Poor Maurice. He was the ugliest, grossest dude I've ever met. Nose hair, face creases, and bad breath. Thirty years a Bluecastle House man. They sent him into neighborhoods with lots of half-blind, senile people. He was a living memo to me to find some other line of work, and fast.
"What's the Greek national anthem?" he gloated.
"How the hell…"
"Never leave your buddies' behind!" He almost screamed with glee. Al and Jerry started laughing again, not with Maurice, as the saying goes, but at him.
"Don't fuckin' tell
me
, tell Cheeseburger George." I nodded toward the grill.
"Cheeseburgers." Maurice chuckled. "When I was in Italy, all the whores called the white soldiers Cheeseburgers, the niggers were Hamburgers. They'd say, "No cheese-a-boorgers joos a ham-a-boorgers.' They loved niggers."
"They only said that when
you
were around, Maurice." Al winked at us.
"No, they had a special name for Maurice." Jerry wiped his lips. "Alpo."
Maurice half-cursed, half-laughed, along with everybody.
"Kenny, guess what?" Jerry lightly slapped my arm. "You know that coconut room spray? I sold six cans yesterday to a synagogue on Essex Street."
"Okay, boys and girls." Al emptied two huge cardboard boxes of ketchup-sized foils onto the table. I stared with disgust at the familiar blue-green wrappers.
"Awright, what's, the story here, cream sachet again?" I picked one up and flipped it back into the pile. "That shit don't move, whata they always givin' us cream sachet for?"
"It moves," Al said confidently. Fat Al. He was one of those "successful" salesmen. He even had a magnetized plastic ivory dollar-bill symbol on his dashboard.
"C'mon, Al, I had two hundred a these last week. I think I gave away twenty. Whatever happened to those liberation Afro Pics?"
"Where you gonna go with Afro Pics in the West Village?" Jerry grabbed two enormous fistfuls of sachet and stuffed one in each of his sport jacket pockets. When he stood up he looked like a pack mule. It always amazed me how little people cared about their appearance. Especially in our line of work. It took such little effort to make yourself presentable. If you didn't think enough of yourself to look groomed, how the hell could you expect anybody else to dig you?
I laughed out loud and everybody turned their heads to the window to see what I broke up about. Less than an hour ago I was freaking out because my existence made me feel like a gerbil on an exercise wheel, now I was rifling with
"So anyways, I ast this guy if he got a couple of minutes, you know, so, ah, we could talk about mis." Al winked up at me and continued. "An' he says to me, 'Bawh? Ah doan hayv tahm to shake man dick after ah take a pee, an you wan a coupla minutes? Hayl no!'" Jerry and Maurice broke up. Al basked in their laughter, sat fat and sassy like a vanilla pimp in his Windsor knot, matching cuff links and tie pin.
"Hey." He raised an arm to me, still glowing, "Death of a salesman!"
"Death of a salesman you." I smirked sliding in next to Jerry. Some joke. I parked my case under the table and poured myself some coffee.
"Hey." Al nudged me. "Maurice got a joke. Maurice, tell him your joke."
Maurice chortled as he scratched furiously at his head, loosening enough dandruff to snow in Buffalo. Poor Maurice. He was the ugliest, grossest dude I've ever met. Nose hair, face creases, and bad breath. Thirty years a Bluecastle House man. They sent him into neighborhoods with lots of half-blind, senile people. He was a living memo to me to find some other line of work, and fast.
"What's the Greek national anthem?" he gloated.
"How the hell…"
"Never leave your buddies' behind!" He almost screamed with glee. Al and Jerry started laughing again, not with Maurice, as the saying goes, but at him.
"Don't fuckin' tell
me
, tell Cheeseburger George." I nodded toward the grill.
"Cheeseburgers." Maurice chuckled. "When I was in Italy, all the whores called the white soldiers Cheeseburgers, the niggers were Hamburgers. They'd say, "No cheese-a-boorgers joos a ham-a-boorgers.' They loved niggers."
"They only said that when
you
were around, Maurice." Al winked at us.
"No, they had a special name for Maurice." Jerry wiped his lips. "Alpo."
Maurice half-cursed, half-laughed, along with everybody.
"Kenny, guess what?" Jerry lightly slapped my arm. "You know that coconut room spray? I sold six cans yesterday to a synagogue on Essex Street."
"Okay, boys and girls." Al emptied two huge cardboard boxes of ketchup-sized foils onto the table. I stared with disgust at the familiar blue-green wrappers.
"Awright, what's, the story here, cream sachet again?" I picked one up and flipped it back into the pile. "That shit don't move, whata they always givin' us cream sachet for?"
"It moves," Al said confidently. Fat Al. He was one of those "successful" salesmen. He even had a magnetized plastic ivory dollar-bill symbol on his dashboard.
"C'mon, Al, I had two hundred a these last week. I think I gave away twenty. Whatever happened to those liberation Afro Pics?"
"Where you gonna go with Afro Pics in the West Village?" Jerry grabbed two enormous fistfuls of sachet and stuffed one in each of his sport jacket pockets. When he stood up he looked like a pack mule. It always amazed me how little people cared about their appearance. Especially in our line of work. It took such little effort to make yourself presentable. If you didn't think enough of yourself to look groomed, how the hell could you expect anybody else to dig you?
I laughed out loud and everybody turned their heads to the window to see what I broke up about. Less than an hour ago I was freaking out because my existence made me feel like a gerbil on an exercise wheel, now I was rifling with
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