Netting stories
So he looked at me, starched collar and striped shirt, this new breed of yes-men, pilferers of pyramids and the ones who said the Taj Mahal couldn't be built (and then promptly got their hands cut off after they finished the dammed thing); I looked past, eyes stale, breath even (me or him?), heart pumping blood but hey, no soul man, no jazz flowing through those veins, it's all ice water now, all frozen, the mojo's left in Varkala somewhere, piercing the sun that's blotting out the black sand, cause I'd gone and done up and thrown the javelin at the light and it's all eclipsed and shit.
I love this pen. It's the perfect pen. It's a fuckin awesome pen, man. So I clicked on it twice and --
He says: Ya know (if it was the 1800s he'd throw in an 'old chap'), we see a lot of resumes and ones that have a story to tell... He gives the me nod. The move. Yeah, that move. the glance askew, head nod, the passive aggressive shit that 's like a bunker busting bomb, falling on Baghdad and smashing to smithereens all the Sumerians shit buried underground and all the families huddled before it all goes ape-shit... like one of those pregnant egg-bomb that's always thrown behind the bleacher seats in middle school -- and the room stank of that shit cause insinuation is not about absence, it's about filling the void with crap.
What's that you say? I say nothing.
It's not too good, he says. Ice veins ice blood, cool blue water immobilized. Not so good he says. But he couldn't go on. Appeasement motherfucker. We'll work on it, he says. But we're not really looking for stories. Our clients aren't.
Oh the stories I have to tell ya. The fuckin stories of a million pieces, all floating around like pixies, swirling around like a tornado.. sucking the living fear out of me. I wanted to say, are you fucking kidding me? What the hell am I doing here?
But instead I grinned. Yes, if you hear of any opportunities that may be a good fit, let me know. It was good talking to you.
And held out my hand. Like a chump.
Don't let those who run through life run your life.
Posted by: Yuppie Nomad | March 19, 2007 at 11:11 PM
Great post J. He will be 65 one day and his stories will be FUN. All about sitting behind his desk for 45 years and how he wishes he had done something interesting. And how he is going on this trip but oh so sadly he can't really get out of the bus for more than a 2 minute walk with a cane....to you of course, none of that will matter :)
Posted by: Vinny | March 20, 2007 at 11:42 AM
it's a perfect gorgeous spring day outside and oh man, yeah oh well, screw it
Posted by: j.fisher | March 20, 2007 at 11:44 AM