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You remind me of Alfred Hitchcock...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Conversations
- Hits: 1403
He's introduced himself, and by way of conversation tells me that "I remind him of Alfred Hitchcock".
My curiosity is piqued, I haven't yet been warned by the other staff; and so I ask him what it is about me that could possibly remind him of Alfred Hitchcock - my pointy nose? My somewhat portly carriage? My balding head?
"No, no, no, it's just something about your demeanor...." he tells me.
"So you're a film buff I presume?" I parry.
"No" he replies.
Later I overhear him on the phone with his mother. His father owns the restaurant, he works here as a sort of errand boy, dishwasher, prep-cook, whatever.
"I want to ask him Mom but you know how Dad is about giving raises....And I haven't worked here a year yet...."
96 is the Fix
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Conversations
- Hits: 2872
"Get me a bill" he says, and I'm a little embarrassed, because really I don't want to be showing my bills to anyone.
"96 is the Fix" he says, and he's quite insistent, and I ask him to explain, is it some sort of radio contest that pays your bills? But he's acting all enigmatic, there's no fobbing him off, so I pick up one of the many unopened bills that litter my desk and hand it to him. It's a gas bill, overdue 3 months, final notice, but I know they can't cut me off 'cause it's the middle of winter and so this is a bill that can wait...
"See? 96 is the Fix" He points to the lower right part of the bill, and sure enough there's a number 96 there.
"Now all you have to do is circle this and write above it to charge it to your Social Insurance Number, then send it back to them. There was an account created in your name when you were born. The government borrowed millions of dollars with only your birth certificate for collateral. Once they have it they'll stop sending you bills...."
"How do you know this?" I interrupt, not to be skeptical but I am somehow.
"Been doing some research on the internet. There might be something else you have to write in addition to your Social Insurance Number, I'm not sure what it is...But as soon as I saw it I thought of you, with all your bills and all...."
"Have you tried it?" I ask.
"Not yet."
Now in ordinary times this would be a great idea. Not because I'm thinking it'll work, but I'd like to see the Utility company's reply. A David Thorne style correspondence ensues, in which I enlighten the utility agents as to my rights as a free citizen, the history of Freemasonry and the Conspiracies of Rome.
"Why 96?" I ask.
"I don't know..... I'm pretty sure it's Latin for something...."
E Type Jaguar
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 2081
We're getting along famously, Rob, Margaret and I. These are the people I work for.
And in the dream I'm working for them, cleaning a fieldstone fireplace. Margaret has an old E-Type Jaguar that she drives everywhere, it needs some work, some TLC, and I'm trying to persuade her to sell it.
Rob, he has an old Jaguar too, but he's staying out of the conversation, we're cleaning the fireplace together. There are children playing behind us, Margaret's looking after them, it's what she does. Greg has an old car too, something like what Fozzy Bear drove in "The Muppet Movie", only in better condition, new paint job, better interior, although what that has to do with anything is a mystery. Everyone seems to have an old car.
I'm trying to buy Margaret's, she doesn't really want it, but has suddenly contrived an attachment to it now that I'm interested in it. She wants to know what it's worth, I'm trying to lowball her, a few hundred dollars I tell her, depends on the year, it needs a paint job, some body work...
I wake up and my big toe is throbbing.
**Odd dream. Cheery, hopeful in tone. Apart from the characters, however, there's no grounding whatsoever in reality. None. Not a bit. Not in the fireplace, the children, the possibility that I'll be buying an E-Type Jaguar even for $2.00. Absolutely none.**
Quitting Smoking
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Rants
- Hits: 2573
5 AM and I can't sleep. I'm quitting smoking.
Not the "My lungs are blacker than a coal miners, mouth stinks, teeth are falling out and I can't catch my breath getting out of my chair" sort of quitting smoking, although I'm sure that will come, rather a "I don't have 2 fucking cents to rub together because the damned cheques are fucking freaking late and in part again" sort of quitting smoking. The involuntary quitting smoking.
And I pace and I occasionally cry and there are moments of brief lucidity wherein I sit down to do some work but I can't focus, not even a little bit, and so I stand and pace some more and maybe weep and the cat stares at me, perplexed, l bark in return. . .
There's always the crime spree, but I'm saved from myself by my newfound inability to focus on anything, and no sooner have I Googled "Oceans Eleven" then I have forgotten what I am searching for and why I am even searching. . .
Oh yes, the crime spree . . .
So I dig out the patches, NicoDerm, step 2, a well intended gift for someone with no intentions of quitting smoking, cut them in half because I don't really consider myself to be a heavy smoker and slap one on my arm.
And in an hour I can feel the symptoms palpably, well, alleviated. Slightly. I can sit longer. Only a bit. The urges to cry, throttle, scream, bark, they still come, but they pass quicker. I toy with the idea of making this a permanent state of affairs. But the patches, after a while they burn on the skin, ache, like I've had a flu shot, the whole arm weakens, I can feel it, a peculiar bruising up it's entire length. And I wake in the middle of the night, wide awake, fully awake, my big toe pulsing...
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