So you hardly ever drink. Well, okay, you hardly ever drink in a bar. Keep tellin‚ yourself that. But today is your forty-third birthday, you have a bunion the size of Bat Segundo on your left pinky toe, and at lunch somebody left a bottle of cocktail sauce in your chair. There's a serious loss of cool points when red liquid shoots out of your ass in public.
I called you today to wish you Happy Birthday, but you know this particular galleycat pretty well. If I promise to be good, you‚ll drop everything and give me ten ... books sell at the speed of a terrapin on Ritalin unless your mother's real name is Condoleeza Rice and you can prove it. I love this circus, but I want out, just for today. Please? Never mind. We know why we're here.
We sit at the bar, you swill gin and swear this one is next, the real thing. Of course I tell you your mother wears Army boots and of course you say what else would Condoleeza wear, growing up the way she did? It was such a tragedy and true, that only the names were changed˜it is a memoir after all. Gripping and gritty and viscerally addictive. They'll love it, you say. We pretend, we muddle through this back-and-forthing, and either we'll both win or we'll both lose, but either way, we'll be drunk as hell by the time we you pay the tab.
The money you made on the last one helps you forget that your will-o-the-wisp client has no mother because she cut her wrists, no she hanged, no, she ... whatever. He made you a fucking fortune.
It's not a bad circus. You step in a lot of elephant shit to show promenading poodles to their greatest advantage, but damned if I know how you do it, because I'll probably buy and then I'll be the one tap-dancing tomorrow.
I'll have another drink now, please.
The fact of the matter is, we're whores. We love this job, but it's true. Don't snark at me. You love it, I love it, but please, let's not dress it up. The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd ... this elephant shit we‚re standing in is fresh and we sift through it barehanded on the off chance we'll find a diamond. Whaddya figure, one for every steaming, Fed-Ex ton?
You‚ve found a CZ the size of Bat Segundo, but I'll say yes and you already knew it. Happy birthday. Oh, and you have some red stuff on your ass.
Oh dear dog, this creates a whole new genre: snark noir! I may need a cig and a fedor if I read more!
Scoring to come