-
SY
Everybody’s got a God given gift, right?

BOB
Sure.

SY
Mine? It’s letting opportunity slip on by.

BOB
No…

SY
It’s absolutely true. I’ll open the door, every single time, the exact moment after Mr. Opportunity gives up knocking.

BOB
I don’t believe tha—

SY
Why do I do this?

BOB
But you have taken advant—

SY
Why, at every turn of the corner, every single one, Bob, why do I self-sabotage myself?

BOB
Well if you’d listen for a momen—

SY
It’s because I enjoy doing it.

BOB
Please. Sy—

Sy
Or, maybe… maybe it’s an addiction. Yeah, deep down, I crave the feeling of being a walking Fowl-Up. And I fowl-up everything. From job opportunities to dating opportunities. I let it all roll on by.

BOB
What about— What about—

SY
Because, I was raised to be a brooder. A brooder and a pouter. Because, in my childhood, that’s how I got things. I wasn’t really an inventive child, you know. I was simply an effective stick in the mud. And I threw fits no other crybaby in this world could touch. I’m telling you, Bobby, I was the Muhammad Ali of fit-throwers.

BOB
That, I believe.

SY
Thank you.

BOB
But still—

SY
As a kid, to get things, I used the polar opposite of charisma. And that hasn’t changed. Not at all. The only difference is, now, as a brooding slash pouting adult, no one will give me the time of day. Not even my mother. My own mother, Bob.

BOB (sighs)
So what’s to do?

SY
Beyond killing myself?

BOB
Don’t do that.

SY
But beyond that?

BOB
How about therap—

SY
Bobby, as a kid, I made the tour of every child shrink in the state.

BOB (sighs)
Then why not… why not…

SY
Yeah?

BOB
Starting small…

SY
Sure, sure— What— Spit it out—

BOB
Try… to begin with… try— And anyway why not; what’s the harm? Try: smiling more.

SY (trying a smile; then giving up)
Smiling hurts, Bob.

BOB
That’s just about anything worth while, Sy.

Popular posts from this blog

Peekaboo?

-
Last night, over the phone, Cindi told me that her Coke was looking at her.    I didn’t ask how an aluminum can might’ve sprouted an eyeball. Instead, like any protective beau, I threatened it. “Quit looking at my girlfriend!” I shouted. “She’s waaaay outta your league! And besides, you don’t exist to… to ogle your consumer! You have one job: Contain!”   The can offered neither appeal nor apology.    So, through clenched teeth, I issued this warning: “Keep it up, buster, and I’ll crush you flat under my shoe!”    In sooth,   I said none of that.   What I actually said was,   “What?”   Cindi told me to “never mind.” But I pressed her and, finally, she disclosed what I thought I heard her say. Was the eyeball, I asked, giving her an inquisitive look? The famed " evil " or " stink " eye, perhaps? Might it be a look of surprise? Or fear? No, she told me. It was merely looking at her, with no particular look.  “Ah. Well. Good !” I said. “Gives me something to jot down
Read more

Potted

-
Where I live, there’s this plant. It’s inside the house. It looks more like a small tree than your garden-variety house plant. But instead of a tree, I’m calling it a plant. Because it’s potted. And it doesn’t really have branches. So it’s more of a tree-wannabe. It “looks” out the window all day long at all the tall trees out there. And it’s envious. Or is it grateful? Whichever, this much is clear: The flora on the flip side of that window has yard-cred. And we all want cred of some kind, don’t we? ‘Cause if we’re not cred, we’re crud.  But this tree-wannabe’s always been right there, where it is, all of my life. Right there, in that pot, in that room. “The library,” Pop calls it. It’s got two shelves of books, so I guess it qualifies. Said tree-wannabe hasn’t gotten any taller; hasn’t gotten any shorter, either. Nobody ever mentions it. Pop walks into the “library” only when he’s looking for a stamp or a paperclip. He’s a paper reader. Newspapers and magazines. Books are too much of
Read more

Use The Hole

-
Nearly everywhere coffee is served in this country you’ll find what we, at Chicago Coffee Cadre #7, call a “mixing station.” I.e., a stand where a patron finds plasticware, wooden stirring rods, a variety of sweetener packets, and creamer carafes. Additionally, our mixing stations (we have two) each feature a hole, six inches in diameter. Said hole exists as the opening above a hidden receptacle. Said receptacle awaits the rubbish that results from the addition of whatever you put into your coffee.  [If this is, indeed, you, have you ever considered just how many white / brown / pink / green / yellow / powder blue paper packets of sweetener you’ve ripped open and discarded in your lifetime? What if you had to keep all of those packets with you for the rest of your days? How on Earth would you ever get by if all idiotic “single-use” things—like sweetener packets and mixing rods—were outlawed?]  Most patrons of CCC #7 understand and appreciate the function of the hole in our respective
Read more