_ Mulligan was right.
_ Who's Mulligan?
_ The guy that was right when he said don't bother looking for anything... that it'll all show up in its own good time. He was right.
_ That's Mulligan for you.... Anyway it's been a pretty interesting day at the races, if you would be so kind.
_ Don't get me going on kindness - I find it very irritating.
_ Irritation... pearl-making 101... I have some business cards to hand out.
_ Whoa... a businessman? You're a businessman?
_ The Stevens Realty Group.
_ That's you? You're Stevens?
_ No, I just liked the sound of it; it buys me time when I'm looking to beat feet - I give someone a card and walk away. All the contact info is fictional.
_ Nice.... I understand that Mulligan has come down with a very rare case of musical sindrome de tourette. He will sing very bawdy, very naughty songs in English, with a French accent, for no apparent reason.
_ Why not, right?... Mulligan... Is he the guy who wears one Beatle boot and one roller skate?
_ No, that's his brother Mulligan; however, your man Mulligan got a standing ovation the other day on the line at the bank for his heartfelt version of Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
_ Barnacle Bill the Sailor in a French accent?... There aren't any chairs at the bank... Any ovation at the bank is going to be a standing ovation.
_ Mindsplat!... Ohhh... it's all over my cardigan. Yech!
_ When you wake up in the morning do you forgive yourself?
_ Indeed-y-do... for I know not what I am about to do. Yes, I do... and everyone else, and I'll tell you why: I'm a quality guy... I have no use for quantity. I forgive you....
_ Golden ghee.
_ I used to know of a construction firm whose motto was, "We do it right because we do it twice."
_ Maybe if this Steven's Realty Group thing takes off I can look them up.
_ How would you know if it took off?
_ I wouldn't. You see I, too, am a quality guy; I need nothing - it's impossible to lose.
_ A no-win situation.
_ Be thankful for small blessings. Chai?
_ I'll take the second cup first.
**********
... If I could only have one sense I would ask that it be hearing. Yes.
... To quietly go about your business; to turn like a wheel. To sense that, above all, one need do nothing to enjoy.
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It reminds me of a small story Two Guys – what a coincidence hah! I do like the alias Barnacle Bill, sometimes I go by Cracker Jack, squid occasionally but sometimes anonymous is good too.
ReplyDeleteI was marooned in Florida for two years photocombing beachs my way, shipwrecked again. Anyway I hung out in two joints. One was called The Hurricane.; mostly filled with World War Two fellows and their dames. I of course younger was called “lad”. The other waterhole was Captain Jack’s, the boulevardiers’ preference in dandyism. I was there for the damsels that Captain Jack dressed up in Pirate Hats.
All the hatches in this place were open in August and I had stopped in to sample Captain Jack’s Treasures.. I drank my Twenty asked the bartender for the check and noticed that I had been overcharged. She had me pegged for a local and insisted I was the lying scoundrel. Aye. I said to me self “there’s a wind ablowin”. I turned about an sought a lee shore for awhile. But a new hurricane has to be met with an equal and opposite force or she will sink ya, so I plotted my course and returned to Captain Jack’s. The sassy Moxie was behind the bar but I had decided to disquise myself as a high flying tourist so that I would not be treated like a local.
I ironed a pair of dungarees stiff. One of the benefits of being a sailor is you learn how to iron. I rolled the bottoms up three times so 6 inchs of white cuff lay below but high enough to show some black boot. Topside was covered in a long red sleeve flannel shirt., big blue suspenders that criss cross in the back, a red bandana and a black short brimmed steamboat hat on my noggin. I called me Mr. Cuffs. She gave me a drink and tried not to see me as out of place as I was now a tourist of the third kind - not really real. As I said the bar-tender tart’s name was Moxie! Moxie the bar tart was not tender at all and she left me emotionally marooned. I let her know it. But I was pissing on the windward side and it was easy to tell that She’s gonna blow ! It was for certain. “Get Out” You You Get Out” .and she wasn’t talking to my parrot. I had anticipated the chaos and had already tacked towards the big open tourists doors by the wait to be seated sign. I could feel the strong winds filling my Cuffs as I slipped passed the gatekeepers, just another Arkansas Farmer in Florida walking to his car.
This technique of being able to disappear I had first learned as a store clerk. I noticed that when I took my apron off I (the store clerk) would disappear.
Later on I again used this technique successfully when one morning while standing in the middle of a department store I looked down and realized I was wearing a black shoe and a brown shoe. Sizing the situation up quickly, I realized I looked like a complete idiot. I devised a plan. I would step out smartly with my black shoe and drag my brown shoe behind me as I walked out of the store; cleverly disguising the idiot as a cripple. However once outside I realized I was now a crippled idiot. So I swore myself to secrecy concerning my motives until I found ‘The Poem’ the sailor had written a long long time ago.
I think I can safely reveal the entire affair now; and back it up with the existence of this poem. Remember at the time the sailor was a beachbum, shipwrecked; and thought of as a local to boot. In wanting to better himself and receive better treatment from Moxie the bar-tender tart, he cleverly disguised himself as an Arkansas farmer. However, his disguise was compromised; he re-appeared as a local in front of Moxie and was able due to foresight tescape a moment before the gatekeepers were alerted to the rouse. It was only because of the sailors experience and physic premonitions concerning the impending ‘cane that he stayed a step ahead of the stprm. Just in case you think I’m lying, I am reproducing the poem as it was written a long long time ago.
Mr. Cuffs and the Captains revenge
ReplyDeleteIt was a thirsty Monday evening
But you could say this story started
a long long time ago
After all I've been drinking beer;
forever.
The hurricane still runs through my blood.
That's how I found myself
Pulled into
a pair of blue denims with six inch cuffs.
Finally,
in Florida, I was going to wear them.
Oh and my red flannel shirt.
The one with the safety pin cuff-link.
Mind you;
everything pressed.
Bottomed out with big black Spice Tan Lites,
one for each foot.
You could feel the storm coming.
The steeled grey sky,
the breeze... less air.
The dry ache on my tonque.
It was once again time to steer a course to the captains cove.
I knew the cane was still some 24 hours off but experience told me that warning signs were already pre-sent.
Aye, said Mr. Cuffs.
As a hurricane gets close,
strangely
is how people begin to act;
me too!
As soon as I arrived at the Cove,
I could see the mates
and serving wenches
slightly frizzed.
Even my bro,
as I nestled alongside him,
seemed strangely distant and silent.
I knew with each passing moment,
as the cane slid closer,
aye!
that
I was becoming
Mr. Cuffs,
SEADOG I AM!
he was,
that lived through a cane
in the North Atlantic
iiieeee reememburrrrr.
Aye!
The glasses were rattling!
Ohhhhh,
it was only Moxie the resident wench,
scurrying about the place, or was it?
Only time would tell, said Mr. Cuffs.
So he settled in and watched
the beers pass bye.
Fog horn sighs
a riding bell buoy clangs high
Oh Oh,
Canes comin’ back!
Cuffs knew.
When Moxie rolls on her beam
he won’t be comin’ back
but the cane crept
and
crept.
closer.
It was time to say goodbye.
I don't concern myself with lies; but glance askance when confronted by a 'Wait To Be Seated' sign, especially if it's preceded by a "Please'. Hurricanes? Stick to the treetops - there are no dress codes.
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