Words of My Father

So, Hi There, French!

Like, it’s the middle of the week and here I am in my well-worn booth at the Town Hall working on a fringe binge. You know what that is; one pitcher of beer and two packs of pretzels.

Well, like I say, I’m sitting here trying to be as inconspicuous as possib le when all of a sudden I’m approached.

There’s a guy standing at the side of the booth, and he says, “Hi.” Then figuring that this is enough, he cops a seat, and proceeds to finish the glass of beer that I have just poured.

This guy is about as welcome as a lipstick-stained cigarette butt on inspection day in the dorms.

He notices that I am possibly becoming piqued, so he says, “You remember be, French.” He dips his hand into my pretzel box, but what can I say, I remember him, French. I look him over, and take in his costume, baggy green sweater, haircut somewhere between clean bean and bob job.

This guy has a personality that won’t quit. He notices that I am looking at him strange, so he feels that he has to say something.

“Man,” he says, “What a life.” I make the fatal mistake. I say, “Having troubles?” “Man,” he says, “you don’t know.”

Which is true, I don’t know, in fact, I am not sure that I want to know, but I’m about to find out. I can tell by the glint in this guy’s eye.

He pauses for a minute to pour himself another glass of beer, wets his throat, looks at me strangely when I grab the pitcher and make like thirsty, then he decides against being taken off the subject and continues his litany. It is a work of art.

“Life,” he says, “is really out of it. Here I am trying to make my way through college, and the odds are really against me.” He stops, pats around his heart, smiles, and then with a tear in his throat, he says, “I’m even outa butts.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out my smokes. He grabs my hand, thanks me, and stows them away in his pocket. I am thankful that I made off with a sample pakc from the dining hall distribution hour.

“Ain’t I been through enough? Ain’t I had two years of rotesy. Don’t I know a few guys that’ve been in the Army?” I am nodding my head, and this guy thinks that I am encouraging him, so he goes on.

“Am I such a bad guy?” he asks. Before I can release my jaws to reply he is off again. “Hell, no, I ain’t such a bad guy.” At this time I am wondering whether I am such a bad guy and what I did wrong that I should deserve the treat that I am getting from my friend here.

“Man, they load me down with so much work that I have to put in thirty hours a day, day in and day out, week in and week out, year in and…” I put my hand up and he stops and looks at me quizzically, as if to say that I have a lot of guts cutting him off just when he is going well.

“It’s nothing,” I say, “Just a cramp in my arm.” He continues. “Year in and year out. It’s getting me down. I’m losing weight, losing sleep. I worry man, worry bad. Life is really out of it.”

He leans over the table in a conspiratorial manner, breathing stale beer in my face and says, “Y’know, buddy, I can see that you are my kind of guy, you don’t dig this bit either, do you?”

I start to say something, but he continues, “Hell, no, you’re too smart for that.” I shudder. “Yeah,” he says, “you’re too smart for that.”

“Man,” he says, leaning back, “it just ain’t worth it. I get into a frat, so what happens, all the affairs are pro=rated, and there’s no way. I take out a braod and she expects me to spend my life on her. There’s no way, there’s just no way. Life is really out of it.”

At this time the waitress comes over tot eh table and asks if we want some beer. My buddy casts a worshipful glance in my direction, but I say that I am not financially equipped to buy another.

Old Tom Terp just sits across from me, stunned. “You really broke?” He asks. He revives from the shock a few minutes later and tells me that he will be right back.

He gets up and makes his way toward the other room. On the way he sees another one of his long-lost buddies. He slides up to the booth and says, “Hi.” He slides into the booth and says, “Don’t you remember me, English?”

He grabs the guy’s beer, smiles, offers him a cigarette, and says, “Man, life is really out of it.” This guy bites too. “What’s wrong?” He asks.

I leave.