I was awakened first thing on a Sunday morning by the phone ringing. I was a terrible and depressing ring. One that told me right away there was trouble. My hangover was as big and nasty as Chris Christie, but I knew I had to answer the phone. And when I did, my worst fears were realized.
It was M.E.on the other end, something horrible had happened. Something so horrifying that there was only one person she could call. Her laptop was messed up. She was hysterical and hard to understand. I did my best to calm her down and get her to tell me what had happened, but it was no use. The best I could decipher was that her screen had shifted far to the right and was stuck there like the Republican Party.
I knew I had to act quickly. Time was of the essence. I told her I would come over and do the best I could, but made no promises. In my business you have to manage expectations. When dealing with old people and electronics anything is possible.
So had a bowl of Frosted Flakes with a tequila chaser and hopped into the shower. As I let the hot water flow over me like a river of regret I thought about where it all went wrong. In the movies men like me only got calls from classy but desperate broads with piles of money and long legs, not crazy old bats who wear bib overalls every day. I told myself there was no time to dwell on that any longer, I had work to do.
I headed out into the foreboding morning winds and cold. My Infiniti cutting through the air like a knife slicing through Billy Gardell’s blubber as the sounds of 70’s soft rock barely emanate over the high pitched whirring of the Japanese made engine. I raced along the Bypass like a hovercraft skimming along the water. The working girls and their pimps just stopped and stared as I passed and then stiffened as a chill ran down their spines. Everyone knew where I was going, and they felt the fear in the pit of their stomachs.
M.E’s house smelled like despair and Gold Bond Powder. The air was thick and stale like brownie that had been left out on a plate for a few days. I opened her laptop and the problem was right there in my face like a puss-oozing open sore on a stripper’s taint. I immediately recognized what needed to be done. I had gotten lucky, but it wasn’t without a price. M.E. was still sitting there firing questions at me like a tennis ball cannon and I was Jimmy Connors in his prime.
So, I fixed the problem with little effort. M.E. thanked me profusely. They always do. But, I wasn’t there for her thanks or adoration. I was there because it’s what I do. I fix people’s problems, and I move on. All while my own problems fester unattended like a rash near my balls that keeps getting aggravated by my tighty whities.
I moved on. Alone. That’s what I do. I headed down to the bar to hang out with my only friend, bourbon. I spent the afternoon sipping on a glass of Pappy Van Winkle reminding myself this is the life I’ve chosen.
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