Pompous Armpits

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FireVaney busses and wipes down the tables. Here’s what he overhears… 

“Something’s the matter with my armpits. Not sure what. More hair, more skin. Maybe both. Just thought you should know.” 

“So Ry’s, what, twenty-one? You know this seventeen year old he’s seeing? Yeah, he says she’s seventeen. Mm-hm. So few days ago they’re at his place. She puts a blindfold on him. Leads him out the building, down the street. All the way to the Red Line. The Belmont stop. They ride the L to Howard. She leads him, blindfolded, across the platform to the Purple Line. They take it all the way to Wilmette. That’s where the tracks end. She guides him out the station, then down the street. I dunno which street. No idea how far. They end up in a field. I dunno what kind of field. I didn’t ask. I didn’t think to ask. But they’re in the middle of this field. She whispers in his ear, ‘I want to make love to you.’ If they went ahead and did it, I don’t know if that’s where they did it. But why else would she lead him all the way out there? His roommates, maybe? And how does he know he’s in a field unless the blindfold comes off? Hm? Yeah, maybe it was poorly tied. I dunno. Could’ve been allergies. My cousin Stevie? His wife’s allergic to grass. Not pot. Grass. Grass-grass. Legal grass, actual grass... traditional… Not the kind you smoke, the kind you mow. She shares this tidbit while we’re standing in a graveyard. Nobody you know. But lotta grass. She was wearing sandals. It was a hot day.” 

“He says he was walking away from an ATM around one o’clock this morning. Two guys jumped him. Took his wallet, his shoes, his pants. They even ripped off his boxers. He walked home with his shirt pulled down over his crotch. Guess that would mean his ass, too. He didn’t mention his ass, though. Just his crotch. Could be he’s proud of his ass.” 

“Look, you pompous motherfucker, you don’t crap any less on this planet than I do.” 

22 October 1999 

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