U-Rite-It
"Have yourself a shitty day," said Clarkie to the cashier as he walked out of the Hot Pot Café with a mocha tall in one hand and a copy of the Weekly Whistle in the other. He was late for work, but he’d never make it through the morning without his big joe. Besides, he was always late for work, and it would ruin his carefully cultivated reputation as office rebel if he were actually to arrive on time. Clarkie’s co-workers respected his refusal to bow to many of the office’s conventions, and they shook their heads in amazement when month after month he remained on the payroll despite multitudinous infractions, any one of which would have earned them an immediate one-way ticket out the front door. The secret, of course, was known to one and all, though few dared voice it in public: Clarkie, that coffee-swilling, foul-mouthed, evil-smelling slacker, was the passionate and ever-attentive lover of beautiful Tess, the boss’s limbless daughter.
4/20/2008
Unembraceable You: U-Rite-It---Still Going
4 comments:
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He wondered if Renaldo knew about Tess. Renaldo wasn't local but word spread fast in these small towns. But so what if he did know. Clarkie was doing it for him after all.
His plan, as screwy as it seemed now, had been to engage Tess in a love affair, gain the trust of the old prick Max, and get access to his riches. Whereupon he and Renaldo would run off into the sunset. -
April 21, 2008
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"Clark!" Max Machado bellowed, snapping Clarkie out of his repressed homosexual/foodie reveries. (Actually, he wasn't gay at all, just really hungry.) "Get your lily white ass in here!"
Clarkie jumped up. Striding past her desk, he winked at the long-limbed, raven-haired Nancy, still pensively gnawing on her pencil. Too flustered to speak, Nancy choked on the eraser, then coughed up the pink appendage a good dozen yards, so that it bounced off the wall calendar of Machado Mercantile Enterprises. "Shoes for Industry, Shoes for the Dead!" was the slogan for June and most of July.
"What is it, boss?" Clarkie asked with his typical insolent sneer.
"I got a job for you, Clark," Max barked. "One that will involve working with your old copper friends."
(anonymously as Tom Cool, who has no pants, and his password is in his pants.) -
April 24, 2008
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I want to embrace more of the unbraceable you, but it doesn't seem that comments are being rolled up into the narrative. What's a devotee to do?
Anonymously as "This is my name," but my Google password is somewhere to searched, somewhere in my pants, which also must be searched for. -
May 23, 2008
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Come on, Chuck. Get on the stick.
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June 10, 2008
That was two months ago and since then they'd seen each other almost every day. And been seen all around town, much to the dismay of Tess's father, the indomitable, abominable Max Macahado.
Max, a hard nose Portuguese immigrant set in the old world ways, much preferred to keep his daughter's embarrasing condition out of the public eye.
Clarkie however, saw things differently.
April 17, 2008
Clarkie saw Tess as a tidy package. No fluttering hands or stubby toes. Just her heart and fast brain. Her eyes were there too. Green like marsh grass in summer. And there was no denying those breasts.
April 17, 2008
The thought of Clarkie caressing those milky whites drove Max mad. Like most fathers, the picture of a young man intimately touching his daughter made him nuts. He'd had thoughts of contacting Alfonse Spinoza, his enforcer from bygone days, to do a number on Clarkie. He figured Clarkie would take the next stage west after a little chat with the Spinner.
But he had to be careful. Spinoza had bedded his wife a few years back and he knew from the phone records that they still talked now and then. He allowed her this little secret because he knew they no longer had their weekly rendezvous at the Notell Motel. Besides, it somehow freed him of his guilt when he met clandestinely with his current lover, the sanguine Ms Sally Klampus.
So when Clarkie strolled into work that day, late as usual, he was unprepared for what awaited him.
April 18, 2008
"Well," she thought, "he's got at least one friend." Nancy had just brought a huge ham sandwich to Clarkie's desk. A tall man wearing a diamond ring had delivered it. He asked Nancy to give it to Mr. Clarkie Muldoon. The tall man didn't leave his name.
When Clarkie arrived at work he passed Nancy sitting down and chewing on pencils. He flashed her a sly grin and disappeared into his cubicle.
April 18, 2008
"That friggin Renaldo," muttered Clarkie when he spied the attractive hemp bag tied with orange raffia cord. He couldn't believe that his sweet lover boy had shown up at work yet again. He knew there would be a sumptous lunch within the bag and although he tried to maintain his aggravation he could not. Renaldo was damn thoughtful, and he was an amazing cook. Not only was there a ham sandwich (and tassia ham not that rubbery gelatinous shit) but the bread was home made, spread with unsalted Irish butter and the finest French mustard. There were cheese straws, radish roses and tiny gerkins. A porcelain dish covered with plastic wrap held fresh strawberries and champagne grapes. Finally there was a perfect dark chocolate truffle with the scent of cinnamon and chipolte pepper. Oh my God how he loved that man, talented beyond belief in the kitchen and the bedroom.