See that guy? Standing over there, holding the plastic cup of warm beer. He’s a used car salesman from Union, New Jersey now. He dyes his hair black, and fixes it with Magic Move hair pomade. See that curl? No accident of the comb. That’s the result of nearly a half hour of pelt primping. He, of course, denies that he dyes his hair, but a drain doesn’t lie.
Some nights, before going out, he enhances his crotch-contour with football socks. In fact, he even has a ‘lucky’ sock. It’s never been washed, and he believes that it helps get him laid. What a time he has, slipping it out before the hands get there, seeking, feeling first the spongy plush of that sock and then what they’re really getting– false advertising, that. But that’s a game he’s used to playing.
A year after high school, he sold me a bright yellow ’72 Challenger. He said some grandma owned it, drove it back and forth to the store. That’s why the mileage was so low, and why it had those three “barely worth mentioning” dents. Imagine I believed that–an old lady bringing her prune juice and All-bran home in a Challenger. But I guess I thought it was a son’s, a grandson’s, someone who’d gone to prison and left it with her. Later I found out, he had cracked the dash casing and dialed the mileage back. The frame was bent.
He hasn’t seen me yet. Let’s go say ‘hi.’