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The man whose name I've forgotten

Today's plan was to ride around posting "I'll do anything" flyers, but that's usually the plan on Tuesdays, it usually doesn't happen, and again it didn't happen today. I like doing free-lance work, but don't like putting up the flyers that might bring in the free-lance work.

Anyway, my toothache came back, so I drugged myself, but an hour later someone left a message, so I had a gig and BARTed into San Francisco, still a little groggy from the codeine.

Marion had recommended me to a friend of hers, a man out in the Avenues, so I washed his dishes, swept and mopped his kitchen, scrubbed his toilet and sink, and swept and mopped his john.

The man was well-off, well-mannered white guy, living in a shared house but clearly not poor. Even his slacking-off clothes were silk or fancy, looked like brand new Nordstrom stuff. Banker-type dude, is my guess, and probably the leaseholder for the house. He has three flatmates, and they have a system for rotating the chores, but he has the money to hire me to do his share of the work. I wanted to dislike him, but despite his laziness and expensive clothes, he wasn't an ass.

I couldn't remember his name, though. Forgot it the moment we shook hands. Maybe it was the painkillers messing with my mind, or maybe he was just an extremely boring man.

So I did that boring man's chores, while he stretched out on the sofa and watched a baseball game. For a few hours work, he wanted to pay me $25, which would be a $5 tip, but being an idiot I confessed that I'd broken a highball glass, and said maybe $20 would be enough.

"Yeah," he said, "thought I'd heard something, but those are cheap classes, easy to break. Don't sweat it." Then he gave me another five dollars for being so honest.

"Jeez, thanks," I said, genuinely surprised. Thanks, man whose name I've forgotten. He even asked for a few of my flyers, to share with his flatmates and friends. I might add breaking a glass and confessing it to my regular routine.

♦ ♦ ♦

At home, wearing only my shorts, I went into the guest room to use the phone, and was immediately overrun with fleas. They've overrun the carpet, and almost as soon as I sat down and dialed, they were all up my legs, seemed like dozens of them.

Drenched the carpet with a can of Raid, and sprayed it up and down my legs, too. Then I banged on Judith's door, and told her we gotta do something about the damned fleas.

From Pathetic Life #17
Tuesday, October 17, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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