Fucking Gil called to the door today. Just what I needed as I tried to get the dinner together for those two ungrateful bints that I call the Bridge Crew. Yes, kids, that's right, it is not Christmas any more, Santa is effectively dead for another twelve months and we are therefore returning to the daily nightmare of trying to get you to ingest a vegetable or two. Great to be back, huh?
Ding, dong. Ding fucking dong.
'Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!' goes the concept-of-time-free Data.
'It's not Mommy, sweetie, it's too early.'
'It's not Mommy.'
Nor is it. It's the opposite of Mommy. It's male. It's unattractive. It does not make me laugh. Gil, really, is the wrong name to attach to the person who greets me with his aggressive foot in the door, his vacuum salesman schtick. Gil has the charm of the loser, he elicits sympathy. This guy is just a fuck. A fuck with a weird face and a dreadful intensity. His face looks like one of those rubber president's masks that those sexy surfer types wear in 'Point Break'. But, horribly, it's a rubber mask of his own face. I am transfixed by this terrifying visage, which is the first reason I don't ease the door shut with a muttered 'not interested'.
The other reasons are his age and his rapid fire, cleverly constructed questions and statements. His age is old. And I offer my elders my respect until they do or say something that necessitates its withdrawal. This happens about five seconds later, but by then it's just too fucking late. I've answered one question out of misguided old person deference and merely making my voice grumpy isn't going to derail the onrushing sales train. We're here until we arrive at Destination Changing Telephone Operators or until this train spectacularly crashes, maiming and killing all on board.
On it hurtles, this train. I need to make the dinner. I need to tidy up. I need to shower. I have so many needs. I need to make this train crash and I don't have time to call up Elijah Price for tips. So here's what I say as rubber faced salesman foolishly pauses for breath:
'My wife makes these kinds of decisions. I just look after the children.'
The 'just', of course, is a betrayal of myself and everything that I am but it's more than fucking worth it, folks. I'd snog Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane if it meant a close to this conversation.
Mission accomplished. When I first lay eyes on Mr. Freaky Features I think his face is about as collapsed as a face can be, but folks, this face has more collapsage to offer. It goes all Twin Towers on him, on me. To say that he is embarrassed by my revelation is to understate the fuck out of his demeanour. He wants out. Reflexively, he promises to call again. But he lies. We won't be seeing this guy again. He gets the fucking message.
I tell Common Law this story.
'He was from Talk Talk,' I say.
'You should have just told him to fuck fuck off.'
'Yes. That probably would have been better.'
Single Minded Way
1 week ago