Me and Neal were drinking coffee and telling lies.

     “I was on this job one time…” Neal began.  We were Posing expertly, effortlessly, classically. “Many years ago, I was a health inspector for the city of Arlington.  Look, I’ll prove it to you.”  He pulled out his wallet, and produced a wrinkled and faded business card.  Neal Berrigan, it read, City of Arlington Health Inspector. It was expired.

     “I believe you,” I lied. Where was Bubba with my coffee?

     Neal put his wallet up.  Then he whipped out a gold-plated pen.  “My mother gave me this pen!”

     “No shit?” I needed a joint.

     Now Neal was waving around one of his screwdrivers.  “My brother gave this to me!  For Christmas!  I bought him a microwave oven, and he gets me a goddamned cheap screwdriver made in Thailand!“

     “My brother tried to jerk me off when we were kids,” I shared with him. “Life is hard and then you die.”

     One of Neal’s men was suddenly in our faces.

     “Hello!” he smiled hugely at me.  “I’m Curt Douglas!  I know what you’re thinking, I can read minds! I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance!”  I shook hands with him.  More free weed for me, that’s what I was thinking.

     “What is it?” Neal was abrupt. There was more lying to do.

     “We need some more electrical tape.”

     Neal stared at him.  “Elevator lady!” The midget Mexican lady who ran the construction elevator traded breakfast tacos for colored rolls of electrical tape–brown, yellow, purple, red, blue, green, she had it all. She probably decorated her cave with them.

     Curtis shambled off. 

     Now Neal held a cheap-looking knife in his hand.  “This is an official Statue of Liberty knife.  Fucking French pieces of shit think they can tell us how to run our immigration policy? It was made in Bangladesh by a fuckin’ rag-head sand nigger!  I’d like to shove this right up a French man’s ass!”

     I tended to agree. I’m not a racist, just a keen observer of reality.

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