“Seriously, we would love to have you!”

That motherfucker.

“Someone with your utter passion and credibility….its rare. Its really, really rare.”

That Victorian Angel haired motherfucker.

“i just hope that you think about the position. Its wide open for you, with open arms. We need more people of your……..lineage.”

You smooth faced charmer bastard.

“So whaddya say?”

“I’ll do it”

*******************************************************************

I’m not, what society dubbed long decades ago, a  white collared person. I’m not really a blue collar type a schmuck neither. I’ve always been caught in between. Not organized enough for portfolios and conference calls, but not even in the same stratosphere to talk about the same pair a tits whose oil I’ve changed for the past decade. I guess I’m just a lone wolf. A man cursed with an intellect far superior to the mouth breathing masses.  But enough of that philosophical shit.  Here it is, my true confession for all of you to hear.

It all started with my stepfather, writhing on top of me, pouring whiskey down my eight year old throat in the middle of the night as he recited my mother’s obituary to me verbatim. His breath choked as the button fly of his 4 score and some odd year old dungarees detached from the fabric. His skin was slick with juke box sweat from Mickey’s Tavern around the corner. His hairy little fingers in my ears as he kept asking…

“Can you hear HIM?”

“Can you hear HIM?”

Then came the choking, and the crying (on his end), and finally the tearing. And all through this little process I couldn’t help but think of one person:  Jimmy Stewart, because it truly is a wonderful life.