“Why did you buy such an expensive bottle?”
“I figure…if we get that money back…what the hell, I’d better get used to the good stuff now so I don’t have to adjust to it later.”
“I see,” said Mike. “That’s damn good thinkin’ Moe.”
Mike muses, looks up to the dark sky. “Do you think there’s a living, flesh and blood God up there in that sky?”
Moe waved his bag-covered bottle toward the heavens and said, “I don’t want to think about those things.” He turned to Mike. “I know you do. But, to me it’s all nonsense and leads to things I can’t do. It shackles me.”
“As you know Moe, I don’t believe in such trivia either. I don’t believe there’s a man up there that holds judgment on us and passes punishment or hands out lucky charms to those who are good.” He took another swig from his bottle, released a series of hiccups and belches.
“One of these days Mike, if there’s a real God up there, He’s goinna strike you dead for talkin’ like that.”
“I doubt it. And if He do, the sooner the better, cause I’m goinna live like I was on my last bottle…if I ever find that bag you hid.”
Raising his bottle to the dark sky, Moe said, “Amen, here’s to ya.” He took another swig. “Damn…I’m out…no hooch…not one iota.”
“You’ve got money, go buy you sommore,” said Mike.
“Damn right I will.” Moe reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty. “My last one. How many did you take before I hid that sack?”
“Three fifties…no less…no more…just the three.”
“I’m going over to the liquor store…you comin’ with me or stayin’ plastered to the bench?”
53
Monday comes fast, especially if you had a full weekend of hooch, drugs and whatever extravaganza the party had downstairs. The Shalimar was once again back to norm. Mr. Talbot was surprised that Ms. Starris Kinnite didn’t throw her piss on his car during the night. It hadn’t been touched since he came home at three in the morning; I assume to avoid the porno show that happened over the last two-nights―mad people cavorting in the nude.
He looked up to her Tiffany stained glass windows that hung over the driveway and said, “Keep it that way…bitch.” As he got into his car, he waved the finger at her window and repeated, “Keep it that way bitch!”
After he adjusted his position, he started the motor and no sooner then he put it into reverse, a splash hits his windshield. “Shit!” he said, “I spoke sooner than I should have…damn woman.” Cursing, he got out of his car, picked up the hose and turned on the water to wash off the urine. Satisfied, he drove down the driveway toward his destination. As he headed up Hoover, he passed Mike and Moe heading back to the Shalimar. He waived. Moe looked over to Mike, and noticed Mr. Talbot waving by. He returned his wave. Behind Moe and Mike was Asche following at their heels. Mr. Talbot continued to MacArther Park to gossip with his cronies over another game of checkers.
Moe said, “Cause I just don’t believe in that stuff.”
Mike raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think finding that money was an omen from God?”
“If that was an omen from God, how come I get it now? Why didn’t He give it to me when I was young, when I was viral, viable, and rip roarin’ to go? As I look at it, Mike…it’s too much too late. If it was just a couple hundred or so, that would’ve been fine. I can live with that…but…” He paused. “…what did you say it was…?”
“A couple million.”
“A hellofa lot anyway. It’s just too much too late. That’s what it is…just too much too late.”
“I think it’s just in the nick of time,” said Mike. “You might say…just one more hit before my final exodus.”
Startled Moe said, “I’ve never had success, never hit the jackpot, the lotto, or win any prize. Maybe if I did, I’d believe in God. But I don’t.”
“Yeah. I was there once. I had it made. The world was in the palm of my hands, you might say. I was a partner in a business…made bunch of bucks. Then, all of a sudden, nothin’…absolutely nothin’, ziltch, nada, point zero.
Moe repeated, “Nothin’.” He frowned.
“Yeah, nothin’. One day I got up to go to work, and low and behold, I had nothin’…no partner, no business, no money…nothin’…no nix. And to this day, I can’t believe it. It was just like God giveth and taketh in one stroke of his wand…poof…nothing.”
Moe chuckled, “Your partner, what happened to him? You never told me anything about him.”
“That’s were it all started. I got up as usual and went to work. Nothin’ was out of place. The office looked the same; my partner’s things were there. Nothin’ had moved. At noon, two guys come in the office, and ask if he’s in. I told them he hadn’t come in yet, but expected him any minute. He never showed up. At two o’clock, I phoned his house. I get this recordin’, ‘The line is no longer in use. Please try information for the new number.’ I got suspicious and called the bank. Do you know it was completely cleaned out? There wasn’t one dime left…not one red cent.”
“How much did he take?”
“Eighty thousand. And, back then…that was big bucks. You don’t see that kinda money no more.”
“And I suppose it was because of God, huh.”
“No…God didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. It was because I trusted people too much. I trusted my partner, my wife, the fortunate life I had. I believed in the goodness of man. The life I was havin’ became too comfortable. It had nothin’ to do with God. I’ve gone over it a million times. No, it wasn’t because of God. It was because of me. Just don’t get too comfortable. Trust only your wits and God to give you wisdom.”
“I see. You don’t think God was punishin’ you?”
“No. I don’t think God punishes. We punish. Man punishes. We took everything away from God, so now we are left up to our consequences. Man punishes…not God.”
“If you ask me Mike, we’re doin’ hellofa job.”
“One-hundred percent Moe. You’re right, one-hundred percent, and it hasn’t stopped yet. Life’s a pile of shit no matter how you look it.”
“Then what happened?”
“I lost everything. Little by little, my luck changed. No job. No money. Later my bank foreclosed on my house. Then my wife took the kids and I was slapped with a divorce and child support.”
“Where you able to support the kids?”
“Some, as much as I could. It was hard, no job, no money. After unemployment compensation ran out, I was on skid row.”
“Like the rest of us deadbeats,” said Moe.
“I wouldn’t say that I was a deadbeat. I tried hard. I did odd jobs, washed dishes, box groceries, and clean windows. But, I didn’t go the distance, thank God, I wasn’t one of those bag-people collecting trash on pickup day and livin’ out of a cardboard box. For thirty some odd years I went from job to job doing anything. My lucky day came when I turned sixty-two.”
“You got your first Social Security check in the mail.”
“Every month, like clockwork, on or before the third.”
“I was always futzin’ around at jobs here and there,” uttered Moe. “Life’s a bitch. I ain’t seen nothin’ come out of it ‘til the other day.”
“And what are you goinna to do with your half?”
“Have a hellofa party…if we get away with it.”
“We will Moe. Who knows that we took it? No one…and that means we’re in the clear. The law doesn’t know, and why should they…it was laundry. We just happen to pick it up instead of the mob.”
“I hope you’re right Mike. I still think someone, one of these days is goinna be knockin’ at my, your door, our door with a big surprise in hand. And, we’ll be lookin’ right at a big wallopin’ pistol.” He hits his hand with his fist. “Bam…bam…bam…strike one, strike two, strike three. I’m out, you’re out…we’re all out. We didn’t even get to first base, let alone second.”
The two stopped in front of the Shalimar. Asche came prancing up to Moe, wrapped her body around his legs and purred. Moe picked her up and gave her a kiss-peck.
Moe said, “It’s been a long interesting night Mike. I’ll see you after when I get some shuteye.” He shook his head, whipped his eyes, and then gave Mike a last look. “I’m tired Mike. I’m hittin’ the sack.”
Mike said, “Me too.”
The two walked up the stares, entered the foyer. Mrs. Rankin heard footsteps enter and the door closing. She peeked out her door and watched Mike and Moe go to their rooms. Running behind Moe, Asche took the lead. He reached down, picked her up, and continued to his room giving her a kiss-peck on the forehead.
Mrs. Rankin smiled, whispered, “How nice he is. He has a passionate heart.”
54
It was another day, another buck, another chance to cogitate. I glanced out my WC door, down the corridor to the large hall where everybody worked in cubby-nooks, little six by six alcoves secluding you from life, liberty, and the pursuit of socializing with your adjoining neighbor. Fraternizing was reserved for the water-cooler in the break room. The only thing one was able to see from their nook was their cubicle walls and the dark ceiling above. This gave you a view of piping, AC ducts, and light fixtures hanging down from a black ceiling. I, on the other hand, have four walls too, but I’m luckier, I have a sink and a john-hole. Occasionally, when I don’t want to walk down to the men’s room, I close the door and relieve myself. When the big one calls, I’d do it in Italian or French style―squat and make a fast dump.
I see a lot of people head for the break room during work, mostly women. By nature, they are socializers, men aren’t. So, whenever women can take a quickie, they head for the break room or the restroom. Unfortunately, men have been trained to be obedient to their superiors. Women have yet to get on with the game. They can’t seem to do anything that requires complete concentration. They have to do things in a social setting. That’s why they are so good at selling, pot-lucking, and bar hoping, anything that takes a mouth.
All morning I’ve been looking down the hall to see if Ellsworth will show up. I didn’t see him in the elevator this morning. No one commented on his absence. Who would anyway, he was one of the untouchables, the so-called élite, a special honcho amongst the cadre. Not like the rest of us pigeons, rank and file plebes that work in cramped quarters. Like most of us, I’m just waiting for the time to collect my SSA dole so I can get on with my writing. I’m sure he will retire to some far away exotic tropical island fulfilling a long desired dream―doing more of the same―nothing.
Every morning, coming up the elevator, I hear the moans and groans of anticipated work. If they don’t like what they are doing, why do they do it? I like my work, on the other hand; I get to have a special room, away from the multitude, and dump all my worries down the john-hole. I do what I want most of the time, as long as I get Ellsworth’s work done. What a life that man has. He once told me, life was all about sitting on the beach with a glass of whiskey on the rocks, watching the boats sail across the horizon, and looking at all the tits bounce by. If he weren’t so lucky, he’d be down on Main Street with all the other bag-people, toting a grocery cart collecting cardboard boxes to live in. I’m sure he has a charmed life, born with a handcrafted silver spoon in his mouth, while the rest of us got the usual stamped manufactured greasy one. He got the best of the best, and we got all the Wal-Mart rejects.
I didn’t see him all morning. In the afternoon, his boss came to my room. He told me Bunk was sick.
I could have told him that. He had a hell of a weekend getting laid, drunk, high on drugs, and ending up naked on the driveway. But, I didn’t tell him.
He went on to say Bunk said he must have eaten something bad the other night, and spent most of the weekend vomiting. He also said he had a temperature of one-hundred and ten degrees if not fifteen.
Lot of bunk that is, one-hundred and ten degrees, my foot, he’d be dead, and his boss would welcome me to his position or at least until they got a replacement. I do my work, or the best I can. Ellsworth thinks I’m a genus, a master writer. I would say I’m more like a scribbler or hacker. I do the best I can, pound away at the computer keys and get the work out. I’m surprised he has a college degree Bunk. I wonder. I’ve known several people with dubious degrees, but not from Harvard.
By the end of the day, I finished another job for Ellsworth. It’s amazing, I haven’t had any guff from anyone on the work I do, presentations, briefs, promo literature, etc. So far, everything was straight down the alley, all strikes―three-hundred. I know my luck has to turn to something better than this BS propaganda. I’ve got another ten chapters to my story before I submit it. Let’s hope it grabs somebody’s attention. Pounding away at the keyboard every day at LALA Inc, doing the same thing becomes redundant, a real comedown.
55
Mike shook his head, looked at the floor, picked up a fluff of Asche’s hair, rolled it up into a ball and flicked it toward the open window. It landed short of the sill. Moe was sitting with his face in his hands and moaning. The sun inched its way to the west casting a beam of dust laden light into the room. Asche watched the particles of dust flutter in the air. Her head moved to the falling particles.
In the corner, the TV’s scratchy brassy tone crackled out the daily rap-up: “Nice job Alice.” Gus smiled and faced the off-camera. The two newscasters faded to a commercial. In the middle of the third commercial, the screen filled with NEWSFLASH, NEWSFLASH. Alice came back on the screen. She was handed a flash report.
“Uh, uh…” She looked up, looked over to Gus; he was picking his nose and the on-camera switched over to him.
He pulled his finger out and returned an ugly frown, and mouthed, “You sonofabitch…don’t you ever do that again.” Another camera focused on Alice.
“I have a flash report that just came in.” She smiled. “It looks like we’re the first to report it. It just came over the wires…directly to us.” Gus smiled, turned blowing his nose into a hanky. He glanced over to Alice and smiled. “It was a shoot-up on the Harbor Freeway. Yes…a shoot’em up took place just now on the Harbor.” She smiled. Gus smiled. “From the report…some irate guy didn’t like the way the car next to him cut across and took his lane…leaving him in the dust.” She smiled and shook her head. Gus shook his head and returned a big grin. “I just don’t know what this world was coming to Gus. It seems every time the weather gets a little bit above eighty…some jerkoff has to pull a good one.”
Gus took a double take, smiled and said, “That’s right Alice…you can never tell about these freaky Angelinos.” Flustered, Gus gave Alice a scowl. He turned toward Myopia. Continuing, Gus’ voice was irritated from his cold, “Now we turn to the weather and get a weather update from our award winning weatherwoman…our one and only Myopia Tushi.” The scene faded into a commercial. Gus faced Alice and mouthed, “Jerkoff!”
Mike said, “Like I said Moe…it don’t make no diff.”
“Are we getting into this again?” said Moe.
“What’s that Moe?”
“Far out space.”
“Far out space…hell no. I’m talkin’ about the money. Don’t worry about the money. If we find it…we’ll go away… far away from this dump.”
“Where to Mike?” Moe was uncertain what Mike’s intensions were. He caressed Asche. She purred. Blotches of fur fly off his hand and floated through the dust laden light beam. Occasionally, he took a grab at the fur.
Grabbing the discarded fur and crumpling it into a ball, Mike flicks it out the open window.
Mike continued his random thoughts. “I don’t know yet. Maybe, we’ll head up north, maybe Frisco…maybe further up…like Washington. You like Frisco Moe?”
“Too many weirdoes up there. Besides, they’re all ultra liberal in that town.”
“I agree. Maybe we could go up north to Seattle. Have you ever been to Seattle?”
“No. I’ve never been out of LA.”
“Not even when you were in the army?”
“I wasn’t in the army.”
“Navy then…hic,” said Mike
“I wasn’t in any navy, marines, or air force either.”
“You were never drafted?”
“That I was, and I hated it…hic.”
“What did you do in the draft?”
“Nuttin’, I was classified four-eff.”
Mike lifted his bottle and said, “I’ll toast to that. How come? You got somethin’ wrong with you?”
“I faked it, and got out of the draft the same day I got in. I didn’t serve no time in Uncle Sam’s military…army, navy, marines, air force…whatever.”
“How did you do that?” Mike’s brow wrinkled and he returned a long-winded belch.
“The night before I went down to the induction center I got drunk…smashed, smoked two packs of cigarettes, slept on the damp lawn all night, and by the time I went down to the induction center, I had one hellofa fever and an asthma attack that put me in the hospital for a week. That next month I got another notice from the prez…stamped four-eff, and that was the end of my military service.”
“I tried to get out too. They sent me to this weirdo shrink. After I sat down in this dark office, he closed the door behind me. All I could see was him. He had this funny little smile on his face. Now get this, he had one limp hand pointing at me like some homo does, and says lispin’, ‘You gay?’ I jumped to his question, ‘Yes sir…aye…aye sir’ like some fuckin’ swabby just off the boat. And would you believe it…they still took me. I did my tour over in Germany. I was there for three years.”
“Did you get anything out of it?”
“Nothin’ but bullshit.” Shaking his head, Mike took another swig. “That’s life, and no matter what you do, it’s just life. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less, what you do was what you get. I made no rank. By the time I got outa the army, I was still a Private…not one stripe on my sleeve.
“Not even Private-First Class.”
“No.”
“So, what did you get out of the army?”
“Bullshit…it was nothing but bullshit, and tryin’ to keep from steppin’ in it.”
“You can say that again…hic. That’s how I find life…waddlin’ in piss an’ shit.”
Mike looked over to Moe. “That cat sure loves you, don’t she? She’s always had an attraction for you even when she was livin’ with Josh. Poor Josh. I hope he rests in peace. Life is bad enough.”
“Yeah. Sometimes I think she’s better than hooch.”
“I’ll take the hooch any day. You can have the pussy.”
“Yeah, sometimes I wonder.” Moe leaned over and gave Asche a little kiss on the head.
Mike said “But, my man…things are a changin’. We’ve got a million hidden somewhere in this godforsaken house.”
Bobbing his head, Moe slurred, “It’s gotta be here somewhere in this place…hic.”
56
“Now I’ll tell you Putnam, if these ten bottles of hooch don’t make me an alky I’m giving up the whole thing, the whole study. This whole project on myself.”
“You can’t do that Doc. You’ve gotta think of me.”
Dr. Langweilig looks over to Putnam. “Don’t worry my buddy; I’ve got plenty of money for my research.”
“You not goinna drink no more?” Putnam’s brows lifted, his eyes enlarged, his expression indicated worry.
“I’ll just use you as if you were me. Like I said, it’s just research, and anyone who reads my paper will believe me…even if it’s full of bullshit. I’ve got the credentials. I’ve got the expertise. You name it I’ve got it. I’m the man behind the sheepskin. I’m one hellofa Pee…ach…Dee.”
Putnam squinted. “You a Pee-ach-Dee. I thought you was a doctor.”
“I am Putnam.”
“I mean a real doctor…medical type…an Em…Dee.”
“I’m a real Pee-ach-Dee Putnam, a doctor of philosophy in psycho-ology…a capital P, a lowercase h, and a capital D…better known as a Pee-ach-Dee.”
“That explains why you doin’ all them research stuff. And you want to see if you can be an alky…like me.”
“Right my man. But, I don’t think so. I’ve come to the conclusion I don’t have what it takes to be an alky in the time it takes to become one.”
“How’s that Doc? Anybody that drinks like you, me…has to become an alky.”
“Not necessarily so my good friend and chum, I’ve learned that some people do and some don’t. It depends on their endorphins.”
“So, that’s what it is, huh…that’s why I’m an alky. It’s ‘cause I don’t have them dolphins.”
“That’s for sure my good man.” Dr. Langweilig raised his bottle, took a swig and toasted Putnam. “Never spoken a truer word in your life my good man…hic. You don’t have any and never will…hic.”
“How come you got so many dolphins and I don’t?”
Correcting him. “En-dor-phins my man, endorphins.”
“That’s what I said Doc…dolphins…hic.”
Dr. Langweilig chuckled. “This is my theory…if you got lots of endorphins in you…you can drink a hellofa lot of booze and never become an alky. On the other hand, like you, since you don’t have any…you became one.”
“How does one get dolphins Doc?”
“You have to be born with them. It’s what your mom and pop gave you when you were being made in the womb. It’s as simple as a shot in the dark…one, two, three, splooey…half from your mommy and half from your daddy…and that started the whole ball rolling.”
Putnam said, “I thought dolphins came from the sea.”
Dr. Langweilig smirked. “Well, if you look at it like that Putnam…everything had its beginning in the wet.”
They both took a swig from their bottles and another round of hiccups as the toasting echoed off the walls.
Dr. Langweilig said, “Another day…another bottle down the hatch it goes.”
Putnam giggled, “One…two…three…splooey,” snorted, and then passed wind.
57
Every month like clockwork, everyone on Social Security at the Shalimar got his or her allotted dole. The mailbox was never full on that day. Everyone, who was eligible for one of Uncle Sam’s handouts sat on the front stoop outside the Shalimar, or stood next to the mailbox by the side entrance and waited for the postal carrier. The splendor of those little checks never ceases to detract from everyone’s dependency on that multi-colored red, white and blue check, denoting their allotted amount. Some waited nervously, others stood quietly, while others talked about the simpler days gone by. The mime was the only one in the building not present among the retired. Relentless, he continued to pound the air and bellow on the phone, unheard or seen by anyone except a few. He continued his monotonous verbiage. “I tell you…I just don’t understand,” said the mime. “It doesn’t make any sense. This whole thing that’s happening right now, it’s nonsense…pure nonsense. You hear.” The mime paused to listen to what the other person had to say. “I’ll tell you Oliver, it isn’t the same. In my day, things were different. But today, it all looks like a pile of shit coming out of DC. You hear…a pile of shit. It just doesn’t make any sense. If you ask me, this world is coming to an end.” He paused to listen to what Oliver was saying. “I tell you Oliver, if this thing that’s going on in DC ever catches up with me…I’m out of here. I think I’ll pack everything up and head for Switzerland.” Pausing. “Why, you say that? I’ll tell you…it’s safe. My money is safe there. God only knows what’s going to happen here. I’ll tell you…the market is bad. The money isn’t worth anything anymore. I’ll tell you…it looks to me, like the market is going to go any day now. Mark my words…just like nineteen-twenty-nine.” Pausing. “What did you say about Switzerland?”
Outside the house, Mrs. Rankin gabbed about her son in Germany with Mrs. Dolmeier, and telling her about all the places he had seen.
Mr. Talbot whispered to himself, “Little minds speak little things to little minds…on a little day in LA. It never ends, this constant dribble women do.”
Dr. Langweilig was in a klatch with Putnam, Mike and Moe talking about his theory on alcoholism. He said, “I’ve come to the conclusion that alcoholism is a physical condition due to the lack of endorphins.”
Putnam interjected, “That’s right. Alkies lack dolphins, that’s why we get drunk…hic.” Raised his bottle and took a swig, released a belch and a series of hiccups.
Mike turned to Moe, mumbled, “Mmmm, I’ll toast to that…hic…anything for dolphins…anything…hic.”
Moe said, “I’ll be damned. I thought it was too much booze to soon and too much too late.”
Dr. Langweilig reassured the threesome, “It isn’t just that, it’s also what you got from your mommy and daddy.”
“Yeah,” said Putnam, “Like one, two, three, splooey in the dark…hic.” He swayed back and forth tried to keep his balance. Dr. Langweilig grabbed him holding him steady.
Mike changed the subject. “You know I don’t see Starry Night lately. Does anyone know if she’s okay? I haven’t seen her in several days.”
Mr. Talbot turned to them. “I think she had a visitation last night. I heard something on the mezzanine last night. And this morning she threw piss all over my car again. That bitch…will she ever get it through her head?”
“My man,” said Dr. Langweilig, “will you ever learn?”
“I have,” said Mr. Talbot, “as much right as she…,”
Moe interjected, “To pee on your car.” He gave out a hic-chuckle, a burp, and an unexpected fart.
“NO,” he shouted, “to park there. She has no right to pee on my car.”
“You tell her old man,” said Dr. Langweilig.
Up the street, the group on the stoop spotted the mail carrier sauntering casually up the walk. They pointed. Mrs. Dolmeier nervously pointed her finger and said, “Here he comes, here he comes round the corner…see.”
The mailman stopped at each building and deposited letters, bills, and junk-mail. After each delivery, he reached into his carrying bag and pulled out another bundle of letters for the next building he came to.
Mr. Talbot said, “Can’t that guy hurry up? He’s as slow as a snail.”
Putnam said, “Yeah snail…a slug in a shell…can’t he see we’re waitin’ for’em…hic.”
Mr. Talbot grumbled, “I don’t think the man gives a damn gentleman…he works for Uncle Sam.”
“Yeah,” said Mike, “a do nothin’…for a do nothin’ job.”
“I differ with you Mike,” said Dr. Langweilig, “We’re the do-nothings…all of us. He’s getting a pay check worthy of his talents, and by the time he retires, he will get more benefits than you or I.”
“That’s what I hate about post office people. They do nothin’, and get paid for doin’ nothin’…and get a pension, and benefits for nothin’. Boy do I hate postal people.”
Putnam muttered, “I guess that’s why they’re always shootin’ up people. They get so goddamn mad doin’ nothin’.” He injected a long loud hiccup.
“Amen…” answered Dr. Langweilig, then chuckled. They all returned a round of burps and hiccups.
The postal carrier inched his way up the sidewalk knowing quite well, what he will receive from the Shalimar tenants. He finally stopped in front of the driveway, looked up to each person he has seen so often eager for their mail. “Well,” he said smiling, “it looks like mail call…pay day. Am I right…or am I wrong?”
Mr. Talbot grumbled, “Cut the bullshit…and give me my check. You’re over due by five seconds.”
“Mr. Talbot,” the postal carrier said, “let’s see now.” He thumbed slowly through the bunch of letters in his hand. “A…one…Mr. Talbot…I don’t see…it here. Ah, I’ll be damned…,” pausing, “it’s here…a one Mr. T.T. Talbot…a letter from the Social Security Administration.” He looked at Mr. Talbot in the eye. “Is that you…Sir?”
Mr. Talbot angrily waved his arms and shouted, “You know damn well it’s me. Give it here.” He reached out, grabbing the air.
The postman pulled back and chuckled, looking at Mr. Talbot going through his grabbing gyrations. Calm and cool he said. “You have any identification sir?”
Mr. Talbot shouted, “You’ve seen me thousands of times before. Why, all of a sudden do I need an ID? Who do you think I look like anyway…Mrs. Dolmeier?”
Mrs. Dolmeier abruptly looked toward Mr. Talbot. “I don’t look like him either. He looks like an old prune.”
The mail carrier said, “Now Mrs. Dolmeier, I’ve never seen you like this before.” H