Much Lesser Prophets

31 Aug

“I tol’ heen when I see heen, I gonna keel heen, know’m sayin? That sum-a-beetch!”
She uttered this goddamned phrase every time I ran into her. She’d bust out of the studio before the end credits even rolled, and hustle down to the green room couch to put up her feet and start bitching about her deadbeat husband or boyfriend or soon-to-be-baby-daddy or whoever the poor sap was who apparently did her wrong.
Glynnis.
I had no idea why management hired her. She was barely five feet and extra pudgy with her late-term pregnancy, and it seemed the only experience in television she had had was watching the daytime Jerry Springers or Montels.
Her friend, Angel, was one of the engineers on contract in the joint, and I guess somehow he had talked the suits-and-ponytails up on the 9th floor into hiring this perpetually-pissed woman.

Angel was a piece of work himself, always trying to score with the ladies; always trying to bust one out. I suppose he was under the impression that the whole “Latin Lover” thing was in effect, in spite of the atrocious, polyester attire, fake guayaberras, comb over, extra forty pounds, and overt, salivating, up and down looks he’d shoot out to anything of the female gender. The first time Angel met my wife, he took her hand and sort of spun her around, making it seem as if he was leading some sort of dance move, but I knew it was just designed for him to check out her hips and posterior. It was quite an awkward move for her and of course she didn’t exactly know what had just happened (or why), but she felt something was awry. I just sort of laughed and rolled my eyes.

That was Angel. He used the weirdest pick-up lines in his broken, accented English, which made it a combination of funny, frightening, and confusing. To all parties. Perhaps even to himself. A few of us were privy to a particular, convoluted attempt delivered on the street, just outside the studios as we were all hanging about like a band of hooligans, waiting for the next talking head pundit to hit his spiel in the afternoon hours. A lovely, young lady clad in an expensive business suit walked by, carrying a long-ish mirror. She was somewhat struggling to keep it from falling and our man Angel sort of stepped toward her in an attempt–we all thought–to help her steady the awkward looking glass. But he had no such intention. He put on his toothy smile and attempted to quickly and stealthily pull the wedgie out from his arse while springing the following gem on the unsuspecting woman:
“Well, well, way-ell…ees dat a mirror for yourself in myself and ourself forever to look into?”
The look this woman shot to our Casanova was priceless. It’s really indescribable and would not be done even the minute amount of justice if I were to begin laying it out here. Of course, the lot of us swine busted out in some of the most maddening laughter I’ve ever heard coming from grown men. But, in usual unfazed manner, Angel sauntered back with a smile on his mug and picked out the wedgie properly, all the while patting himself on the back for attempting to charm the lovely lady.
A few months later, he travelled to Indonesia for a few weeks and made a pit stop in Yucatan, Mexico, where he was never heard from again. We always suspected Angel of financially contributing to the illegal child prostitution rings prevalent in Southeast Asia, as he’d always recount his sex travails with “young chicks” and his threesomes with “barely-legal” mamacitas. So when the sap never returned from the Yucatan peninsula, we assumed some balancing, karmic element caught up to him and took care of business. I always had a satisfying vision of our man being chopped up in some abandoned warehouse by a couple of rough gauchos, and fed to the sharks in the Gulf.

“I keel heen, know’m sayin?”
Glynnis again.
I knew. We all knew. The guests knew. The make-up ladies knew.
But Glynnis all of a sudden stopped showing up. We weren’t quite sure if she’d had the baby or she’d gotten sacked by the fat cats upstairs or the same celestial, Buddhist vibe which did Angel in, decided to interfere in Glynnis’ unhappy life. She was just suddenly gone. And that was that. And there was nothing we could do about any of it. Some of the boys continued to step out and smoke their ciggies in between segment breaks (not hitting on unsuspecting female passers-by), while I stumbled upon new refuge from upper management to properly digest the likes of Kafka and Brautigan and HST and Bukowski. It was in the form of the handicapped stall in the men’s basement loo; apparently never frequented by anyone in the gigantic office building which housed our studios.
And that was that.
And there was nothing anyone could do about it.

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4 Responses to “Much Lesser Prophets”

  1. slyboots2 03/09/2007 at 7:49 PM #

    Ya’ll gon make me lose my mind. Up in here, up in here.

    Imagine. With a bunch of white chicks with big blond hair on a stage rubbing against the mirrors without conviction…”do I look pretty?”

    And the answer is, “no, desperate, honey pie. Desperate.”

    The end.

  2. Bitsy Parker 04/09/2007 at 12:01 AM #

    Stop with that good writing! I’m coming back here like a fat kid to a wiener eating contest. Found you randomly on BlogExplosion.

  3. Lx 04/09/2007 at 10:46 AM #

    sly, that’s awesome. my nightmare.
    bitsy, thanks much. hope you come back.

  4. Anonymous 14/03/2008 at 12:36 AM #

    When i seen heem i’m gonna keel heem…haha 202

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