Picnics and RainbowsPosted: September 30, 2011
“Fucking doctors,” Glen muttered as he walked down the hall. As a manager, you’d expect a man like Glen to watch his fucking mouth a bit more around the help. You might also expect him to wear an oxford shirt without pits slightly more yellowed than his teeth, or to direct his hair with a comb instead of seemingly just look into the mirror and command: “Boo!” But as a manager at the chop shop, those expectations would fall short. Like Peter Dinklage short (for reference, google: famous midget actors).
“What’s wrong, Glen?” I asked. His mention of doctors made me nervous. He was obese and anxious at all times. I cared about him in a weird way.
“This asshole wants to charge me about two grand to stick a camera up my ass,” he said.
“Sounds like a fair price,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Bradley (reminder: office alcoholic/moron), “I wouldn’t do it for less than three. I mean, look at your ass. It’s huge.”
“It’s true, Glen,” I said. “The guy probably needs five feet of hose just to get in the front door.”
“And it ain’t all picnics and rainbows once he does,” Bradley said. “I bet you can’t get a whore to do it for less than that.”
“You’d know,” Glen replied.
“Not about the hose thing,” Bradley said. “No way. But I’ve paid near that for a lot less.”
Bradley, on top of booze, had a penchant for prostitutes. You know the really classy ones that A-list Hollywood types pay a ton of cash for? Well, I’m not talking about those. I was with him once when he got out of a cab on Chicago’s North Avenue bridge (pre-gentrification, of course) and procured the services of a woman who looked like she’d been featured in a Center for Disease Control pamphlet After picture.
“Did you shop around?” I asked, knowing that Glen was, if nothing else, a cheapskate.
“Hell no,” he said, taking the taped eyeglasses off his face and rubbing them on his dirty shirt. “Most of these sick fucks just want to stick their finger up your ass. You know, with the rubber glove. No thanks.”
“Yeah, but you can get that pretty much for free just for walking in their door,” Bradley said. Glen and I both stared blankly at him. “Tell you what. I got a guy I can ask about this.”
“You got a guy?” I asked. “What kind of guy do you have that came to mind when we’re talking about getting things shoved up Glen’s ass?”
“He’s a doctor,” Bradley said. “I’m doing his mortgage this week. I’ll ask him.”
“Oh, gee,” Glen said. “That’d be great. Just ask what he charges for the camera thing.”
So later that afternoon, Glen and I were in his office talking about a client when Bradley walked in.
“Hey, Glen,” Bradley said, clutching the door jam. “Talked to that guy. He’s in.”
“He’s in?” I said.
“Yeah, what do you mean?” Glen asked. “In for what?”
“He’ll do it,” Bradley said.
“Okay,” Glen replied. “But for how much?”
“I didn’t ask,” Bradley said.
“Wasn’t that the point?” Glen replied.
“Yeah, I know.” Bradley said. “But I figured he’d do it for a lot less.”
“Why?” Glen asked.
“Cause he’s one of those gay doctors,” Bradley said.
“I’m sorry?” Glen asked. Glen was from a time and place (Ohio, circa dawn of time through present time) where homophobia wasn’t a complex, but more of an understanding of just how things were.
“He’s gay,” Bradley said. “So, you know, I figure he’ll do whatever you want for less. Being your ass and all.”
“How do you know he’s gay?” I asked.
“I don’t care how he knows,” Glen said. “If he’s gay, I don’t want him anywhere near my ass.”
“I think it matters,” I said. “I’m kind of curious as to how Bradley came across this sort of information. Did you see him out somewhere?”
“No, dude,” Bradley said. “He told me. When I asked him what sort of doctor he was, he said, ‘homopathic.’”