Okay. Seriously, I don’t know what you think I do all days long here atop this this ivory tower made of ACME Brick, pressure-treated wood, gypsonite and other stuff. These are cramped quarters with little or no redeeming qualities other than a supposedly high-speed Internet connection, most of my books and an adequate stereo hosting a far less-than-adequate turn table with which I can listen to some of the best music recorded and mass-distributed on vinyl, conceived and performed at tremendous abandon and funk significantly pre-dating the artist formerly known as prince’s high-heeled blister infection, foil-lined bedroom, pantie-lined tight-jeaned nonexistent buttocks, back when, even before he was known as “Skippy,” alienating high-school peers as though such behavior were brain stem activity, youthfully clueless to what we now know as truth: that such actions occur out of sense of fashion, the desire to be different that makes one so much like everyone else. But forget him. He’s overrated. He does not concern me other than his introduction into popular culture serves as a smudge mark on the linear time ruler. Far more interesting is Rapunzel. Beautiful, magnificent Rapunzel. Absent. I hired her on the spot. She liked the terms. Seemed pleased with the arrangments, haggled a bit on the salary, but I would have been disappointed had she not. Perhaps she had second thoughts about the modest but higly-flexible benefit package. I don’t have time to train her now. And I don’t have time to replace her. Until I hired her, I never understood how glaringly inadequate my organizational and time-management skills. Nearing the end of this workday, I ignore the messages. Surely they do not include one from her. Today’s mail remains on the hallway floor, a study in entropy to which her absence pays tribute. She does not accompany me, tie me up or down or spin me yarns with her flaxen locks coiled into labyrinthine pin curls. She does not nuzzle my side, lovingly, affectionately, unaware that she derives far less comfort from her casual and innocent embrace than the balmy encouragement it provides her timid companion who wants nothing more than to create a life with her, lives with her, many lives. She is not here to throw down her hair should someone want to come visit, as if I would allow such a thing. No. I would not allow any such thing. Please understand that this does not in anyway conflict with my long-standing yet rarely availed open invitation to drop by the studio at anytime. I’ve got an opened-door policy. You don’t even have to knock. However, all I ask is that you first call Rapunzel and arrange an oppointment. Oh, Rapunzel. I am not your hair. But you have let me down.
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3 Comments
Brilliant! I LOL’d! Did you make up the rest of that story just so you could use that “let down your hair” joke at the end, or did you start the story first and then realize at some point, in a paper match puff of inspiration, that it was how you had to finish it?
No. It’s all real. True. Completely organic. Sprinkle some on your cereal for breakfast.
Now, true story. When I was about 21 I was in St. Petersburg Florida with my friend Todd (seated military press: 315 lbs.). While at the condo, we met these two girls who were, sadly, 15 and 16. They were from a southern state lost somewhere between Hatfields and McCoys, mint juleps, civil rights marches, camouflage, homecoming parades, 4×4s and peach cobbler. Knowing this, and knowing they carried the whole history of the deep south with them, they wanted to impress us with their breaking-away sophistication.
Her: You ever see Purple Rain?
Isaac: Mm hmm.
Her, with deep southern drawl: I’ve seen it four times. It’s my favorite movie.