Mr. Originality

in this heat, he still has to wear that black biker jacket. we meet at the noodle shop. thankfully, it’s after the rush hour. I take a moment to enjoy the noodles, trying not to notice him using his fingers.

“i bet they have forks, if you can’t do the chopsticks.” i suggest.

“of course, I can do chopsticks. it just feels differently to eat with your fingers”

i bet it is..

we drink cheap, weak beer. and he complains.

what are friends for?

he talks about pressure. constantly going against the current. I gave up on that years ago. no one makes a living doing acrobatics, ’cept in the circus. his improvisation is impressive, but after a while it’s just flash, a leather jacket on a hot day.

he could have chosen things differently, he openly admits. but all the cool that he used to exhude caught to him, and penetrated the core. he became desperate for more the cooker he got. he had to wear sunglasses to the jam session. then he got drunk and fell off the stage.

did gigs in advertising, where the smokescreen earned him some cred. but since brother Camel got lung cancer, they started putting out players that progressively look the same.

he quit, and moved to the atoll he found. surrounded by palm trees and eating lobsters all day. the beer ran out, so did the smokes. his Harley was a dissaster to maintain with all that sand.

I felt sorry for him, my long-lost friend. but he surprised me. he took out a pommegranate and opened it with just two fingers. a perfect low-cal snack. he is hopeful though. after we finish, he’s going to that job interview. it’s not glamorous, but not bad either. he has enough track record doing the hocky-pockey, and I feel he will make the HR happy. and in the end, that’s what’s it all a-bout!