Post-holiday season summation, part 1

Well well well, my dear friends...and intrusive enemies...we meet again. Of course I use the term "meet" in an abstract sense in that you are reading my words and we are not actually engaging in interpersonal communication as I'm sure many of you would like. Sadly, Quint comes in high demand and cannot afford you that opportunity, but for now, take pleasure in the words that flow from 'neath his pen...er...fingertips as he gently tickles the keys of the free library's computer.

Now, finally, to the point of this update. The New Year has sprung upon us like a Vietcong Guerrilla in Da Nang, and the attack in my case was particularly fierce and unrelenting. I'll begin by telling you a little about my post-holiday season. As you already know, ole Quint lost his job playing Santa Claus at the local shopping mall due to drug use and soiling the costume on more than one occasion.

Sure, I may have bitched about the job a bit, but all in all, I'm glad to be rid of the little maggots and their skanky mothers. Well, maybe not the skanky mothers. I quite enjoyed losing myself in the heaving crests of their ample bosoms. Oh mother glory!

So after that I decided to take a little road trip to keep me mind off the New Year, lest I be depressed, and so I decided to head South. The first thing I learned is that hitchhiking is no longer the easygoing American pasttime it once was in the good ole US of A. It took me seven hours of standing in the rain before I acquired a ride from a burly truck driver named Tess, and it just so happened that he was going North.

As luck would have it, Tess stopped at a diner in Buffalo, NY called The Tea Cup, where he busied himself by engorging his fat, beared face with several plates of hot apple pie. My thoughts were on Buffalo. I could remember a time when I knew a man who happened to reside in Buffalo. He was never what I'd consider a great friend of mine; and I don't think I'd be so generous as refer to him a good friend, but I knew him and I'd let him buy me a drink anytime.

Anyway, that's how I ended up calling the number for information and acquiring the telephone digits for one Peter Rittenshire, a man who 10 years ago unsuccessfully attempted to shiv yours truly in his gullet whilst on a doomed fishing expedition off the coast of Newfoundland. Not long after a little argument over the rights to a certain young lass named Bev, Petey snuck, jabbed, and left me fer dead on the cold, wet planks of the dock with little more than a flask of whiskey and a marijuana cigarette. Neither of us got the girl, giving me good reason to believe that she was a lesbian.

It came as a big surprised to me that the miserable bastard hadn't relocated in all of the years since our falling out, but sure enough the operator was able to redirect me after a brief search in her computadora (that's spanish for computer)!

"'ello," he answered in a distinctive English voice.

"Hey fucker! How ya doin'?" ole Quint responded gleefully.

There was a moment of silence on the other end and for a minute I wondered if maybe that good fer nothin' operator disconnected me somehow. The bitch! I'd gouge her eyes if I ever saw her!

"Quint?"

"Ahoy there matey," I shouted into the speaking part of the phone. If my lips got any closer, passersby would have thought me obscene.

"Quint, why may I ask are you phoning my house?" He sounded a little nervous, and it confused me...after all, he was the one who shivved me!

"Listen Petey, ole Quint's in a bit of a holiday bind and wondering if you're willing to lend a hand."

"Quint, we have not even talked since..."

"See, here's the deal. My efforts to migrate south for the season proved to be in vain and somehow I'm sitting in a Buffalo diner with a truck driver named Tess. I have no place to go and I'm damn near out of the money I borrowed from the drug store register. Care to help an old sea dog in need, old friend?"

"Um..."

"Great! Now all I'll need is your address and I'll be arriving momentarily!" I grabbed the knife that I keep strapped to my calf beneath my trousers and pricked the tip of my middle finger, drawing enough blood to write the number on a used napkin that lie on the floor.

"Now hold on a minute, Quint," he said, sounding more than a little agitated. "I'm not particularly sure that this is such a good idea."

"Now what is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, Quint, you're catching me a little off guard here. How can you expect to call me up out of nowhere and expect to arrange a get together?"

Honestly, friends, his babble was beginning to frighten me. I was beginning to think that I'd have to find shelter underneath a bridge. It certainly wouldn't be the abandoned railway car that I have been calling home for the past 6 months, but I'd make do. "Right, is that too much to expect from an old comrade?" I asked.

"Well, a lot's changed since the old days, Quint. I'm married now..." He paused for a second as if he didn't have the courage to disclose any more information about his private life. "...and I have kids now."

"Yaaargh! Do ya now? I love kiddies! And kiddies love Quint. We'll get along famously I'm sure. Now about that address?"

There was a long pause on the other end, and just as I was about to curse that damned devil woman of an operator again, Peter spoke. "Fine Quint, you may stop by my house. We're the big white mansion on Cayuga Creek Rd where it intersects with William St. There are 3 cars in the driveway and two SUVs. You really can't miss it. But you'll have to be gone by ten. I have to wake up early for an important conference."

"Ah, Mr. Important! Well, no worries, I shant be a bother to ye and yers. I'll be gone by 10am!"

"Yes. Wait! No!" Peter had a bit of a coughing spell into his end of the telly. "I mean that you are to be out of the house by 10 o'clock tonight, Quint!"

I squinted at the diner's wall-clock through the large window and noticed that it was already 7pm. "Well then, ole Quint better be on his way then, eh? See ya soon, me lovely."

To be continued...