"Quint," he said. "I'm sad. Do you have time to talk?"
Never one to let down a fellow homeless person in need, I said, "Sure, Milton. Like a smoke?"
Without looking up, he gently pushed my extended arm away, and I could tell that this was serious business.
"Hey big fella," I said, shaking his arm. "Hey ole pal, what's the matter?"
He sighed.
"Well, it's like this, Quint. I'm an old man and I'm not gettin' any younger. I haven't really left much of a mark in this world, and that bothers me. My little brother's about to finish his second term as mayor, and while I'm proud of him, I just can't help but feel a little envious, ya dig? I mean, little brothers are supposed to look up to older brothers, right? What do you think, Quint?"
At this point, I rose to my feet and administered a bastard of an opened-palm slap across his mouth, cutting his lip a little in the process. He stood up in shock, his hand holding the side of his face.
"Well now, what in the hell was that for, dammit?!"
"That's philosophy, my friend, and the truth will hurt you every time."
He looked as though he were about to say something rash before reason took hold. "Well hell, Quint, that's some deep mothafucking shit you laid on me just now. I don't think I'm followin' ya."
"It's like this, Milton. Remember back when you owned that hot dog cart and you used to kick me whenever I stumbled over drunk and tried to steal from you?"
He laughed heartily. "Hell yeah I remember that. Damn Quint, we did have some good times, huh?"
"Yes, we did, Milton. Lots of good times."
"But what does that have to do with philosophy?"
"To be honest with you, that slap was more about getting back at your corrupt ass for kicking me all those times. As far as dispensing advice, why don't you try and beat your brother at his own game? It's common knowledge that he's a deplorable mayor. All you have to do is win the mayoral election and do a better job than him. That can't be too hard, now can it?"
"Holy shit, Quint, you're absolutely right. But how in hell do you think I should go about doing that? I'm not nearly qualified! Technically, mayoral candidates should have been residents of the city for at least 3 years and just last year I couldn't run for the House because they said I lived in NJ."
"Well then I suggest you woo them with song. You have a powerful singing voice, Milton. Don't be afraid to use it."
"But I get stage fright. I'd never be able to sing my heart out in front of a crowd."
"Stand behind a prop."
'Like what?"
"I always use a coffin."
"Are you serious?" he asked.
"Every time."
"Man, I should be paying for this kind of advice."
"Don't worry, I'm keeping a tab. And as far as the residency issue goes, just say what I always say, that you live where you sleep."
"That's beautiful, Quint," he said with a tear forming in the corner of his large, twinkling eye.
"You sure you don't want a toke?"
"Hell no, man, that stuff causes heart attacks. You got any hooch?"
"Surely," I said, handing him a recently acquired bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. "Drink this."
He gulped freely, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve afterwards. "Hot damn, that is some beautiful shit right there. If I get elected, I'm gonna make babies drink that shit, it tastes so good."
"You're after me own heart, Milton, you truly are"
"I appreciate you sayin' so, Quint."
"By the way, my honest nature compells me to inform you that there was a little bit of urine in that bottle."
"What in the hell? Who's was it?"
"Billy O'Malley's."
"I thought so."
"It tastes better mixed in," I said.
"I agree. It reminds me of Grandma's lemonade."
We exchanged a momentary glance of confusion and mutual defeat before resuming the conversation.
"You have any place to stay tonight?" I asked.
"Oh yeah, sure, I'll just head over and sleep at the local shelter or something, no problem..." He avoided my gaze like a little kid who wants something but is too afraid to ask.
"Oh don't be foolish. You can sleep here next to ole Quint. But just for the night!"
"You mean it Quint?! Do you really mean it?"
"Come here you bug-eyed son of a bitch, let's huddle together for warmth."
"Goodnight, Quint."
"Goodnight, dear Milton...and good luck."
That bastard deserves all the embarrassment he got for kicking me in the asshole over a few raggedy old hot dogs! No one gets one over on ole Quint! I hold a grudge better than a haunted house in Japan!
"Well now, what in the hell was that for, dammit?!"
"That's philosophy, my friend, and the truth will hurt you every time."
He looked as though he were about to say something rash before reason took hold. "Well hell, Quint, that's some deep mothafucking shit you laid on me just now. I don't think I'm followin' ya."
"It's like this, Milton. Remember back when you owned that hot dog cart and you used to kick me whenever I stumbled over drunk and tried to steal from you?"
He laughed heartily. "Hell yeah I remember that. Damn Quint, we did have some good times, huh?"
"Yes, we did, Milton. Lots of good times."
"But what does that have to do with philosophy?"
"To be honest with you, that slap was more about getting back at your corrupt ass for kicking me all those times. As far as dispensing advice, why don't you try and beat your brother at his own game? It's common knowledge that he's a deplorable mayor. All you have to do is win the mayoral election and do a better job than him. That can't be too hard, now can it?"
"Holy shit, Quint, you're absolutely right. But how in hell do you think I should go about doing that? I'm not nearly qualified! Technically, mayoral candidates should have been residents of the city for at least 3 years and just last year I couldn't run for the House because they said I lived in NJ."
"Well then I suggest you woo them with song. You have a powerful singing voice, Milton. Don't be afraid to use it."
"But I get stage fright. I'd never be able to sing my heart out in front of a crowd."
"Stand behind a prop."
'Like what?"
"I always use a coffin."
"Are you serious?" he asked.
"Every time."
"Man, I should be paying for this kind of advice."
"Don't worry, I'm keeping a tab. And as far as the residency issue goes, just say what I always say, that you live where you sleep."
"That's beautiful, Quint," he said with a tear forming in the corner of his large, twinkling eye.
"You sure you don't want a toke?"
"Hell no, man, that stuff causes heart attacks. You got any hooch?"
"Surely," I said, handing him a recently acquired bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. "Drink this."
He gulped freely, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve afterwards. "Hot damn, that is some beautiful shit right there. If I get elected, I'm gonna make babies drink that shit, it tastes so good."
"You're after me own heart, Milton, you truly are"
"I appreciate you sayin' so, Quint."
"By the way, my honest nature compells me to inform you that there was a little bit of urine in that bottle."
"What in the hell? Who's was it?"
"Billy O'Malley's."
"I thought so."
"It tastes better mixed in," I said.
"I agree. It reminds me of Grandma's lemonade."
We exchanged a momentary glance of confusion and mutual defeat before resuming the conversation.
"You have any place to stay tonight?" I asked.
"Oh yeah, sure, I'll just head over and sleep at the local shelter or something, no problem..." He avoided my gaze like a little kid who wants something but is too afraid to ask.
"Oh don't be foolish. You can sleep here next to ole Quint. But just for the night!"
"You mean it Quint?! Do you really mean it?"
"Come here you bug-eyed son of a bitch, let's huddle together for warmth."
"Goodnight, Quint."
"Goodnight, dear Milton...and good luck."
That bastard deserves all the embarrassment he got for kicking me in the asshole over a few raggedy old hot dogs! No one gets one over on ole Quint! I hold a grudge better than a haunted house in Japan!
