74
R. Linda:
There I was all by me lonesome at the end of me shift. It was nearly eleven at night and I hadn't eaten and I was not looking forward to running for the bus so I could go home to the Kremlin. I sighed as Mrs. McGill came walking up to me as she fished in her purse for car keys. She stopped and watched me shrug me jacket on and said, "Gabriel are you finished here?"
"I am Mrs. McG. I'm about to leave is there something I can do for yourself?"
"No, I was just thinking that you live not far from me, I could give you a lift if you like."
I be not one who is crazy for midnight athletics and as happens by the time me bus arrives, I have to sprint for it because the bus driver has this inane habit of slowing down at the stop, but not stopping. I, being the only passenger, reckons she thinks stopping for one isn't worth the trouble, so I run by the side of the freaking thing until she gets to the next stop where there are usually a few more passengers waiting. Now you would think I would know to walk the extra three blocks and wait there, but I am ever so hopeful the bus driver will be another who actually stops at the bus stops. So far this one has been quite healthy and you know the drill.
It be a small war I have going there, but enough on that, a ride home without me nightly sprint was attractive. Now Mrs. McGill be an older woman of Martha Stewart's age (near retirement, but in Mrs. McG's case not forced), and she be one of the senior editors at the paper. I have every respect for her and she is good at her job and seems fond of yours truly. I thought because we both share the Irish.
Anyway, that night I was pooped and took her up on her offer. Once we got to the underground parking garage, I took the keys from Mrs. McG and unlocked her door. I opened it for her handing her the keys. It doesn't hurt to be polite to senior management, and I wasn't that tired I didn't realise this was an opportunity to shine. She flipped the unlock and I hopped in the passenger seat. Off we went to street level where she asked if I had eaten anything and I said I had not. She suggested we go to the KFC that was open up the street and get take-out. I was all for it and so we went to the drive-thru. I gave her me order and that went fine, then she started to give hers.
"Do you still have that Dale Evans special?" She asked into the speaker.
Now I wasn't born on a shoe and I do know who Dale Evans was. I also know from going to KFC enough times that the special she meant was Dale Earnhardt, Jr. I almost burst out with Earnhardt, it is Earnhardt not Evans, she's dead. But I held me tongue as the disembodied voice on the other end politely informed Mrs. McG that, "No, we don't have THAT special."
I nearly rolled me eyes as we drove up to pay for the food. Now I insisted since she was giving the kindness of driving me home, as well as stopping for food, that it was me treat. She let me pay and we started off. Chalk another brownie point up for me. ;)
Near me house she suddenly jammed on the brakes and declared, "Oh what a fool I am. It's Earnhardt not Evans!"
You'd be proud I made like I hadn't noticed. With that smoothed over we got just up to the Kremlin when she said, "I wish there was some reindeer."
Well, R. Linda, this made me look around outside for deer and damn I be thinking no one told me there were reindeer in San Francisco. I looked at Mrs. McG as I held the two buckets of chicken and said as much.
She pulled up to me dark palace and looked at me and started laughing.
"Gabriel, I said I wish it would rain, dear. I mean from the sky and I called you 'dear' which is a term I call all young people."
I felt like a damn idiot. Here I hadn't laughed at her mistake but she was laughing at mine. I noticed she had gone silent and was looking up at the abode. Now I knew what she was thinking, how could I afford an address like the Kremlin and boyo boyo, she'd love to see what the inside was like. It took me a few minutes to work up the courage and I finally asked her if she cared to come inside and have the KFC with me.
She was out of the car before I could get me door open. I yanked meself out, buckets and all and somehow managed to open the gate for her. Without so much as a thank you, she was sprinting up the stone steps while I trudged up reluctantly, because I knew what the inside of the place looked like, HALLOWEEN.
She was almost drooling with anticipation of seeing the abode and I was digging for me keys regretting me invitation. She was in a hurry to see inside and almost tore the KFC buckets from me to get me along to the keys. I got them out, put the one in the keyhole and as I clicked down the door handle, Mrs. McG was gliding past me with the KFC. I was grateful for one thing, the Pee cat was not in residence to witness two buckets of her favourite food wafting through the Kremlin.
Mrs. McG was turning slowly around the place, mouth open to the floor, eyes big and totally speechless. Well, wouldn't you be? I took the KFC and said we could eat in the kitchen or dining room, her choice like nothing was unusual about the place. I was halfway to the kitchen when I realised I was talking to air. She was half in the foyer and half in the living room still agape at the surroundings.
I set the buckets down and went back to get her. She had a strange forced smile on her face like she wanted to bolt, and she looked at me differently. I started to explain me circumstances when she patted me on the shoulder and said to me surprise as she walked passed me to the KFC buckets, "Gabriel, your true calling is an interiour decorator. I don't know why you are at the newspaper, you could make a fortune with do-overs."
Now it was me turn to stand there like a statue at me startled state at hearing this come forth. I said, "No, no you don't understand . . . " and I was not able to explain anything because she went into interiour design mode and was turning over the crystal, china, silver, pillows, caressing leather chairs while purrring out such accolades as, "Popov, Kornilov, Polozov, this is so Horchow and Vivre. Pois sauteurs and Maison Georgette, my gracious Gabriel you have exquisite taste!"
I felt like a gay man suddenly. A renegade member of the Fab Five has gone missing. All I could do was shake me head, words were gone, me mind blown.
She got out a chainik pot which is a Russian teapot. I had no clue what it was, but she was gushing over it explaining she had never seen such an expensive one, and did I mind we use it? I shrugged because I couldn't care less as I glanced back at me Bewley's teapot on the table in the hall. She opened the kitchen cabinets and I was about to tell her where the Bewley's was, but she found a box and crooned at me, "Zavaraka" and off she went to brew Russian tea.
I was not liking this. As she busied herself with ornate china plates, Polozov silverware and God knows what else, I plopped meself down in a chair and started taking everything out of the KFC bag. Here I was, a poor Irish lad, about to eat KFC off of expensive and antique Russian dishes, while sipping Russian tea! It was obscene. It was midnight and I cringed as the old clock tolled the hour.
"Gabriel, why are you slumped in that chair like that?"
"Oh, I don't know, could be I'm tired . . . or I know the vampires will be here in a few secs." This last I said under me breath and she thankfully did not hear me.
She was happy, happy, happy. She told me she lives on Russian Hill and she is Russian, not Irish, but married to an Irishman. Well, lovely! I got all this chitchat, her eyes lit up like a ghouls and I started to get a little scared of her. In the darkness, her grey hair seemed more like the Bride of Frankenstein, her face, ghost white and her lips, deep blood red. I know me imagination and tiredness had me going at that hour, but well it was the effect the Kremlin had on me.
There was one Faberge egg that I hadn't seen in the bookcase. She found it on her way out and said she had three at home to my one. That did it, I gently took her arm and led her to "the egg room." There with fanfare, I threw open the door and switched on the light. She stood in the doorway dumbfounded.
"You are a connoisseur Gabriel. My gracious you have got to come to my house and redecorate it for me. When can you come? Tomorrow? Are you working tomorrow?"
It was twenty questions and I tried me best to tell her I had decorated the hallway. Yes, over there, the chair, table with doily, teapot and teacups, that was it. The rest came with the lease. She thought I was being unreasonable. I saw me job going in the dumpster. She actually started to argue with me over this decorating business.
She even told me she had a hairdresser she could introduce me to and he could probably be there to help if I wanted. Just name the hour. So there I was drinking vodka out of one of those blue crystal-type Russian glasses, by meself at 2 a.m. wondering what the hell I was going to do about this new predicament. I really must find Nadia's address and send her a thank you note for screwing up me life and for all the misadventures she was inadvertently throwing my way.
Yes, woe is me.
Feeling sorry for meself,
R. Linda:
There I was all by me lonesome at the end of me shift. It was nearly eleven at night and I hadn't eaten and I was not looking forward to running for the bus so I could go home to the Kremlin. I sighed as Mrs. McGill came walking up to me as she fished in her purse for car keys. She stopped and watched me shrug me jacket on and said, "Gabriel are you finished here?"
"I am Mrs. McG. I'm about to leave is there something I can do for yourself?"
"No, I was just thinking that you live not far from me, I could give you a lift if you like."
I be not one who is crazy for midnight athletics and as happens by the time me bus arrives, I have to sprint for it because the bus driver has this inane habit of slowing down at the stop, but not stopping. I, being the only passenger, reckons she thinks stopping for one isn't worth the trouble, so I run by the side of the freaking thing until she gets to the next stop where there are usually a few more passengers waiting. Now you would think I would know to walk the extra three blocks and wait there, but I am ever so hopeful the bus driver will be another who actually stops at the bus stops. So far this one has been quite healthy and you know the drill.
It be a small war I have going there, but enough on that, a ride home without me nightly sprint was attractive. Now Mrs. McGill be an older woman of Martha Stewart's age (near retirement, but in Mrs. McG's case not forced), and she be one of the senior editors at the paper. I have every respect for her and she is good at her job and seems fond of yours truly. I thought because we both share the Irish.
Anyway, that night I was pooped and took her up on her offer. Once we got to the underground parking garage, I took the keys from Mrs. McG and unlocked her door. I opened it for her handing her the keys. It doesn't hurt to be polite to senior management, and I wasn't that tired I didn't realise this was an opportunity to shine. She flipped the unlock and I hopped in the passenger seat. Off we went to street level where she asked if I had eaten anything and I said I had not. She suggested we go to the KFC that was open up the street and get take-out. I was all for it and so we went to the drive-thru. I gave her me order and that went fine, then she started to give hers.
"Do you still have that Dale Evans special?" She asked into the speaker.
Now I wasn't born on a shoe and I do know who Dale Evans was. I also know from going to KFC enough times that the special she meant was Dale Earnhardt, Jr. I almost burst out with Earnhardt, it is Earnhardt not Evans, she's dead. But I held me tongue as the disembodied voice on the other end politely informed Mrs. McG that, "No, we don't have THAT special."
I nearly rolled me eyes as we drove up to pay for the food. Now I insisted since she was giving the kindness of driving me home, as well as stopping for food, that it was me treat. She let me pay and we started off. Chalk another brownie point up for me. ;)
Near me house she suddenly jammed on the brakes and declared, "Oh what a fool I am. It's Earnhardt not Evans!"
You'd be proud I made like I hadn't noticed. With that smoothed over we got just up to the Kremlin when she said, "I wish there was some reindeer."
Well, R. Linda, this made me look around outside for deer and damn I be thinking no one told me there were reindeer in San Francisco. I looked at Mrs. McG as I held the two buckets of chicken and said as much.
She pulled up to me dark palace and looked at me and started laughing.
"Gabriel, I said I wish it would rain, dear. I mean from the sky and I called you 'dear' which is a term I call all young people."
I felt like a damn idiot. Here I hadn't laughed at her mistake but she was laughing at mine. I noticed she had gone silent and was looking up at the abode. Now I knew what she was thinking, how could I afford an address like the Kremlin and boyo boyo, she'd love to see what the inside was like. It took me a few minutes to work up the courage and I finally asked her if she cared to come inside and have the KFC with me.
She was out of the car before I could get me door open. I yanked meself out, buckets and all and somehow managed to open the gate for her. Without so much as a thank you, she was sprinting up the stone steps while I trudged up reluctantly, because I knew what the inside of the place looked like, HALLOWEEN.
She was almost drooling with anticipation of seeing the abode and I was digging for me keys regretting me invitation. She was in a hurry to see inside and almost tore the KFC buckets from me to get me along to the keys. I got them out, put the one in the keyhole and as I clicked down the door handle, Mrs. McG was gliding past me with the KFC. I was grateful for one thing, the Pee cat was not in residence to witness two buckets of her favourite food wafting through the Kremlin.
Mrs. McG was turning slowly around the place, mouth open to the floor, eyes big and totally speechless. Well, wouldn't you be? I took the KFC and said we could eat in the kitchen or dining room, her choice like nothing was unusual about the place. I was halfway to the kitchen when I realised I was talking to air. She was half in the foyer and half in the living room still agape at the surroundings.
I set the buckets down and went back to get her. She had a strange forced smile on her face like she wanted to bolt, and she looked at me differently. I started to explain me circumstances when she patted me on the shoulder and said to me surprise as she walked passed me to the KFC buckets, "Gabriel, your true calling is an interiour decorator. I don't know why you are at the newspaper, you could make a fortune with do-overs."
Now it was me turn to stand there like a statue at me startled state at hearing this come forth. I said, "No, no you don't understand . . . " and I was not able to explain anything because she went into interiour design mode and was turning over the crystal, china, silver, pillows, caressing leather chairs while purrring out such accolades as, "Popov, Kornilov, Polozov, this is so Horchow and Vivre. Pois sauteurs and Maison Georgette, my gracious Gabriel you have exquisite taste!"
I felt like a gay man suddenly. A renegade member of the Fab Five has gone missing. All I could do was shake me head, words were gone, me mind blown.
She got out a chainik pot which is a Russian teapot. I had no clue what it was, but she was gushing over it explaining she had never seen such an expensive one, and did I mind we use it? I shrugged because I couldn't care less as I glanced back at me Bewley's teapot on the table in the hall. She opened the kitchen cabinets and I was about to tell her where the Bewley's was, but she found a box and crooned at me, "Zavaraka" and off she went to brew Russian tea.
I was not liking this. As she busied herself with ornate china plates, Polozov silverware and God knows what else, I plopped meself down in a chair and started taking everything out of the KFC bag. Here I was, a poor Irish lad, about to eat KFC off of expensive and antique Russian dishes, while sipping Russian tea! It was obscene. It was midnight and I cringed as the old clock tolled the hour.
"Gabriel, why are you slumped in that chair like that?"
"Oh, I don't know, could be I'm tired . . . or I know the vampires will be here in a few secs." This last I said under me breath and she thankfully did not hear me.
She was happy, happy, happy. She told me she lives on Russian Hill and she is Russian, not Irish, but married to an Irishman. Well, lovely! I got all this chitchat, her eyes lit up like a ghouls and I started to get a little scared of her. In the darkness, her grey hair seemed more like the Bride of Frankenstein, her face, ghost white and her lips, deep blood red. I know me imagination and tiredness had me going at that hour, but well it was the effect the Kremlin had on me.
There was one Faberge egg that I hadn't seen in the bookcase. She found it on her way out and said she had three at home to my one. That did it, I gently took her arm and led her to "the egg room." There with fanfare, I threw open the door and switched on the light. She stood in the doorway dumbfounded.
"You are a connoisseur Gabriel. My gracious you have got to come to my house and redecorate it for me. When can you come? Tomorrow? Are you working tomorrow?"
It was twenty questions and I tried me best to tell her I had decorated the hallway. Yes, over there, the chair, table with doily, teapot and teacups, that was it. The rest came with the lease. She thought I was being unreasonable. I saw me job going in the dumpster. She actually started to argue with me over this decorating business.
She even told me she had a hairdresser she could introduce me to and he could probably be there to help if I wanted. Just name the hour. So there I was drinking vodka out of one of those blue crystal-type Russian glasses, by meself at 2 a.m. wondering what the hell I was going to do about this new predicament. I really must find Nadia's address and send her a thank you note for screwing up me life and for all the misadventures she was inadvertently throwing my way.
Yes, woe is me.
Feeling sorry for meself,
Gabe
Copyright © 2004 All rights reserved
Copyright © 2004 All rights reserved
