You remember him, right, the one who engrossed his cincture with the phrase “Seven At One Blow”?
I want a belt like that, only it’s clients, not flies, and OK, not seven, but when I got home from the gym after a shitkicking chest workout, thinking I had more than an hour for something like lunch and a bath before the line started forming, there was a car at the curb, and in the car was the lady who said back in May “Oh, never mind, I’ll remember” when I offered her an appointment slip, only on my book it said she was due a week from today.
She’s 78 and drives up from the boonies. I had time. I did the job. And the one after that, and after that, and after that. Before wolfing something out of the fridge so I could do the job after that.
You know my work is bending over a hot massage table and also taking a charming interest in whatever is going on in people’s lives, most often it is quite genuine, but it is still expressed by someone who has been on her feet for anything up to five hours, and some of those asses are big, it’s OK, your ass can be as big as you want and you are still a worthy human being in my book but still I do have to pound it into submission.
I want a fucking gold star, really I do, you can even skip the belt, no one would get it anyway.