I stepped out into
the driving rain and pulled my oil-skin tightly around my neck and up
to my cheeks. Not those cheeks, you sicko – the oil-skin was not
nearly that long. Anyhow, I swaddled myself right up and headed down
the street to Limpy's Place, late for my traditional nightly meeting
with my brother Pat.
After the short
stroll to my traditional watering hole (“always buy a house close
to the watering hole”, my father had once told me. He had lived
for five decades in a house just across the street from a delightful
little gin mill that changed its name every six months or so. Mother
did a lot of needlepoint.), I opened the door to Limpy's, to see that
Pat was already ensconced in his traditional spot – right next to
my traditional spot. He was drinking his traditional single-malt
with some unpronounceable and traditional Scottish name, and he had
ordered up my traditional martini (stirred, very dry, straight-up,
and with a single, unskewered olive stuffed with traditional pimiento
– I detail this for your benefit and mine, just in case I come to
visit your area and you wish to buy me a drink.), which was waiting
for me on the traditional bar mat. Pat greeted me (traditionally) with his traditional greeting.
“Hey, what's up?
You look thirsty.”
“Absolutely
parched, Pat,” I said, slipping off my oil-skin and handing it to
Limpy, who looked at it suspiciously. I watched as he took it in
back and a small dog started whimpering. “How was your day?”
“Horrendous,” he
said. “I had to give a graphic artist the sack.”
“The sack of what?
Some kind of grain or something?”
Pat looked at me
with a blank expression. “No, Tom,” he said, after several
agonizing moments, “I had to fire him.”
“Ahhh...I see.
Why? What happened?”
“Well, it was kind
of tragic, really. The oaf had been working on a presentation for a
new aquatic entertainment facility that we are doing for a zoo up in
Saskatchewan – 60,000 acres dedicated to showcasing the Richardson
ground squirrel.”
“Do Richardson
ground squirrels spend a lot of time enjoying aquatic entertainment?”
I asked.
“Don't be
ridiculous, Tom,” he said. “This is for the patrons of the zoo.
Canadians love synchronized swimming, I'm told. Best of all, we have
one entire outdoor pool that has an expandable liner. In winter the
whole thing freezes over and they can use it for ice hockey,
curling...whatever.”
“Fun for the whole
family,” I said.
“Sure,” Pat
said, going on. “Well, as it turned out, my graphics guy...”
“Former graphics
guy,” I interjected.
“Yeah. Former
graphics guy. Well, he had put together a fairly decent piece of
work, and I just said something to him about the kerning. He tilted
his head at me, opened his mouth, and walked out of the office. He
came back the next day. It was awful.”
“What happened?”
“Well, when we sat
down to look over the presentation one last time, I asked him if he
had taken care of what we had talked about.”
“And...?”
“Well, the long
and short of it was that the guy wasn't really a graphic designer.
He had a degree in botany or something from some school in northern
Wisconsin or Norway or somewhere. He just had a good eye for
lettering and knew how to use the right kinds of software. He had
been stealing little bits of artwork here and there. That's why our
graphics have had the unique 'ransom-note' feel to it for the last
year or so.”
“I always kind of
liked that,” I said. “I just thought you were being avant-garde.”
“Yeah, I did to.”
“So what tipped
you off?” I asked, draining my glass.
“When I asked him
about the kerning, he had no idea what I meant. He thought I said
'gurning'. “
“Gurning?”
“Yeah,” Pat
said, “gurning. The art of horrendously disfiguring your face
using only your muscle control.”
“You have got to
be kidding me...” I said, flagging down Limpy for another round and
to ask him if the dog was all right.
“Nope. There the
poor schmuck sat, sticking out his tongue and bulging his eyeballs
out of their sockets, all the while trying to puff out the tops of
his cheeks and frown at the same time. It was awful.”
“I can only
imagine.”
“Well, we all sat
there in a really uncomfortable silence for a minute or so. Finally
Woody, our landscape architect, cleared his throat and said something
about going for a smoke. Woody being an orthodox druid with only one
lung, I figured a serious nerve had been struck. I had to go for the
nuclear option.”
“How'd you break
it to him?” I asked.
“I just told him
that we didn't need his services anymore.”
“That's it?” I
asked as our drinks arrived.
“Well,” said
Pat, “I did warn him that if he did that too often his face would
stay that way.”
“You do have a
heart, Pat. Here...drink up.”
“Thanks, Tom. And
you know, I started researching gurning after that.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“I was thinking that if the whole writing thing doesn't work out,
there could be a future for you there.”
“Thanks, Pat,” I
said, rolling my eyes back in their sockets and sucking in my upper
lip. “Here's to health.”
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