The Seal of Confession (part one)
Boston Outsider / Humor
It was twelve years ago, and I was working another silly job in a long line of silly jobs, doing inside sales for minimum wage plus commission, selling subscriptions to specialized pet magazines. It was cold calling, and I’m sure one can imagine how much fun it was to phone a hundred strangers a day and say, “Excuse me, do you or anyone else in your household own a mongoose?” or other pitches that sounded a lot like juvenile telephone gags.
Richie Cattivo worked there, too. He was a paunchy, balding guy with glasses and a moustache, who seemed to be a middle-aged Everyman. The word was that he was divorced and was being eaten alive by child support payments, and he really hustled for sales. He was such a good salesman that the manager let him handle all the fastest-moving products we were peddling: Iguana Monthly, Ferret Lovers’ Gazette, Gerbil World, etc. I, meanwhile, had low figures and was stuck pushing losers such as the Pygmy Goat Newsletter. Maaaaa. . . .
Richie was a hot shit. One night after we finished our shift, about five months after I met him, he had me cracking up as he told me all about his domestic situation.
“I’m rooming with a guy and a girl about twenty years old,” he told me. “They keep a boa constrictor and feed it live rats. And don’t bother calling them, because they already subscribe to Reptile Health. They screw at all hours and make noises from ‘Wild Kingdom,’ which makes me even more lonely. I’ve been eating in bars most nights so that I can get home after they’re tired out, and to save money I’ve been scarfing down a lot of free appetizers. I’ve had so many fried mozzarella sticks the last month, my ass is made of cheese,” he frowned.
“I have an idea, Richie,” I said. “Chinatown is on my way home, and I know a good place where we can get rice plates or noodles pretty cheap. Take a ride with me, and I’ll pop for dinner. You need to eat some vegetables, or you’ll be missing work for constipation.” He laughed and accepted my offer.
On the subway from Quincy to Boston, and later in the restaurant, Richie enumerated the transgressions that had led to his predicament. He’d been a top agent with a financial services company, selling life insurance policies, annuities, and mutual funds. But five years earlier, he’d started fooling around with call girls, going to strip clubs, and spending money like the proverbial drunken sailor. He had dipped into clients’ accounts, commingled funds, and lost his insurance license. A relative had come up with some big money to pay his fines and keep him out of jail.
“How did all that shit happen?” I asked.
“Who knows?” he said, between bites of lo mein. “I was always a mischievous prick when I was a kid, and I became a mischievous prick with money. And then I blew all the money, so now I’m a poor prick cadging meals off you.” I told him not to sweat about the food. After we finished eating and went out on the sidewalk, he pointed to a bar across the street and asked if I wanted to go in.
“The Honey Melon Lounge?” I said. “Isn’t that a nudie place? Listen, Richie, I like T & A as much as you do, but I don’t want to pay ten bucks a beer to have women half my age stick their big, fake boobs in my face.”
“You don’t have to pay anything,” Richie smiled. “There’s no cover charge. You can walk quick in one door and out another, and sneak a peek.”
Sneak a peek? It sounded like a game that kids played at camp. And this was coming from a man in his mid-forties with a ten-year-old daughter.
“You know,” I replied, “another thing I don’t need is catching a beating from a bouncer for sneaking peeks. If you want to look at breasts that bad, I’ll buy you a Playboy.”
“Nah,” said Richie, waving at me. “I’m in the mood to see real tits.”
“Real tits?” I replied. “Like I told you, there’s nothing real in that place. The melons at the Honey Melon Lounge are wax fruit.”
“All right, some other time,” Richie winked. We shook hands and parted company.
(end of part one)
