MY FAIR SHARE
My fair share of nothing - I've just found out -
comes to nothing itself at all. Well fuck-god-damn
for that. I better just walk away. I'll take myself to
the boat-docks over Perth Amboy way; maybe have
a drink or two at the Armory there - some big-time
restaurant with a bar and Spanish food. Or Portuguese,
what do I know? For you meat-eaters, they've even got
Rodizio! Which is like five kinds of meat, all you can
eat, brought to you constantly on a huge skewer. One thing
after the other, whatever you like, and carved for you right
there. It's nice. The place is nautical - got slammed in that
Hurricane Sandy blitz, but it seems they came back all right.
-
For myself, I just get a big bowl of rice - some Spanish
concoction with peppers and things. Crazy how they serve
this shit; they should really just keep it simple. Then, upstairs,
there's always a wedding or reception for something going on -
crazy, screaming girls in their formal attire, or not nearly at
all - there's no middle ground. They're chicken-dancing and
all a'twirl. I really don't know if anyone realizes that we're
watching from 'below' them - whoever laid out that stupid
balcony and railing area made a big mistake. For them anyway.
-
I don't want to sound trance-like or even stupid, but what the hell.
(I think I'm getting drunk : should I stop right here? Is this already
too much confession? One time there was, yes, I, um, went to the
men's room and, oh, well, better not; why configure bad aces in
a hand that's otherwise so good - full house, royal flush, or, no
is that just me? What did I say my share of nothing was? Nothing?
Yes, yes, yes, that's the one.)