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Entry tags:
Identity Crisis
(I think this continues what I started yesterday - not that I know where I'm going, but hey. Rides are fun! Take one with me.)
His name was Ben - well, Benjamin Anderson Robertson Teller, which made him Teller, Benjamin to some people in administrative positions at the university, a string of nine numbers starting with four to Revenue Canada. He was Bart to some people who thought that was amusing, and Benny to his grandmother - "Benny, get me another pack of cigs, would you, love?" she'd cough, stubbing out a pre-kissed Virginia Slims Menthol into the ashtray beside its brothers - some of his earliest memories were a strange combination of the minty, grassy pong of tobacco and the theme music to All My Children. He was Ben to his boss - the lackey to the assistant to the assistant head bean counter at Smith and Bartleby - and Bentley to his college roommate, who was admittedly a bit of a freak; and his soon to be ex-wife didn't seem to think much of him these days, except as an apparently magic wallet that seemed to produce money whenever it was opened - apparently he was now Golden Goose of Dufferin Street. Too bad no one had bothered sending him the memo.
Former boss. Former boss. Right.
Princess Penelope wasn't going to like the fact that her golden goose was now shitting wooden nickels; but them's the breaks, kid. You played the lottery, and you lost, and now your former fair-haired boy is nothing more than a penniless student again, instead of an "executive administrative assistant" or whatever it was his former title was - glorified secretary. Third largest law firm on Bay Street, working his way up, blah blah, all her tony Thornhill friends were creaming their panties over that one. Of course, they didn't have to work there, they just got off on the I-know-someone aspect of it all.
Princess Pen didn't have to do anything she didn't like, including him, it seemed. He sat down on the bench and stared at the blinking lights of Honest Ed's across the street, the grease and calories of Macdonalds filling his nose.
Something caught the corner of his eye and tugged at it. He reached down and picked it up.
An orange.
She had missed one.
He picked it up and turned it around and around in his hands, scrying for answers in citrus. What's your name? Where do you live? Where can I find you? Why do you do the things you do? What is the meaning of life?
Nothing. He sighed and tore the peel off, revealing the white-on-sunshine inside, the acid, sweet tang.
When life gives you questions ...
Eat them? Ridiculous logic. But right now he was hungry, having skipped lunch. He took a huge slurpy bite of the orange, ignoring the juice dripping on his grey suit pants and down his chin, hoping to internalize some of her wisdom.
His name was Ben - well, Benjamin Anderson Robertson Teller, which made him Teller, Benjamin to some people in administrative positions at the university, a string of nine numbers starting with four to Revenue Canada. He was Bart to some people who thought that was amusing, and Benny to his grandmother - "Benny, get me another pack of cigs, would you, love?" she'd cough, stubbing out a pre-kissed Virginia Slims Menthol into the ashtray beside its brothers - some of his earliest memories were a strange combination of the minty, grassy pong of tobacco and the theme music to All My Children. He was Ben to his boss - the lackey to the assistant to the assistant head bean counter at Smith and Bartleby - and Bentley to his college roommate, who was admittedly a bit of a freak; and his soon to be ex-wife didn't seem to think much of him these days, except as an apparently magic wallet that seemed to produce money whenever it was opened - apparently he was now Golden Goose of Dufferin Street. Too bad no one had bothered sending him the memo.
Former boss. Former boss. Right.
Princess Penelope wasn't going to like the fact that her golden goose was now shitting wooden nickels; but them's the breaks, kid. You played the lottery, and you lost, and now your former fair-haired boy is nothing more than a penniless student again, instead of an "executive administrative assistant" or whatever it was his former title was - glorified secretary. Third largest law firm on Bay Street, working his way up, blah blah, all her tony Thornhill friends were creaming their panties over that one. Of course, they didn't have to work there, they just got off on the I-know-someone aspect of it all.
Princess Pen didn't have to do anything she didn't like, including him, it seemed. He sat down on the bench and stared at the blinking lights of Honest Ed's across the street, the grease and calories of Macdonalds filling his nose.
Something caught the corner of his eye and tugged at it. He reached down and picked it up.
An orange.
She had missed one.
He picked it up and turned it around and around in his hands, scrying for answers in citrus. What's your name? Where do you live? Where can I find you? Why do you do the things you do? What is the meaning of life?
Nothing. He sighed and tore the peel off, revealing the white-on-sunshine inside, the acid, sweet tang.
When life gives you questions ...
Eat them? Ridiculous logic. But right now he was hungry, having skipped lunch. He took a huge slurpy bite of the orange, ignoring the juice dripping on his grey suit pants and down his chin, hoping to internalize some of her wisdom.