Did you know, the ocean’s made of jello and the sky’s a blue whipped cream. And us, we’re just standing on some green mold that grew in-between the two. A sweet sandwich with a sick little center. Such a dessert was often seen at Hobert’s cafe, a truly horrible little place born from urban blight, malaise, and more pedestrian strains of disease. That’s where I was, one simple little Wednesday.
Now, for someone that knew the place was a rat’s ass in the stew away from being condemned once and for all, I could never get myself to stop going there. There’s something a little bit addicting about suffering, I guess it helps your days feel like they have pits and peaks. Real food tastes better after eating sludge, after all. This day, though, was a surefire pit. I had just been told I had about as much chance making in the music industry as the moon eating a bad souffle and killing us all in a food-poisoning induced supernova- and that the person thought that might just be the better option.
While I was sitting on my no-longer-cushioned barstool, just sulking in my own self-pity, I was approached by a real sleazeball.
“Niles, man, what’s got you in such a funk?”
I turned around. Taking a seat right next to me was Hank, a born con man that sold the kind of stuff that made snake oil look good. ‘Course, I didn’t really need to look, I knew it was him when his cologne burned my nose hairs off.
“Hank, what brings you here, besides a full wallet and an empty heart?”
“Talk about a sourpuss. I worked my ass off today, and what did you do, besides sulk around here?”
I shrugged. “Nothing at all, but what’s it to you?” Continue reading “Snake Oil and Pit Days: Random Scene #4”