Monday, April 5, 2010
That’s it. I’ve had it with money. I’m going into a straight divorce. No more money. Just what is it with that thing? Everyone I know is looking for it and everyone I don’t is looking for it.
It’s early in the morning. Crack of dawning and I’m not even yawning and I get miss-calls. I call back and there’s urgent need of money. I don’t know what to say. I hang up saying I’ll look for it. Word is he needs about 7,500 to 8,000 square. Nice fucking number. One problem- I’m not mathematical.
The doorbell rings. It’s the end of the month. Which means get ready for the appearance of wraiths resembling your landlord (that’s how many they keep when a month dies). I don’t know again. I curse the bell and head for the door. Of course, the fucking wraith is there. There are three of them- all waiting to pounce on me with the mantras soon as the door goes ajar.
I don’t give them the satisfaction. One loud monosyllabic syllable in unison and I tell them “no money.”
There’s disbelief in their faces.
“What the fuck? Buddha’s buddies being butted out?”
I can see them and they can see me. It’s like one of those Tarantino movie moments- abrupt and sudden. The plot still hangs thick in the early spring air.
“How the fuck did we end up at this door?” the three are thinking…again.
“Of all the fucking days” I’m thinking.
They leave the door and take Buddha’s mantras with them. I get back inside and wonder what the big fucking fuss with men and money is. Everyone is looking for it and no one has it.
“Show me the money”
“Yeah. Right. Hold up one second while I shove my left hand up my arse and pull it out.”
“Small or big bills?” (And along with that, you want to pull out the politeness with your other hand).
It’s gotten to the point where I’ve gotten wise enough to know- that is if someone’s telling the truth or not. You want to know honesty? Just ask the guy about money and he’ll tell you his biography. Don’t matter who you talking to. Family gets honest. Friends get honest. Everyone gets awful honest. There’s all sort of stories. It’s a minefield if you are looking for writing material. Funny thing is- everyone who is broke has it.
That’s how my day broke today. Miss- calls about money. Door knocks on the money. My car’s rear is held by a nylon string. My menu’s been having oodles of bloody noodles. I can’t afford weekends. You know it’s bad when Google splashes on your computer screen and you’re just fucking staring at it.
I do have a name if Drukpa ever does a sister-publication- ‘Brokepa’.