botanical garden

Warning: the content below, as relayed by my 86 year old friend M, may be considered offensive.

“The dozens ain’t my game but the way I f**k your ma is a goddamned shame.”

“I took your father in my car, and I beat your ma. Now you know who you are my son, my son.”

I’ve written about M before. We’re friends. He visits the botanical garden where I work. He was in WWII. I had asked if he had PTSD from the war, from killing people. M’s Jewish. He says to me, “I tried to kill as many of those motherfuckers as I could!” I asked him to stop right there because he was getting me hot. Some of you may have heard me say that I have been turned on by a 90 year old man. This is him, though he’s really 86. I like extremes so I round it off. He has soft hands and likes to touch my face – don’t say il! He has good genes. He’s spry, cute, funny as hell, he exercises, and still has sex. He says it wipes him out for days after however. He comes to the botanical garden where I work with different women – cute, 70 something year olds with nice shapes. I don’t get jealous. I just hope they’re not jealous of me, because he comes to see me in the gallery to tell me different things.

He told me those lyrics above yesterday. I said, “That’s hip hop M!” “Yeah well, where do you think hip hop came from?” He says. He went to school in the South Bronx in the 1940s. The school he went to was half black and white. I was surprised, although I did see a dead relative’s year book with half black and white people from back then. Wow. M had black friends. He told me stories yesterday from the days of yore, and how he learned those lyrics up there. He used to get into a lot of fights too. I am totally crushing on M.

I work at a botanical garden. There’s a gallery there. I’m at the front desk. Some people want to stand there and talk to me like I’m Lucy from Charlie Brown. They think that the only thing I do all day is count people (actually I do count them). I hate them (except for the ones I don’t hate). Would somebody tell these people that I work there? My desk has a high back extending up from the flat part — like a shelf — so the public can’t see me fiddling around underneath it – maybe that’s it.

Two days ago I fucking wrote the blog post for our website; today I composed some ‘thanks but no thanks’ correspondence; I looked over the artist database that I created for edits; I ate 15 girl scout cookies; I mailed 30 brochures; I ordered lunch for the sun room project committee, &c, &c, &c. And finally, my proudest moment, I explained some of the art in the gallery to some kids in a real loud and authoritative voice because I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about.

The rat bastards who come in to chat (excepting ones I like) because they’re needy and self-centered – get a goddamned life! In the name of Zeus I did! This guy comes in and talky talky talky blah blah blah he says. I finally say, ‘Ooookay, now, well, I hope you enjoy the rest of your day now. Nice seeing you now, there.’ Frank Fucker doesn’t get it, so I say, ‘Ooookaaaaaayyy now there, I’ve got to get back to my work now…so, I’d better…” This guy looks down at the menu that I was trying to order from for the meeting and points, saying, ‘You’re not working – that’s a menu.’ I read ‘How to Win Friends and Influence People’ so I didn’t bludgeon him with the stapler. How dare you, Frank Fucker??!! How DARE you???!!!