1.
Law #3: When you drop your toast, it will always land jam down.
This occurs as my torso twists suddenly to the left, my elbow glancing across my side dish sending it precariously toward the edge of the bar table at which I sit. Reflexively reaching to catch the dish, my fingers fumble and release the apricot-jammed toast at one time destined to be my breakfast, yet no more. Four full rotations before scoring a perfect face plant on the checkered floor. This all in response to a greeting from a man unknown to me at the time.
A British chap. A full head of Arian hair complete with eyes as bright blue as the open seas – remarkably so. But the only other remarkable thing about him is that he is entirely unremarkable in every other aspect. Besides, that is, possessing an air of being coiled, ready to spring at any given moment. He dresses modestly, obviously not swayed by the modern fashion engine – he wears no logos whatsoever. He is perhaps a few years older than myself. 32. 33. A handsome devil, some could say, yet no wedding band adorns his finger. He holds his sizeable nose aloft as if testing the wind at all times.
His greeting was peculiar. Said he, “Can I beg a stick of gum from you?”
As I disgruntledly lifted my toast from the floor with a sigh of regret for yet another Morsel Unpalatized, and curiously reached into my suit pocket, wondering that he asked not if I even had a stick of gum in the first place, he furthered, “I’m sorry about that, friend, but to make it up to you, would you like to see a carnival trick?”
“Sure,” said I.
“Before you draw out your pack of gum, let me guess what brand and flavor it is, a’ight?”
“’A’ight.’” Said I. I delight in the British accent.
“Let me see. . .” this he spoke, drawing his palm to his back-tipped head in a melodramatic fashion, “Seems to me it’s Wriggley’s – NO! Trident!” With a sudden lurch forwards, “And,” returning to his contemplative pose, “the flavor is ‘Green. . . Apple. . . Fusion.’” He drew out. “Am I correct?”
Forgetting what gum I had, I did a double take at the pack – he was dead on. Dead as paint. It was a flashy pack at the store which I couldn’t help but try – I’m a sucker for advertisement.
“Do you have x-ray vision or something?” Said I, laughing in surprise. The back of my mind is tingling.
“It be super if I did, but the real explanation is far more rudimentary.” Aha! Code amongst alter egos – the emphasized “super” spoken candidly in conversation. I must reply appropriately.
“What’s your super secret?” I respond, also in code.
Leaning forwards, intently, while diminishing his voice, and giving me the laser eye, he speaks, “It’s a gift, you might say. Kind of a special power.” Excellent. Then it’s confirmed. Now to flash the super-secret hand signal inconspicuously. Done. The sudden gleam in his eye tells me it’s recognized, and he returns, with the counter-hand signal. A broad, jovial smile spreads itself across his face. A jovial smile, yet secreting a tint of evil. The evil of self-satisfaction one feels when one knows something – or perhaps has a certain advantage – which the rest of the world does not. Though I had just met him moments before, something inside told me that this was the exact same grin he had when as a boy of ten, he, through some means or other, escaped maternal retribution after sneaking the biggest cookie out from the cookie jar, and, having consumed all evidence of the crime, has nothing left to do but sit back and revel in his knowledge of a job well done (as well as enjoy the pleasant euphoria emanating from his tummy-tum).
“Seamus.”
“Stu.”
“A pleasure to me you, Stu. Let me buy you a drink.”
And so my acquaintance with Stu began. But we’ll save more about him for later.
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