Thursday, May 14, 2009

Salut d'amour

"Are you wearing four jackets?" I said to the young man who walked into my office today.
He stuttered and mumbled a bit.
"You're wearing four jackets," I repeated.
He stuttered and mumbled some more, appearing to be confused as to how many layers of clothing he wears in the morning.
I took the very long metal rod which lies behind my desk, and poked the young man. He said ow. I proceeded to attach the hook at the end of the rod to his first jacket, and ripped part of it off. Under it, of course, was another jacket. I did the same to each of the four jackets until I finally reached a shirt, dirty and unwashed.
"Do you wear this shirt every day, without taking it off?" I asked the man.
He hesitantly nodded. I brushed my ponytail.

"Well. What do you want."
"K-k-karla told me to get a job."
"Karla?"
"My w-wife. I mean, m-m-my partner in l-love, that's w-what she calls i-i-it."
"And why do you need a job, person?" I asked as my eyes drifted down to his skinny jeans, where I saw an Animal Collective album poking out from his undone fly. "Ah", I said, before he had a chance to reply.
"A-ah-h?"
My eyes wandered down to his new balance shoes, where his laces were replaced with tiny wayfarers, melted and stretched out.
"Ah" I said again.
My glorious olfactory organ smelt the smell of week old instant coffee, record players, American Apparel, Mexican fedora hats and lookbook dot nu.
"Ahh," I said.

He's muttering and stuttering again. I whack him with my silver cane, which I keep within my tie, and he speaks a coherent sentence.
"K-arla said i-i-if uh, we don't get m-money she can't-t buy her thr-ift shopping."
"So the hipster lifestyle caught up with you, hmm?"
"ALT! THIS J-JOB WOULD BE ALT!"
"Dear boy, I am not offering any jobs."
He then takes off his shirt, revealing a tattoo of Thom Yorke and a terribly filthy chest.
I yawn, as Karla, his "partner in love" comes in. Barry White sings as she opens the door. She screams "KAAAAAARL!", where I duck under my desk at her rich-girl shrillness. I can just feel the walls of my office being contaminated with GUESS and Louis Vuitton germs. Yet, no self respecting hipster wears Louis Vuitton- on her body she wears leggings and a white t-shirt, like a impoverished aerobics instructor. But I know that underneath it all, she's still a rich girl. I can smell it on her.

Golly goose, we got into present tense there for a bit! I feel like Nabokov, except not so Russian.

I leapt out of the window at this point, and apologies to the woman who had her jacket damaged by my fall. I heard Karla yelling out the window, some terribly sad story about her young lover needing a job because otherwise they would not be able to afford the electricity.
"Use candles" I yelled back.

4 comments:

gilda said...

golly goose!!!!! oh monsieur lagerfeld, i didn't know u said words like golly goose!

Ingrid Holm said...

This had me laughing the whole way through. I never knew you were such a witty writer, and I enjoy your sardonic humour.

I have a lookbook account, don't hate me! I am terribly unpopular, but I really don't mind.

http://lookbook.nu/ingridholm

JULIE ANNE said...

DEAR KARL,
PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME THE RATHER LOOSE REFERENCE YOU MADE TO NABOKOV (WHO, BY THE WAY, WAS AN EXPATRIATE FOR MOST OF HIS LIFE AND QUITE, I DARESAY, REMOVED IN HIS PROSE STYLE FROM TRADITIONAL RUSSIAN LITERATURE) IN THIS POST. ONE SIMPLY DOES NOT FEEL LIKE NABOKOV. NO ONE CAN SULLY HIS MEMORY BY FEELING LIKE HIM. FEELING LIKE NABOKOV IS LIKE SAYING YOU FEEL LIKE THE RESURRECTED CHRIST. LIKE SAYING YOU FEEL LIKE GOD. LIKE SAYING YOU FEEL LIKE THE GREATEST GENIUS THAT EVER LIVED, EVER. ACTUALLY, THAT IS SOMETHING YOU WOULD SAY, BEING KARL. THIS TRAIN OF LOGIC HAS LED ME TO THE SOLUTION TO MY QUESTION.
LOVE,
JULIE ANNE (yes it is truly I. although, as you have probably surmised by now, I'm normally way too cool to comment on your dear lovely little blog, I simply had to stoop to it this time. I can now be satisfied, having made a complete fool of myself. the end.)

Efraimsdatter said...

Dear uncle Karl,

Don't you think it's demode to lie about your age? If not, it's a mystery that you clasmates are older than you.

Kiss