M is for Myg

Live your god damned dream

Archive for the 'Pauly' Category

Coffee: Met a Stranger 2.8

New Wawa Manager

I went to see the manager at the Wawa. I’ve been steering clear of the place, too many temptations. And it’s a piss-poor excuse for a bodega, like most of the crap in this new land–all about convenience and speed. But business is business.

Pauly shakes down the WaWa

“You know a young woman named Mygdala? Came in here looking for a job?”

“That one?” she said. “I wouldn’t put her on a register if she was my sister. I told her she should try at the motel–maybe they’ll let her clean the pool.”

An image of the cashier’s face bouncing off the register flashed through my mind. Her spouting off about family and Myg like she knew anything at all was an offense to the Holy Mother herself.

Paolino and Philly Filcher

I could see she didn’t cop to the skinny. “You wanna keep selling scratch-offs?” I told her. “Honor thy mother.” She blanched.

The manager grumbled. “Okay. She can start Monday,” she said.

That was more like it. I almost smiled.

Then I got the call. “She wants to see you,” he said. It was my turn to start shaking.

A Marvelosa

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From the private journal of Dr. Moody (Met a stranger episode 23)

I can’t stop thinking about him.

Pauly-face.jpg

There’s something about him that stays with me, long after we’ve finished our espressos and said buona notte.

Pauly-Mill-coffee.jpg

I’ve an obsessive need to know more. His accent, his mannerisms–he’s from the old country. How did he get here? Why? And how did he manage to get employment in Little Philadelphia’s only barber shop when the man can’t cut grass evenly? Read more

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Brand new Cadillac

I was in the barbershop late last night trying to fix those damn leaky faucets. Some meathead building inspector named Boston–of all things–has been snooping around busting my balls. Said if he were me he’d sue the manufacturer for selling crap like my designer sinks “new.” I was on my back, head under the counter trying to work around the U-bend when Pauly came in whistling.

“You’re chipper,” I said.
“Don’t even try it, you fuck,” he replied.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m feeling good, asshole. Don’t even think about tossing a wet shadow on my party.”
I thought about throwing the wrench at him, but his head was framed by the window. If I missed it would cost me at least a pane. I went back to tightening the stems. Then I felt something hit my chest. I looked down and saw this picture.

pauly meets sable.png

“What’s this?”
“Okay, I’ll tell you,” he said.
Read more

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Mainlining

The barber of East Philly

I went and got Pauly from the Y.

“It’s about fucking time, you sonofabitch,” he said. He was grumpy from sleeping there for the past five weeks while I got the barbershop renovated.

“Nice way to greet me, grandpa.”

“I’m not your grandpa, you shit.”

“You’re everybody’s grandpa. You’re old and you smell bad.” I gave it back to him. “And you’re my mother’s aunt’s brother-in-law. That’s too complicated to explain all the time. Most old people are dead, so you get the honor.” I showed him around the barbershop–the Mainline Barbershop, here in Philly, Topgol–and I think he liked it, though he’ll never admit it. Read more

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