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Monday, August 02, 2004

That Potter Bitch 

I was on reference duty at the front desk when I spotted John the Fisherman heading straight for me. I hadn't seen hide nor hair of him for months. He’s been laying low after his business dreams of opening up a marijuana collective were dashed (went up in smoke? haha), and when I asked him how things were going he told me that he's officially retired now and is just enjoying life. As usual, he reeked of marijuana and was so stoned that he could barely open his red, beady eyes. Once he confirmed that he had me trapped/held captive at the reference desk he launched on this soliloquy which, although mostly nonsensical raving, might make a great performance art piece or actor’s audition monologue.

He started in about how he wanted to donate a book in honor of the son of his landlady who O.D.'d last month on meth. “You know which book I’m talking about, whatever it was called by that Potter bitch, you know, that Scottish writer.” I asked him if he meant J.K. Rowling and he said, "Yeah, that's the one. That lucky whore."

Every year he wants to donate a copy and have it inscribed in memory of his landlady's son, and then he started talking about what an f’in shame it all was because he was a good kid who got himself into speedballs. And then he felt it was important to warn me not to confuse goofballs and speedballs, because goofballs are heroin and cocaine, and speedballs are speed and heroin. And that led to his telling me about how he used to deliver fish to the chief of police's father, who never paid him until the end of the month because he was a tight Chinese bastard, but now he owns blocks and blocks of real estate. His daughter who is now the chief of police remembers him, and he went down and had an appointment with her and they had a big talk about the Hell's Angels motorcycle gang and she told him that she had warned their leader that if they didn’t keep to a certain area of the city or if they sold any of that meth shit that they would have their bikes impounded and get the shit kicked out of them by all of the Irish cops, who hate bikers more than anything, man. Which led to a convoluted story that I couldn't quite follow about his nephew going to jail for methamphetamines, and how he told him that if he caught him again he would make sure his newphew was sent down the river where since he only weighed 160 pounds he would find out what it means to be a woman. Which then had him railing on about his opinions concerning methamphetamine and all of the white girls who were hooking to support their habits themselves and what a shame it was because they all had abusive black pimps. And then he did a really offensive and bad job of mimicking what must have been his version of jive pimp speak, and got so worked up that he was jumping up and down and flecks of spit were forming at the corner of his mouth. Maybe I got a contact high from all of the resin he excretes, but soon all I could think about was how he looked like a silly little baked hobgoblin, and I had to bite the insides of my cheeks not to start smiling which I knew would lead to a full blown giggling jag, which tends to happen when I smoke pot. When I finally could get a word edgewise I told him to tone it down with the racist talk. He then apologized and left, but not before threatening to come back real soon to see me.

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