There’s a dude at work who looks like Clark Kent… if Kent were a European office stiff of insurance proportions, sans baby curl. Euro Kent is six feet, square-jawed, with hair that emulates a dark, wavy sea. He’s as noteworthy as a blank sheet of paper. The spy in movies who becomes the ultimate jackal, because he looks like everyone and no-one at all. Two seconds after you’ve passed him, you’ve already forgotten him.
“I was never here”.
But Euro Kent aint no jackal, because I’m Jason Bourne. I’ve got him in my sights and this spy is going down. Yeah, you can ask. Why am I taking Euro down to Chinatown? Because he burns my toast, that’s why. To blackened, crusty charcoal. Actually, it’s his tie. Every day… as Britney Spears is my witness, it’s over his left shoulder. Sitting there like friggin Jiminy Cricket.
All. the. fucking. time.
Week one, it’s kind of amusing. Cue chuckle, isn’t that hilare? Euro Kent looks like he’s been running faster than a speeding bullet! Mi buen amigo, Speedy Gonzales – slanted into the wind, tie over his shoulder, his legs a blur of circles, “Arriba! Arriba!”
Week two, it’s getting a little old. What’s with the tie, man? Sitting at your desk, tie over shoulder. Going to the printer, tie over shoulder. Reciting the Gettysburg Address, tie over goddamn shoulder. For the love! You look like a chump. Let the bloody thing abandon ship already, let’s get this over with.
Week three. Okay, I’m pissed. What’s with the fucking tie, man? I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. This calls for an intervention. Not one of those gentle “this is a safe place” kind of interventions, where your loved ones gather round with melted Prozac expressions. Oh no, more like an “I’m an alien who’s gonna burst outta your chest and annihilate the Nostromo” kind of intervention … where I take that goddamn, motherlovin’ tie and I ….
Okay, keep it PG, people. It’s gonna be okay, alright? It’s just a tie.
Everybody calm down…. it’s just a tie.
Cleansing sigh. It’s just a tie.
Cut to me in a padded cell, rocking back and forth in the foetal, muttering softly,
“the tie … the tie … oh God why, the tie…”.