Ready for gossip? I tell you up till 6:00 AM. This morning I got to Abe’s for my haircut. And he is now a member of some Seattle swinger’s club. Did I get all the details while he just ruined my hair. I hate it, but all the women in the front when I walked out just fell over it. “How nice, what nice hair, is it natural”. Uh, er, yes, ma’am. . . . It does not look like me—it’s get down funky. I’ll get used to it. At least now I look the part.
I just got home and Sonja calls. Her friend can’t make it. Out the door, Charlie calls me back. It’s Reila, she wants me to come over. But, but, I get to Guildford late. Sonja and I buy an army of booze, and right by the door standing there with some goon—you got it—Liz. She looks right at me and I put my arm around Sonja like let’s get out of here now, but in a split second she (Liz) recognized me and starts to point me out to the goon.
We get over to Reila’s (and her boyfriend). Tammy shows up and they do some speeders. [Author’s note: this section is edited out. I do not do drugs or alcohol, but I regularly know people who do. The reason for purchasing the drinks was that it was our turn to treat. The new haircut was my first “non-hippie” style and intended for the office because it “made me look 24”.]
Well, that’s fine, Reila’s boyfriend takes but one look at me and he’s worried. Wha’s the matta, I don’t look like a guidance counselor? The house is a family of father, son and two daughters. Father divorced, son shacked up, one daughter married to a turkey & the other raising her bastard brat on welfare. But it’s okay, these deadbeats are entitled to an easy, happy, equal existence.
Lot’s of people say, hey all that ain’t so bad. Well, I say, would you tell me what is worse? Oh, Reila may start work at the taxation center. Small world, huh?
[Author’s note: again I remind the reader I was just out of college. I did not know about people living their whole lives on welfare. I didn’t want to go to Reila’s house, the one described, but she was friends with Sonja. To this day, I don’t associate much with divorcees, shack ups, and badly married people.
I had applied for a job at the tax center during the recent layoff, and it would have been a drastic career change for me. I was a finalist, the only man in 300 women who passed the 65 wpm typing test. I chose the phone company, and the rest is history.
Liz, a.k.a “Crazy Liz” was one of the few older women I’d dated. She was a mess once I found out the facts. All she knew besides me were these shiftless losers and boozers and could not understand why I didn’t want to meet them. Liz and I dated off and on until 1987.]
