Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Saturday Night: New York Shitty Style
I imagine quite a few of you are eagerly watching the clock and busy making plans to celebrate the day of St. Patrick. I considered going out to celebrate this great holiday myself (after all one of the core requirements of living in Greenpoint and liking it is having a fondness for drunken hooliganism) but have since thought the better of it. This is not due to lack of interest or love for the Irish (and the many contributions they have made to this city). Rather, Mr. Heather has seen fit to do the celebrating for me.
Last week the Mister had to work second shift at his job. While not happy about this arrangement he understood it was necessary given his line of work (I.T.) and towed the company line. This workload rotation also entailed he report to work the following Saturday. And work he did: until 7:00 p.m. Upon packing everything up Mr. Heather called me on my cell: he is going to go out to dinner and “blow off some steam”.
It was about 1:30 in the morning when he arrived home. Not only was he in a rather festive mood, but he also bore a present for yours truly: six loaves of bread.
Mr. Heather: I am a good husband, see I brought you some bread. (giggling)
Miss Heather: Why do you have six loaves of bread?
Mr. Heather: Because I am a good husband. You always complain that I never help with the grocery shopping. Well here you go. I got you some bread. (more giggling)
Miss Heather: It is 1:30 Sunday morning. Are you trying to be Jesus Christ or something? If so shouldn’t you have brought home some fish too?
Mr. Heather thought this was hilarious. In fact, he found a great number things quite funny. Like Eliot Spitzer’s latest fall from grace, for example.
Mr. Heather: How much for a blow job?
Miss Heather: What?
Mr. Heather: How much for a blow job?
Miss Heather: Fuck off.
Mr. Heather: I want to know how much a blow job costs.
Miss Heather: I dunno, why don’t you ask our former governor?
It was at this moment I realized what it must have been like to entertain client #9. Save of course the person making the solicitation was not the Governor of New York, there was no way in hell I was going to net $3,000 from this “transaction” and these “negotiations” were coming to pass in a living room in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. No four star hotels in D.C. or airline tickets for me. Women of my station get courted with six loaves of bread.
Come to think of it, I think Mr. Heather (as merry with drink as he was) might have been onto something: had Mr. Spitzer paid his own wife for sexual favors he wouldn’t have found himself in such a pickle. This having been said, I was tiring of the Mister’s shenanigans and after some none-too-subtle encouragement on my part he finally realized that what he really needed was sleep. To this end I assisted him on his journey to the boudoir (which was sort of like a toothpick propping up an elephant). I am pleased to report nothing whatsoever was broken. Except some bread.
The next day I recalled a story I had read recently from the September 19, 1902 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. While not a St. Patricks story per se, it does involve Greenpoint, drunken chicanery and five foot five inch tall police officer taking a seven foot tall 300 pound reveler to the drunk tank. Enjoy!
Not surprisingly, Mr. Heather sported the “honest blood of shame” when he finally arose Sunday afternoon.
Miss Heather
Comments
2 Comments on Saturday Night: New York Shitty Style
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bitchcakes on
Mon, 17th Mar 2008 11:26 am
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missheather on
Mon, 17th Mar 2008 4:25 pm
Dare I ask, but I must, because of the giggling on his part – Did Mr Heather *steal* the bread? I know they tend to deliver very early in the mornings, sometimes leaving it in front of the stores if they aren’t open yet.
He didn’t steal the bread. But some of the contents of his briefcase were missing (READ: STOLEN).
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