The Assimilation of Mr Thomas Parsons
Evidently it isn’t the first time someone has asked Jammy Guitar if they could use one of his gas masks. He’d wanted $25 for the day, and had tried to sweeten the deal by throwing in a geiger counter. I have no need for a geiger counter, or so I hope.
“So why’d you need it” Jam asks, rummaging through the detritus of his fruit loop breakfast. “You doing some fumigating?” We’ve known each other for years, since before high school. He was the first guy I ever struck, a fight I don’t regret to this day, as it was on account of hearing him call his own sweet sister a slut. Still I feel uncomfortable telling him the whole truth.
“I have a new job.” I say, he waits for more. “They told me I need to shave and wear something smart. They said maybe on day one I’ll need a gas mask. It’s good money, and it’s legit.” For a moment I think about myself in a suit, how the waistband digs at my haunches if I sit, and the tie makes me feel like an asthmatic kid at school sports day; it makes me look like someone from history. Instinctively I stroke my beard and imagine how rubbery my shaved skin will feel. “Good money” I repeat “and prospects too”.
Jammy Guitar looks at me, and scratches his ear. Light sneaks through his window and highlights each microscopic flake of the crumminess that we breathe. “You have to shave? Shit! I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into Thomas Parsons”.
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