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It's all in the Delivery

My girlfriend visited this past weekend. In the midst of a long, drawn out story I waited weeks to tell her, she interrupted, "You've the ability to make the most mundane things interesting."

That was a clever diversionary tactic to shut me up even though it didn't work. Damn, it was a good tale and kinda explained what's been going on for the past few years. Yet, if someone told me something that long, detailed and convoluted, I would've clobbered them like a baby seal. Then again, I got the excuse of my neurological deafness and can't listen for any length of time. However, my deafness doesn't affect my SPEAKING. I'm merciless to the hearing unimpaired.

This is where our story begins... {Pull out the java, sit back and let me lull you into a comatose state...}

A long time ago I worked for a money laundering outfit, this time NOT a bank. I wrote copy for web content, far removed from actual operations. It took a month to figure out what they were - not because they were so clever; I was too caught up in my own personal life. Anyhow, during that month I befriended a guy at work, Andre and told him stories about the wackjob who lives across the lake from me because of a series of events which occurred that summer.

To preface, Mervin's binoculars are perpetually fixed on my house. I know. I was in his living room and peered into a pair hooked up on top a tripod. Through the lens, I saw I failed to discard magazines from my living room table. Mervin didn't respect boundaries. I invited him over to eat once. He made his way over every night I was there for months like a stray cat. I fed him in exchange for helping me out with cutting down trees and fixing my boat engine, his suggestions. After five years rebuilding my engine, he finally got upset that nothing transpired other than finely cooked meals.

He groused to a mutual friend, a guy in his late 60's. "I hate going over there. She treats me like free labor. I feel she should give me something in return. Like..."

"She's a friend like I am and friends help each other out. Listen, I helped put in your dock. Should I ask for a blow job in return?"

I broke Mervin in half when my boyfriend came to the cabin for a weekend. Back then, I lived in NYC for part of the week and kept my men there. Avner, a mild-mannered quiet man, was an Israeli who fought in some war or another and once he graduated from university in Tel Aviv, came to New York with not a shekel in his pocket. In three years, he owned his own company, owned a house and car and had tons of clients - none of them Israeli. He was also terrific in bed. We had nothing else in common. Yeah, I neglected to mention I was considerably older than him. Even so, the sex was so great for both of us that, over the course of a year, we did tons of things together to discover what else we had in common to prolong what we had or, even better, to make it into something. Sadly, nothing.

Still in the throes of our discovery period, he decided to visit the get-away place. When I warned Mervin, "Please don't come over, my boyfriend's gonna be here," he went ballistic.

"Boyfriend?" he shrieked, hands forming into fists. "He's coming up here?"

"Yep," I responded. "I'll even introduce you guys."

The boyfriend drove up early Saturday morning and we hung out for a bit. Then, we went for a mountain bike ride. Halfway round, we stopped off at Mervin's.

"From what you've been telling me about him, Maura, I don't have a good feeling," he muttered.

I knocked at the door and Mervin came out. He espied my boyfriend and almost trembled. After introductions, he said, "You were in the Israeli army, right?"

My boyfriend nodded. "Eight years."

"Let me show you a few things," and let us in the house. Avner looked into the binoculars and saw my living room. He looked up at me with consternation. Mervin said, "Come here," and brought him into a guest bedroom. From there, he opened up a wall-to-wall safe.

Inside was weaponry: guns, rifles, swords, bayonets, knives.

My boyfriend's eyes widened.

"What do you think?" asked Mervin.

"You don't want to know," said Avner.

With pride, Mervin then led us down into his basement where he displayed a wooden boat he started building the past winter. It replicated mine except his was 21' long. Avner's eyes widened again.

"What do you think?" asked Mervin.

"You don't want to know," said Avner who, at this point, pushed me up the stairs to high-tail it out of there.

"Take care," I said to Mervin as we mounted our bikes.

When we returned home, Avner turned to me and said, "I forbid you to hang with that guy. I know types like him. One day he's going to snap and that's when he'll shoot you. All the signs are there."

I laughed, "No, he's mental, but he's a coward. He'd never do that." I sidestepped that "forbid" issue.

Avner shook his head. After that weekend, he phoned me a lot every time I went to the cabin. He was truly scared for my well-being. At the same time, Mervin avoided me and raged about Avner to everyone he knew.

That lasted a few weeks until an incident that caused me to break up with Avner. His parents visited from Israel and I was eager to meet them. "My mother's a good woman," he told me.

"What does THAT mean," I screamed on the phone.

"She wouldn't understand what we have."

"What do we have?"

He sighed. "Please, you know I want a child and you're way too old for that." He paused. "When they leave though, I'll spend a week with you at the cabin."

"No fucking way," I said. "You can't have your cake and eat it too."

When Mervin heard through the grapevine that all was over with Avner, he dragged his sorry ass to my house begging for a meal as if nothing occurred. Instead, I extended an invitation to attend an office party held with several people I met at the money-laundering company.

Andre was thrilled. "I can't wait to meet Mervin after all the stories!" he waxed, enthused.

The day of the party arrived and Mervin took over all the conversations at once. He had something to interject no matter the topic. After a while, he managed to kill off the bonhomie. I was ready to rip his face off when Andre grabbed me by the elbow, seething.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"That fucking Mervin's boring," he whined.

"Boring? He silenced 20 people in less than an hour!"

"Well," he fidgeted and then admitted, "You got a point there. However, you've a tendency to make even the dullest people fascinating. He may be a sicko, but he's a boring one."

There you have it: my life's as interesting and fascinating as cardboard. It's all in the delivery... which leads to my father's favorite joke:

A squadron of army jets were flying in formation. Inside the lead jet, a military of defense consultant sat in the cockpit next to the pilot. Suddenly, the speaker blasted, "Forty-seven," and the pilot burst out in laughter. Moments later, another voice yelled, "Twelve," and the pilot cackled even louder.

"What's going on here?" asked the consultant.

"Oh, we've flown so many years together that we applied numbers to our jokes, we told them too many times to each other," he explained. At that moment, another pilot said, "Eighty-two," and the pilot barked in laughter. "Brad's always the jokester," he exclaimed.

"Say, can I try?" asked the consultant.

"Go for it," said the pilot and handed over the mic.

The consultant turned it on and said, "Twenty-five." He didn't hear a peep - not even the pilot cracked a smile. "What happened?"

The pilot looked over at him. "Must've been your delivery."


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This blog and all its posts are a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.








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