Vileful Tuesday: A definitive insight

This morning I feel, was one of the rare occasions where I commited the most number of acrobatic unlawful maneuvers so as to inflict maximum damage on my self esteem. To that effect, the entire episode ensued in a matter of 22 minutes while paying a visit to the friendly neighborhood dry cleaners weilding a money clip with six one dollar bills and no check book. You see they do not accept plastic. In debit, credit or tidbit form. Most people do not agree with bananas as a form of currency like our predecessors shamelessly dealt in . Nor did I happen to have enough yams or llamas from my personal stock to trade in.

Scenario:
The transaction: for six shirts and four trousers
The cost: unknown
The customer: half asleep me (without the benefit of cash/slef esteem or check book)
The store owner: Gregorian chanting 600 year old Korean lady (no offences to anyone!)
The apprentice: Chavo the Vato with iq levels matching the writer's (zilch!)

So this is what happened. I woke up at 7:30 wrestling with the ridiculous mission-impossible gameplan of going through my morning ritual, which is sh*t/shave/shower in under 25 minutes. The idea was to finish that, kick Arun in the rear to wake him up, drive to the dry cleaners, pick up my clothes, return home, change into my working man's monkey suit and head to the salt mines. Little did I know that a small calculation error on my part to gain 20 more minutes of snooze would cost me wrinkles on my shirts, two donuts, my self esteem and sixteen ounces of body fat.

I walked into the dry cleaners rubbing my eyes and presented the receipt that had some scribbled code which deciphered as "big dodo of a man, six shirts, four pants, plenty space in each item." So the kind lady walked upto me gave me a look like I was from the IRS and proceeded to spell the query, "Isa today?" I nodded. "OOOOOOH!" To which my reaction was short but effective, "uh-oh!" I mean, I could've worn my loin cloth and spear to work, but that would've given away my secret identity as a boar hunter. So, she disappeared behind this huuuge mass of clothes and there was silence for the next few minutes. She reappeared with my friend Charming Chavo the vato with the power of the steam iron holding my loot without the benefit of the plastic bags and laundry tags. I was confident that no one would've misused my stuff. Who'd want to wear a shirt big enough for two with a guest room!?!?

Now the real deal. She pronounced the expense. "Twenty nine doll-uh!" To which my reaction was "!" In my infinite wisdom I'd neither carried enough cash nor a check book. Talk about the collective wisdom of a bag of rutabagas. I was staring at a sign that said "No checks for amounts less than $20!" And here I stood with my sixpence wit. So, now what? The bright glow of the Seven-11 sign blinded my sight as I slowly turned towards the storefront to look outside. I made a dash for Arun's car, jumped in the seat and exclaimed "7-11!! GO!!!" Arun turned to me with a raised eyebrow and grimaced "It's 8:10 dude, I'm late...." The next 30 seconds were most influential in convincing him to make that trip. He watched in horror as I gasped for breath throwing my arms in all directions mumbling incoherent babble and skillfully mouthing the words "Work! Clothes! Gah! Pig! Clumsy! Bah! Attire! Gimp! Sheeshkabob!"

I saw was the Seven Eleven sign. In front of me. Ehehehe.. Nothing like a panic attack impression to threaten! I made a dash for it. The guy behind the counter was a renegade Bangladeshi with a 72 inch beard and the demeanor of a mountain lion. I asked 'ATM?' His eyes grew wider, his mouth opened to reveal steel teeth implants while a wisp of smoke escaped. I tottered to the section with donuts, instinctively picked two danish cheeseblocks, bagged 'em and walked to the register. $10 dollar cash limit. Rats!

We backtracked. Arun had to park on the otherside of the road. I had to jaywalk! I dont support breaking the law. Unless it's absolutely necessary. When the ice cream wagon's music turns into a nightmarish ritualistic dirge meant to enslave your mind and churn your brians into roadkill. It's a funny feeling... When you're running across a major street in one direction holding your shorts, a handful of dollar bills and your sanity. When motorists are either eagerly flipping you or identifying the similarities between you and body cavities. It's an even more stranger feeling when a few minutes later you run across the same street in the opposite direction with dry cleaned trousers in one hand and dry cleaned shirts in the other, while your shorts have given up holding to the sides of your aerodynamic waistline. The same motorists still find it most amusing to identify more similarities between you, terminologies referring to copulation and the human ear. All in a morning's work. Ha... back to work now...