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The True Agenda by DW Richards © DW Richards
Recently I met with John to discuss his desire to start up a tour business. He’s not a close friend but as an accountant I thought I’d give him what advice I could and at least help head him in the right direction. We decided to meet at the Buzz Restaurant, a small chic establishment located downtown amongst a promenade of stores. When John arrived I was already seated in a booth near the large semi-circular bar that was situated centrally against a long wall. “I hope you don’t mind if Justin joins us,” he said, after joining me at the table. “No.” I found the amalgam of purposes to be a little peculiar, but not disagreeable. “Great! It’s his birthday next Saturday. I thought we could do a little celebrating.” “The name’s not familiar. Who is he? Have I met him?” “Oh, that’s right. No you haven’t.” John has a capacity for carrying on several unrelated and never fully elaborated conversations at once. While spreading the disorganization of his satchel onto the table, he excitedly popped aloud tangential thoughts concerning his new venture which he randomly interspersed with the equally dizzying synopsis of Justin, a particular compendium to which I politely gave my very best oh that’s right I did ask who he was attention to. Justin was a twenty-three year old former adult film performer who left the business and currently worked in a movie rental store. I was unclear, and, to be honest, uninterested in how they had met, or how this young man had somehow managed to become John’s platonic flatmate. One who had the interesting habit of walking around the place wearing nothing more than his briefs. John eyes widened when he relayed that little bit of news. The meeting’s true agenda, while not stated, had started to come into focus for me. The guest of honour arrived during the first round of drinks. He was very tall, thin, but not lanky, and had a handsome, strong-featured face with chestnut eyes and hair. It was a great first impression, the impact of which rapidly dissipated as he spoke. Ah, Justin, Justin, Justin, a treat without calories. In general, I tend to stay away from anyone under thirty. Even when I was under thirty I wasn’t a fan. My wisdom in this matter had been confirmed by Justin who annoyed me no end. He was a tiny bit arrogant, somewhat vain, rejoiced a little too much in youth, had more opinions than knowledge, piled everyone over thirty into the same dumpster, assumed that all of us in the ‘long-in-the-tooth’set yearned for him, and he craved attention. I cannot overstate this. All night, he craved and craved and craved. His eyes were glassy and a little bloodshot so he may have been high on something, which might account for his ceaseless nattering. Sadly, I think I’d feel better about the guy if he was. I could hold out hope that being an attention-whore wasn’t his natural state. But that is mere speculation, grounded only in the circumstantial evidence of his eyes and the way that thoughts seemed to whisk around inside his head like a humming bird on amphetamines, ricocheting haplessly off the interior walls of his skull. Ping, ping, ping, ping, ping … . During the brief snippets of time when he stopped talking and I actually managed to share my thoughts on getting John’s dream off the ground, John would gleefully nudge Justin and say things like, “And you could be my assistant.” That was the evening’s actual agenda. John fancied a stray named Justin and wanted to impress it. As much as I could, I attempted to conceal my impatience at Justin’s frenetically discharged babblings, but was not entirely successful. It was more in my manner and tone than in my words. I exuded “Oh, for the love of God! Shut, the hell up!” Sadly, from this single meeting, I was left with a grim foreboding about the success of John’s future endeavour. A plethora of ‘mis’ surely awaits; misadventure, missteps, misguided, miscalculated, mistake. I still wish him the best.
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