Newspaper Office III

~~~

by Elvis Bojangles

~~~

A few minutes later this sprite morn, Cloyd Campfire, the assistant editor, pasty & red-eyed, comes in singing:

~

Play on the blog

Play with yourself

Play on the blog

Stay on the shelf

~

Get on the road

Get her hand in yer hand

pack a light load

travelin’ man

~

He sits down like one big ache behind a book-piled paper-cluttered desk and, like a corpse with one last breath, groans, “Coffee.  Please.  Coffee.”

Campfire has timed it perfectly.   I’m already standing in front of the fresh-brewed pot, so I pore him a cup, traipse around, place it in front of his nose.

“Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you everybody.”  Whenever he gets a chance he says this.  He’s been saying it about 10 to 20 times a day lately, as if he’s President Obama finishing one speech after another all day long.

I go sit behind my own desk that has nothing on it.  The top of it is polished and shiny.  My cup of coffee placed there all by itself looks real good.  A little swirl of steam floats above the cup like a top hat.  I take a sip of coffee.  It tastes real good too.  Now I am open for suggestions ~ but not from the assistant editor.  “Fuck you, Cloyd,” says I.

He says again, “Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you everybody…”

~~~

 

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