The work mailman just asked if there was somebody named “Vinny” in our office. He was holding a small package.
I said “nopes” automatically and now I regret that the “doing the right thing” instinct kicked in.
Who is Vinny? Why did he have a package sent to our office way out here in the suburbs? Does he wear a gold chain? How many people has he killed? Can we hang out on his block? Maybe have an espresso? Have I been watching too much Sopranos?
And then there was that one time when I was fresh outta high school and floundering around like a moron. I didn’t have a job and was whining offhandedly about being poor while over at my sister’s house. Whining like teenagers do because everything should’ve just been given to me without me putting in any effort.
And then my sister’s friend, Don, said to me, “can you run a jackhammer?”
Now that wasn’t something I was expecting. I thought to myself, “I can’t run a jackhammer. I’m a skinny, artsy dork wearing Converse high-tops and a Garfield t-shit.”