Yellow Jersey; story # 6

Jersey Shorr Story # 6

 

     Jersey Shorr was a contented man.  He had recently been rehired as art columnist for ‘Art from Around the Globe’ monthly magazine.  He sat in his new/old office, with his feet up on the desk, looking at the painting he would be reviewing for this months’ issue.  Just look at it; what a piss-pore bloated monstrosity this thing probably was.  His lack of vision was no longer a problem, for he now knew there was no reason to hold back criticism, not that he had in the past, because owner Walt Siever had been told by the readers of his magazine that they looked forward to Jersey’s ranks, for they provided some levity in an otherwise bleak world.  As he gazed on the piece, visions of putrefied cow intestines kept coming to his head.  Not because he could actually see the painting, but because that would be one hell of a rank!  So that’s what he wrote in his column.

 

 

     Three days had passed, and this months’ issue had just hit the streets.  Jersey had just returned from a 3-martini lunch, and he was feeling no pain.  Yes, it was good to be king; he could say and do anything, and there wasn’t a damn thing Walt Siever could do about it.

 

 

     At last, it was time to call it a day.  He was going to go home and just unwind.  Coming up with something derogatory to say about a painting you couldn’t see was hard work.  He already had a couple of ideas for next months’ issue, and he wanted to write them down before he forgot them.  It had become more like an obnoxious stand-up routine than reviewing paintings, but this was more like the way what he wanted it. 

 

 

     As he neared his car in the employee’s parking lot, a man was slouching against his car.  Jersey shouted,

 

     “Hey; what the hell do you think you’re doing?  Get off my car!”  He’d just purchased the fancy sports car, and he didn’t want the paint to be scratched.  The man stayed right where he was.

 

     “Hey, I said get the hell off my car!” Jersey shouted.

 

     The man, who appeared to him to be hard-of-hearing or drunk, at last answered,

 

     “Oh, I’m sorry, I seem to have dropped my keys, and--oh, here they are; they were right here in my pocket the whole time,” and he straightened up, and walked towards the front of the car, keying Jersey’s new car all along the side.

 

     “Hey; look what you’re doing!’

 

     “Oops, I guess I didn’t notice.  Sorry!”

 

     “Didn’t notice?  How could you not have seen what you were doing?”

 

     “Oh, easy; it’s like you when you’re reviewing art work; you obviously don’t see what you’re reviewing!”

 

     “Who are you, and what are you babbling about?  By all means, don’t let me interrupt your drinking; go ahead and have a few more!”

 

     “My name is Karl Toner, and I’m the artist who painted ‘the putrefied cow intestines!’, you complete dick!”

 

     Oh, oh, I’m in trouble, Jersey thought.  “Well, I call them like I see them.”  Boy, is that ever a whopper!

 

     “Like you see them?  Ha!  I don’t think you can see, say for example, my fist about to smash you in your weasel-like face, dick.”

 

     “Now hold on; I don’t know if you know it or not, but assaulting someone just because you disagree with them is--” and at this point, Jersey realized just how big the guy was, and realized that he wasn’t in the mood to be reasoned with.     

 

     “Look behind you!” he shouted, and took off running.

 

 

     Jersey locked his office door behind him.  He had told the receptionist at ‘Art from Around the Globe’ magazine he didn’t want to be disturbed, and settled in to wait until he’d try to make it to his car under cover of night.  He had his own private bathroom, but what about food?  He’d had nothing since breakfast, the martini’s he’d had for lunch didn’t help fill his gut, and his stomach was making angry growling noises.  It was only 4.30 pm now, and he’d have hours to wait on this summer’s day.

 

The End