checking email at the mortuary

scene: 21:47h. i walk into the room and see dennis sacked out on the floor wearing sunglasses (the room is brightly lit) with headphones on. there is audio leakage of jimi hendrix manipulating metal strings to the tune of villanova junction. he cocks his head forward, lifts his shades up and squints at me.

dennis: there you are, where have you been?

me: oh, at the mortuary – checking email.

dennis: you've been *what???*

me: [as a matter of factly] i was checking email...at the mortuary...seeing if there were any messages!

he lies his head back down for a slice of a moment then perks up, stares at me then bursts out laughing with as much hysteria as someone lying down could. his belly pad shivers and the image of a white trash, irish-american, red-haired, musctached lucky boddhisatva comes to mind.

dennis: hah, it didn't really strike me until the second time you said it! only *you* would give me an answer like that.

i should have known it. i've seen you do it. i remember that day!

[there was one evening dennis had ridden up on his bicycle and practically fell over on the bike when he stopped. he was carrying a full bag of laundry, a backpack and the wind was gusting a good 20 mph. he said he had to tack to make it upwind and thought he would have to walk the last stretch. after catching his breath he said, "son, you are the only person i know who would non-chalantly sit there on a bench in front of a mortuary smoking a cigarette and checking email as if you were at a café or something!"]

me: heh, you aren't surprised at my behavior are you?

dennis: hah!!! hell no, you just made my fucking day dude!!!

me: always at your service, my friend...

dennis: god, the fuckin french assasin stikes again... [he puts his shades back on with a smile]