The Clerk

I have to admit that we haven’t gotten much done since securing underwriting by the Russians for the season. I discovered that you can use bitrubles to buy extra lives on the missile command machine in the arcade, so I’ve been going there before lunch to “think about my personal essay” and play games.

So far, the only thing I’ve decided on for my personal essay is the title. I’m going to call it: “Me, me, me.”

You might wonder why I don’t go to the arcade after lunch. Wouldn’t sitting on an arcade stool aid digestion? That’s true, but it is hard to eat an orange push-up while playing video games, and after lunch I like to stretch out on the couch in the office and take my “constitutional” siesta.

Today, the hiss of the electric samovar woke me up. Pee Wee was sitting on his milk crate reading the newspaper.

“Count Pee Wee,” I said, “Why don’t we have our clerk make us some tea? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“If you are going to give me a Russian Title,” Pee Wee said, “I want to be an earl.”

“The Russians don’t have earls. A count is the equivalent rank,” I said, “Why do you want to be an earl?”

“Because of Earl Monroe.”

“You know,” I said, “You can stop being a Knicks fan anytime you want. You can always switch to the Celtics. Even Spike Lee is watching…