The setting: business, strictly business.
The players: Myself and Mr. Cal W.Wilcox, Esq.
“Fine to meet you sir, I have heard much of your operations and your recent initiatives within our shared industry!” I offered my hand to the gentleman who walked towards me with his hand already extended.
“Certainly sir, fine to meet you as well, and yes, much going on, much indeed.” He replied kindly. I instantly took note of both the gentleman’s stature and age: he was not quite five feet, six inches and clocked-in in his mid-fifties.
“I trust finding my office proved no challenge?” I asked.
“Why, none at all sir!” He replied.
As the gentleman and I stepped into the interior lights of my office I was immediately taken aback at the selection of hairstyle that he chose to don. I shall apologize up front as I can offer no other visual reference to liken his hairstyle to other than the infamous German dictator during the Second World War; his name is not worth mentioning. Only, this gentleman’s hair was slightly less kept, not quite spit n’ shine. Rather, it resembled a bit of a tuft, per se, where it should have been smooth and in place of being shiny black his was a kind of graying brown masked at the tips by a do-it-yourself home dye of an orange-maroon hue. This was a shocking observation; yet, I nearly succumbed to death’s doorway when I noted that his mustache, a thin, pipe cleaner-looking trail of hair, was also tinted in the same manner!
“Won’t you please have a seat?” I ask politely, attempting to regain my composure and make as if I was not gawking at his grooming standards.
“Thank you; that would be fine indeed.” He replied as he took a seat.
The “thank you” and the “that” came out with a subtle lisp, too much emphasis on the “th..” part. Now, this gentleman was not gay by any means, it was ultimately clear, but his lisp was discernible. Oddly, with the hair, mustache, and lisp now shouldering themselves to the front of the line in my thoughts, I was now recording the man’s complete exterior.
There was lots of interesting things going on with his suite and shirt/tie selection. The shirt was of no great significant, but I must inform that the tie was! It was one of wider width, resembling more Mike Brady circa 1970 TV than 21st Century chic. It was secured with an extremely large double-winsor and was pierced with a Freemason’s tie pin that also matched the one on his lapel.
“…with that being said, sir, I kindly ask your operation’s consideration for this, such a unique situation.” He said with a flick of his right hand.
His sentence finished, yet I could not gather the specifics as to the aforementioned. You see, I could not help but be captivated by the gentleman’s large gold dual pinky rings that twinkled in the florescent office lighting and captured by eyes as buzzing house fly would distract a curious cat. Inquisitive, I was further led up the man’s arm, and at this juncture I must stop to explain his blazer. It was no ordinary blazer. In fact, he donned an extremely complex basket weave-looking stitched blazer in shiny greys and black. It was one of those materials that producers will not allow in front of the television cameras for fear of causing eye paralyses in viewers distracted by moving lines. A material that should one look to intently may cause extreme dizziness followed by queasiness.
“Oh indeed Mr. Wilcox, I do find the market lacking in those exact areas…” I lied.
I was not listening at all at this point. There was an odor. An odor of some over-manufactured perfume for men. How could I have missed this upon meeting Mr. Wilcox initially? It was an aroma of sweet fruit punch mixed with a stale pine tree car air freshener. The type of scent one would pour rather than dab or mist into his hand prior to application to the face, neck, and unmentionables. It was potent, to say the least, and I was awfully distracted; however, I was intrigued on the same measure. Truth be told, I rather enjoyed Mr. Wilcox's type of people: individuals not bound by social and cultural norm.
The rest of the conversation shall be left to the reader's imagination; it is unimportant. You see, It is always enjoyable to consume a slice of realism every now and again is it not? How often does one pass the day and night and yet never quite confront the uncontrollable facts that exist on the exteriors of the respective life façades? Encounters with certain “types” of people always strike the match of realism in my own life. I’ll use quotes for “types” as we all maintain that “type” of person in our own regarding: a person that looks, acts, or talks a certain way or is simply interested in a certain thing is that “type” are they not?
This recent encounter with a certain “type” of gentleman offers neither specific nor important message other than that he provided me that walk-away-smiling sort of realism that is continually desired by us so closed-minded humans.
No comments:
Post a Comment