The Space Between Two Boobs

To the feminists—for comically misinterpreting the title.

“Thanks, Dante. I never thought about brushing my teeth with sandpaper. Thanks for the tip.”
“I never said that.”
“Sure you did. Just a second ago. Go home and brush your teeth with sandpaper, you said.”
Bobby Dunce took a sip of the black coffee in the mug in front of him. I still waited for these eggs sunny-side up I was supposed to get an hour ago.
“No, I didn’t say that. What I said was that investing a half million in the toothpick industry is about as smart as brushing your teeth with sandpaper.”
“So you’re saying I should invest in toothpicks?”
If my coffee were at least lukewarm, I would’ve thrown it at him. But it got so bloody cold after waiting a bloody hour for a bloody plate of eggs. How the hell do they expect to choke down that Mexican black water excuse for water without eggs? It’s bloody inhumane.
“No!” I cried, not only upset with his abundant stupidity but also the condition of my bloody eggs. “No, no, no, no! I think it’s a bloody terrible idea.”
“Oh ok. So, a quarter mil, maybe?”
‘Pop’ went that vein that’s vibrating above my eye. “No. What I’m saying is that investing any money in the idea is absurd! Bloody absurd!”
He nodded stupidly, pretending to understand how much of an idiot he really is. And somehow, his lawyer, that being me, will have to bail his dull, balding rich ass out of some legal mud-hole. “Oh ok.” He sipped his coffee. “So, why do you say ‘bloody’ a lot? Are you British or something?”
This is the sound of an idiot. This is the sound of an idiot that makes more money than I do. The thought alone has kept me for the last three nights.
“No, I am not British. I’m Italian-Irish.” Yes, Dante Joyce is about as British as Turkey.
“Really? Can you cook?”
“Can I cook? What the bloody hell does that have to do with anything?”
“I dunno. Didn’t you say you were Italian?”
Why do all the blonde idiots inherit all the big bucks? Why couldn’t my dead Uncle Seamus be rich? “No, I can’t cook.”
“Really? I thought all Italians could cook.”
They say being a transactional lawyer is easy. They’ve never met some of the semen-depositories I’ve had to put up with. “I’m only part Italian. If I could cook, I wouldn’t be in here, now would I?”
“I don’t know, would you?”
I sighed. “No, I wouldn’t.”
The young waitress with the red hair and blue shirt came by with a check-thingy in her hand. “Anything else for you two or just the check?”
I felt the fifth vein of the day pop in my forehead. A tingling sensation ran up my back and stopped at the base of my neck. I really wanted to yell. Or marry her, kill her, and collect her life insurance. Only a brilliant lawyer like me would ever come up with that. “The check? The check! Where the bloody hell are my eggs?” I tried to sound as nice and as insulting as I possibly could.
“You ordered eggs?” she asked.
“Yes. Yes, I did. But that was an hour ago!”
“Oh, I’m very sorry, sir. My fault entirely. Would you still like those eggs?”
The storm calmed a bit. The prospect of eggs made this bitter lawyer and his bitter stomach quite happy. “Yes, that’d be nice. Thank you.”
“Sure. Sorry, again.” She walked off, going into the kitchen.
Bobby coughed and picked at his jellied toast. He doesn’t like toast, but he decided to try new things since his dad died, he says. “So you’re only part Italian, eh? That mean you can partly cook?”
“No! I cannot cook! You’ve known me since we were kids. I’ve been your lawyer for the last ten years. When the hell have you ever known me to cook?”
“I dunno. I thought maybe they teach that in law school or something.”
“Yes, yes, they teach cooking at law school! In fact, I had it my third year right after contract law and right before human anatomy 101!”
“Really? Cool. I didn’t know they taught anatomy at law school, too. That mean you’re a doctor too?”
I shuddered, but I would’ve rather punched him and that bitch waitress in the face. “No, it means you’re an idiot.” I sipped my coffee. Gasoline mixed with sand would’ve tasted better. “Now, before anything obtuse comes out of your mouth, let’s discuss the will.”
“What’s an obtuse?”
“Never mind that. The will!”
“Who’s Will?”
“No, you blubbering idiot!” I slammed my fist on the table; the salt and pepper shakers danced and shook their tails on the table. “The will! The piece of paper your father left you after he died!”
The diner fell silent. Everyone in there was watching me, watching me yell furiously at that moron. The air refused to move. The voices refused to rise, in hopes of me saying something venomously insulting to my boobish friend across from me. They stared at me, like Lady Justice’s statue stares at guilty criminals with cold, dead, stony stare.
I cleared my throat, trying hard not to look at any of them. “So where are my eggs?” I giggled nervously and quietly. That’s when the waitress poured the searing hot decaf on somebody’s crotch. The man’s screams as the acid-like black liquid burnt his package shattered the silence. The room now laughed at his horrible misfortune whilst he ran aimlessly, screaming and flailing his arms wildly; steam rose from the wet, black stain on his pants’ crotch. That’s gotta suck, I thought as he ran outside the shop, screaming obscenities.
“I wonder what’s bugging him,” said my slow-witted client and friend. “The food’s not that bad.”
“The man just had coffee spilt on him. I wouldn’t be happy either.”
“Oh, ok.”
“Now, about the will…you’re father gave you a hundred million after his death, as stated in the will.”
“Really?” asked the wide-mouthed imbecile.
“Yes! You wanted to invest half of it on toothpick stocks! Are you that dull-witted, you weak-armed paper-pusher?”
“But I’m not weak-armed. I played football in high school.”
“Yeah, I know we went to the same high school. They kicked you off the bloody team after two weeks! It was a new record. I mean c’mon! Why you? Why the hell do you get a hundred million dollars! You, who couldn’t throw a bloody football! Why you of all people? Does God hate me that much?”
“I don’t know. What’d you get him for his birthday?”
I vaulted from the booth and slammed my fist on the table. The diner was once again watching me intently. But screw them. If I wanna get mad, I get mad. Besides, where the hell are my eggs? “You’re an idiot! You don’t deserve a hundred million dollars! I’m worked my ass off day out and in, and I’ll never ever see anything near that bloody amount in my whole life! And you, who’s never worked a bloody day ever and who’s been collecting dust, fat, and flies from the day you were born get a hundred million! And for what? Why? And then you wanna blow it all on toothpicks? What in the name of bloody hell is wrong with you?”
The icy stare of the diner never left me. They looked at me, burning a huge gaping hole in the back of head, figuratively of course. The waitress approached me. I was still huffing and snarling like a slobbery dog, watching my dull-witted friend watch me with blank, dull eyes. “Sorry to interrupt,” said the waitress, “but the chef says we’re out of eggs. Would you—”
“Check please.” She went to the back and returned with the check victoriously gleaming in her hand. I breathed out and sat down. The diner broke out into a bustle of chatter once again, forgetting my existence completely.
“So,” started my dull-witted friend, “are you paying or should I?”
I sighed. “I’ll pay.”
“Ok, cool. I’ll guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” He got up and put on his jacket. “Oh, by the way, you shouldn’t eggs; they’re bad for your cholesterol,” he said, walking out the door.