Different Slants

© July 30, 2012

Everything’s connected.

A few days ago I was late to work, or the illusion of work at my unfrequented collectible store, and as I pulled out of my driveway, I  noticed my wife Joyce’s old Kia had a left rear tire pretty close to flat. Not a good thing.

So, on the way to my store I stopped at a nearby gas station where I knew the guy there well enough to ask for his help repairing her tire without immediate payment, because neither one of us knew what was the problem, yet.  He agreed, no problem, and I shot off to my retail Tomb.

I called Joy on the way and told her it was okay for her to drive there—right now!—get her tire repaired and not to worry about  paying for it. We don’t use credit cards and pay cash for whatever we need or must buy. Tough times in the Heartland.

I told her to drive slowly as possible and to be very careful making the few turns so the tire didn’t come off the steel rim, as it seem to be about to do. She agreed and left immediately to deal with it. Joyce is quite deferential to me on inconsequential matters.  Anything involving tools has never been her concern and is therefore suitable for men only, because we are, as all women know, barely one step above beasts.

After I opened my store, she called, told me what was wrong (a rusty screw in the tire) and that it cost $20 to fix. I called the station and assured the clerk there that I’d pay for the tire repair on the way home and he said he wasn’t concerned.

And that was that.

Seemingly.

(Read on …)

Robert M. Katzman’s Amazing Story:  http://www.differentslants.com/?p=355

First posted August 8, 2007

Second posting July 18, 2012

One morning some years ago, near Chicago, I was at a currency exchange where I would go to pay my utility bills. I suppose I could have mailed my payment, but it was faster for me to pay it in person. Besides, the dark-eyed girl working there behind the glass had a great rack on her and she always smiled at me, her blood-red lipstick gleaming on her soft, luscious lips. And when she walked over to punch my account numbers into her machine, I got a global view of all her–assets.

I didn’t mind, she didn’t mind, and the whole day was better for the experience.

So, on this particular day, I was waiting in line to see my favorite cutie. I was on the left side of the small room where she always worked behind the bullet-proof glass, and there was another young guy at the teller down the way from me paying a bill too, with about a four yards between us.

I am white. He was black. I think my sexy teller was Assyrian, but that wasn’t crucial to what followed next, on what seemed to be just another ordinary morning.

It was very quiet with the four us going about our business. Then, another young white guy, about twenty, blonde and thin, maybe five foot eight, walked in the exchange and stood silently behind me. I was almost ready to go, when the chime on the only door to the place clanged loudly as the door was suddenly shoved open and three adorable, very young black children scampered into the room, followed by a short, hesitant, and thin to the point of appearing to be nearly anorexic, man of about thirty or so. The kids were full of energy and called the petite man “Dad”.

Then, to my disbelieving eyes an enormous blob of a woman ended this little parade. She was close to six feet tall, and for lack of a more accurate description, the woman most closely resembled the evil Jabba, The Hut character from the Star Wars movie.

(Read on …)