a visit with "Mr. Pompous"
Ahhh, yes. Now that I think casually of it, I can lift my pompous butt from my lofty-position in my comfy La-Z-Boy, and fetch myself a soda from the ‘frig. A coca cola, no doubt. In that humble red can.
Time was, when I was a lad, I only dreamed of sipping this “syrupy nectar,” but as I grew more wiser and wealthier, I find it to be such a common, beleaguered event to just “drink a soda.” Will people ever learn that people such myself require more out of a day in life. More than you, my common man.
You see, “I” am sometimes looked upon with silent scorn and mildly-tempered, civil dislikes just because “I” am not like other men. I didn’t ask for the banner of “unique,” to be cast upon my breast. It just came with my birth. And those who were once my playmates, now hate me as if I were a witch of plagued spells and careless potions. Such lowered-ignorance once caused my wife, “Trudy,” and me to chuckle to ourselves over our evening meal that consisted of only the finest-cut meat, imported breads and cheeses, and France’s best wines that a common man would trade his birth right for just a sip. Ahhh, power. Ahhh, money. What a match when they meet in a heart like mine.
“Trudy,” and I met when we were in our late 20’s. She, an only child to a wealthy family, “The Grandville’s,” of olden Boston, and it was love at first sight. By her for me. Actually, I found “Trudy,” a modestly-handsome woman with a cute dimple in her right cheek. Of course, when we wed “I” demanded that this eyesore be removed. “no purebred wife of mine will be accompanied by me in public venues with a blotch on her cheek,” I said.
Of course, “I” haven’t any dimples, warts, or fleshly-flaws to gawk at. Honestly, and I cannot stress this enough, I am above sin, because “I” was born from special blood flowing in a special womb. Guess those laboring men around me hoping I will give them a hand-out on my morning walk to my bank will never know what it’s like to be living in my skin.
People whisper, “Mr. Pompous,” whenever I walk by them in the fish market. Do I shop at this filthy area of town? Are you deranged, man? No, I would rather be seen with a much-less prouder man (than I), than to know that my stomach and delicate intestines had to digest the filth of the men’s hands who clean these detestable creatures. Fish. My word why can’t civilized men eat like civilized men instead of apes?
What’s that, “Trudy,” dear?” You want to join your friend, “Amy Wisemon-Shortstock,” for tea this afternoon. Certainly, you may. You know, “Trudy,” even though I am a tad wealthier than your father, you can always ask “me” for my permission to walk the streets without my company if, and I do stress “if,” you are joining fellow purebred men and women for worthwhile events such as having tea on her balcony that overlooks the bay. Ahhh, her father’s shipping alliance. That “Amy,” such a homely lass. I should show her more charitable remarks. After all, “I” can, when convenient, show mercy to the less-fortunate. That, my common man, was a slight play on words.
Ahhh, now what can I tell you rather than “I” really have it made in life. I am the president and owner of my own banking institution, married to a very-prominent girl, and thank God, no talk of prankish, teething, puking kids in our future. Just good times. Good wines. Trips to Europe at our will. And getting to go to work whenever “I” choose. Ahhh, how the god’s must smile on a man like me, for I cannot see anyone as chiseled in looks, as powerful and influential as “I” am in this elite place where we live. Ahhh, the soft breath of comforts which I breathe.
My late father, “Winston Curryton, III,” left me his banking interests when he passed sometime ago. He also left me his secret of making money and achieving power. “only lend to the rich and collect no interest,” and you won’t be bothered by the poor wretches who all but beg you for a few dollars to secure food staples when their meager jobs play out.
My father. Ahhh, what a stern thinker, but oh, what a financial magician. I must share this tidbit of humor with you. Father’s favorite book was, “A Christmas Carol,” by that Dickens fellow. I recall father reading this book aloud to me at Christmas when I was only a boy at our huge Christmas tree and seeing his eyes blaze with happiness when he spoke the name, “Scrooge.” That’s a pleasant memory. My mom, “AnnaBelle,” was a perfect wife and mother. Never spoke unless father gave her permission. And obeyed him more obediently than any beast he owned on his acreage. Ahhh, power. How it does feel so good against my skin.
The years are going by as they must. Their fateful shadows shy-away from “Trudy” and me. And our kind. I am told that one day, this event will happen where all of mankind will stand as one insignificant being as lowly as the common ant. Ahhh, social labor and its humor to soothe the aches of hopelessness.
I intend to just live everyday as I have always lived. Like I want to.
I really have not a care or thought to bother me as this thing named “death” approaches. Oh, not me and “Trudy,” but those poor brutes in the mud digging out a wage for a can of beans. “I” eat well everyday. And night. I do not know what being hungry means. Don’t get angry. I was simply born like this. Special. Proud and a pleasure to be around.
I am convinced that even my personal minister, bless his noble heart, he actually believes what he speaks of in his wooden stand on Sundays. Poor “father Drewberry.” His heart must pound with anxiety to see people such as “I” strut ourselves around the town with our eyes firmly locked looking down our sharp-pointed noses at others. Why shouldn’t we? If not us, whom?
Anyway. The point I was trying to make about “father Drewberry,” was at the end, if you will, of my life, and this “judgement” of flesh will one day crop-up, well, “I” am not fretted.
“Trudy” and I will be just fine. If there is anything to what “father Drewberry,” has spoken of for years, then why should “I” worry?
I am a man of means. Of chosen name. And power. Why would “father Drewberry’s” deity seek to punish someone as “special” as me?
Ahhh, slumber. What a tiring day this rainy, lazy Sunday has been.
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