It Always Comes in 3’s

For the longest time, I had an actual red dot age spot right smack in between my eyebrows and some wise ass would always ask if I owned a 7-Eleven, and then one day it was just gone. Wish I could make that happen for a few other things that are now attaching. Just as we say death comes in 3’s, so did Red Dots for me.

Red Dot to Airport:  This 4am trip took the prize.  My pick up was 3:40am and of course being the anal retentive punctual person I am, I loaded in on time from the Marriott.  One more client was supposed to be picked up along with me, but he wasn’t there yet so we hopped over to the next hotel and picked up big boy, the Gurgler who sits behind me.  We go back to the Marriott, and the driver is calling the missing client, Tyrone, on his cell and it’s going straight to voicemail.  How I knew it was a Tyrone is because the van was equipped with a mounted tablet that displayed all your personal information for the entire world to see.  Tyrone was clearly on CPT (colored people time) and since our driver was a kind of brotha himself (Jamaican) and understood such things, we waited.  Tyrone took his sweet ass time sauntering out and hoisting his double wide ass in next to me taking up all of the two remaining seats leaving me a solid 6 inches.  No greeting, no apology, no nothing.  Oh, happy day – the Doo ragger next to me and the Gurgler behind me. I don’t know what the hell orifice those noises were coming from all the way to LaGuardia, but something was about to implode and it wasn’t going to be pretty. I was just hoping there were no leave behinds from the Gurgler in the Vanna White after he was offloaded.

I must have some sign over my head that reads “Therapist” or “Minister” or both.   Jamaica hadn’t even put the gear in drive after offloading Doo and Gurgler, and began telling me his woes and about how he likes older women.  He was 37 and was married to his first wife for 18 months, and they had two children which I told him was very impressive since last I heard it takes around nine months to produce a baby.  Then he was married to a woman 14 years older, but he couldn’t stand her kids. My guess is because her kids were his age and they fought like siblings.  Now he’s on number 3, an American woman versus Jamaican. Number 3 was trying to get her dog walking business off the ground, but since Americano’s ass was fused to her sofa and t.v., it wasn’t likely she was into exercise, dogs or walking.  He tells me he’s really trying to make this marriage work by working multiple jobs, but he got to make “hisself” happy if you know what he means.  (Oh yea I know wha you mean you little hound dog you). He was all about making “hisself” happy and he don’t care if his wife catches him because he’s tried to make her happy and it ain’t working, so in order words, Jamaica was justifying his hall pass. Mind you, this all transpired the 12.3 miles between LaGuardia and JFK.

Knowing what I know about a lot of shit, in the .3 mile before I jumped out of the moving van, I straight up told Jamaica, “Find hisself !!!!  Hell! Three marriages in 37 years was almost a marriage a decade starting at birth, and leave that non-working lazy Americano ass on the sofa and figure hisself out.”  For any man to be married that many times and especially to one 14 years older, has some Mommy issues and should put himself up for adoption to find a Mother not a wife.

Jamaica got my name, number, and address but it wasn’t from me.  It was all in bright lime green on his tablet.  I just hope he never shows up at my doorstep with the Red Dot Vanna White loaded with his 2 kids, sibling/step kids, 2 Jamaican women, and 1 Americano holding a leash with a t.v. set attached to it.  Nothing would shock me anymore.

Red Dot Home – I had a flight home that landed 45 minutes early, and I called Red Dot, and the nice dispatcher told me my pick up was already at the airport and to call when I had my luggage.  Now how lucky am I? Apparently, not so lucky. Forty five minutes later and the luggage belt hadn’t even coughed out one suitcase from my flight, and of course I was anal retentive in getting to the airport early so I’m sure my bag was the first one on, since it was definitely the last one off.  Finally I get my bag and call again and they tell me where I’ll be picked up.  Everybody from my flight and the two flights after me are going, going, gone and I’m the last standing human icicle on the curb.  I call again and am told my driver was in the wrong place.  Ya think? but who am I to bitch just coming off a week in Aruba.  Then I meet Ephraim all apologetic, animated, and offering me a bottled water.  I noticed his English was very strained and since I was the only one in the van, I asked him where he was from. That’s all I ever have to do is ask one question.  Yes, I got a 45 minute version of how Ephraim literally won the lottery to come to America from Ethiopia to live the American dream.  I know how much he makes an hour, where he lives, where his sisters live, his hopes, his dreams of being a plumber, and his views on Americans. Someone shoved me a little levity up an orifice that night. It was the perfect ending to a perfect trip considering I got home 2 hours later than I would have if my flight wasn’t 45 minutes early.

I wasn’t home a full 24 hours and was already exhausted with my life of non-authorized, non-licensed, non-paid therapy that went into in full swing.  I ripped into a friend for her fucktardia-ness behavior, and it was warranted. I clenched my teeth, and kept a mental vice grip on the memories of my Tiki Cabana and dirty bananas served at 10 am.

In case anyone should wonder about my recall abilities, I’ve written most everything down somewhere on something.  Just ask my friends who had to come put it all in chronological order by subject matter.  I save my signature line, “the disk is full” solely for work shit.