The Entrepreneur
Cheryl, my brainless, yet, well meaning hairdresser, reported that she found the perfect man for me. “He’s Jewish,” she beamed with vacant delight. Well, bring on the Rabbi. To Cheryl, pesky details such as a police record, grasp on reality, or species never seemed to matter. As long as the guy was circumcised, he’s in.
“His name is David. He’s an entrepreneur, and he’s starting up his own business. I can’t remember what kind, though. I told him all about you. He’s going to drop by the shop in about an hour or so. I should be done with your hair by then. Is that okay?”
How could I argue? She had her scissors in one hand and my hair in the other.
An entrepreneur, huh? Translation: I don’t have a job. I’m forty and I live with my parents. Goody. I could hardly wait to hear about how David had left a series of jobs because all of his past employers had felt threatened by his superior vision. So he voluntarily left without any other prospects.
As the hour came to an end, Cheryl was finishing up with the never-be-able-to-recreate-this-at-home hairstyle. I heard the ting-a-ling of the door’s bells and in walked David. He was talking very loudly into a cell phone. David was wearing dress slacks that looked old enough to have been from his bar mitzvah suit, a dress shirt and a woman’s naugahide vest, complete with darts. He sauntered up to us and flipped his cell phone shut. Cheryl nearly exploded with excitement.
“Hey,” he said and did a two-handed-six-guns-index-finger-shooting motion accompanied by a double tongue click and a wink.
Eew.
Cheryl suggested that David and I go across the street to the coffee shop and get to know one another. I hesitantly agreed and stated that I only had half and hour to spare. I had to think quickly, “I have to pick up a friend at the airport.”
We sat down and began talking. David was snobbishly irritated by all of the incompetence he found around him. He didn’t like the “seat yourself” policy of the coffee shop. He was offended by the color of the plastic booths. He was upset because the waitress didn’t bodily risk injury in order to deliver his menu immediately. He described himself as a perfectionist. I would describe him as an obnoxious jerk. I was unsure whether it was self-importance, stupidity, or just a weak grasp on reality. I did know, however, this was going to be a short meeting.
I highly doubted that David, a man who wore his pencils, points up, in his shirt pocket would be a guest on the McNeal, Lear Report, but I had to know.
I asked, “So David, what makes you an entrepreneur? What type of business are you starting?”
“Well,” he began, “I’m gonna start a greeting card line that focuses on insulting, threatening messages. You know, to send to the boss who fired you for no reason, or to the bitch who just broke up with you or to your parents who won’t get off your back about getting a job and moving out. You know, for the people who piss you off.”
Charming. I wondered if there was a market for such a thing. After all, would people spend money to send cards to someone that they despised? Possibly risk jail time? Short of stalkers, or serial killers, I couldn’t think of any. So, I asked. David grew visibly angry by my question.
“I’ll tell you who. The people who are sick of the assholes out there who keep them from getting what they want. Do you have a problem with that?”
I think that David noticed that I was becoming more and more uncomfortable with our conversation, so he changed the subject.
“Hey, Cheryl told me that you drive a BMW. Pretty nice. I’ll bet you make a nice living, don’t you? Don’t you!”
I gulped. What was he getting at?
“I could use some investors. I’ll bet that I could convince you to part with some of your money.” That was my cue. It was time for me to leave.
I stood up and said, “At the risk of being the recipient of one of your cards, don’t count on me.”
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