Red Sky

Someone once asked me if I was born sarcastic. My reply was ‘Were you born a douche bag?’ Not my best retort but effective enough to deter any further conversation Yup, good old sarcasm at its finest.

Besides being sarcastic, I’m also jam-packed with random thoughts and useless information, especially when trying to break the ice. It’s also a fucking pain in the ass when all these random thoughts pinball through my mind and it’s even worse when I don’t get the kind of reaction I am hoping for.

One morning, a gentleman from out of town took a seat at the bar asking for a ’Cup a Joe’. While pouring the man his drink, I decided to converse with the visitor. "Why is a cup of coffee referred to as a ’cup of Joe’? Maybe some guy named ‘Joe’ came up with that phrase. What if his real name was Danny or say Carl? Can you imagine a conversation starting with “Cup of Carl, please.” Not skipping a beat, I continued.

“Just think about it, two guys sipping coffee, pinkies raised, and one says to the other, “This is a splendid cup of coffee, Joe!” I changed my voice to add a dramatic effect.

“Why thank you, Carl, the other imaginary man replied.” There was a small smile (if you could call it that) on the man’s face along with a chortle (one of those heh, heh cute laughs). Needless to say, the customer then proceeded to lecture me as to why a cup of coffee is referred to a ‘cup of joe’. (Little side note, the gentleman worked for a coffee company in North Carolina.) What are the chances of that?

One day while noshing on a bagel, one of the town’s busy bodies invaded my privacy by asking me ‘Penny for your thoughts’? Normally I would make up some bullshit response, but it just so happened to be Mrs. Felton and being nosey was her forte. I decided to give her a sensory overload which hopefully would deter any further inquiry into my personal life.

“Hmmm, 'penny for your thoughts'? Mrs. Felton, did you ever think that Sir Thomas More back in 1535 who coined the phrase: ’Penny for your thoughts’ took in consideration that a penny back then would increase in value over time?”

Her face was priceless as she replied “I don’t understand…”

“It’s simple Mrs. Felton. Due to inflation, the fee to pay a penny for a thought is now approximately a couple of thousand dollars." I smiled. (And by the way, I did some research and discovered that Sir Thomas More was in fact the first person to say ’Penny for your thoughts’).

Yes, I've been asked that quite a lot. Sigh.

I gave it a moment to sink in then added; “Since I’m sure you don’t want to pay a grand for one of my thoughts, let’s just call the whole thing off. " I took a bite out of my bagel and cream cheese while waiting for her response.

“You’re a strange woman, Maggie Corsica,” was all Mrs. Felton said before walking away.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I shouted in response. With a giggle, I dove back into my bagel. Mission accomplished.

Let’s face it, the only people who give a shit are those closest to you, unlike the Felton’s of the world who only want to pry into personal lives for the sake of pure entertainment.

There’s a fine line between sarcasm and being a bitch. Over the past few years, I’ve managed to curb my anger (sometimes) and allow my sarcasm to take over. Strange enough, this approach developed into a skill of making up bullshit responses (random thoughts) which turned into useful diversions.

Looking back all these years of keeping people at bay has become my mission statement. I’ve discovered this was truly a way to avoid a ‘penny for your thoughts’ giving way to saying, ‘a penny saved is a penny earned’, or something like that.

The underlying reason for my sarcasm stems from Dad’s death. In the beginning of the mourning stage, those who gathered up the courage to broach the topic of Dad, eventually were forced to adapt to my means of handling my inner turmoil.

Trying to make small talk was useless and eventually turned to a pat on the back. Fumbling words of sympathy only made things awkward and helped build up a nice wall to hide behind. It didn’t take long before most didn’t mention Dad at all. Then sarcasm joined the game, winning with a royal flush followed by several shots of whiskey.

Selective memory came into play the very moment I received the horrifying news about Dad. Before then, my days were busy with college classes, studying, my job and the freedom to hang out with my friends. My days had become routine and melded into one another. It was a nice life, and I didn’t want anything to change. Dad and I were happy, and I liked it that way!

Selective memory is also helpful when referring back to days long gone. When trying to recall what I was doing before I learned of my dad’s death, I couldn’t tell you. Shit, I could have been naked and running free around the house, marking my territory. So, what I was doing that day didn’t matter.

But if someone asked me what my reaction was when learning about my dad’s death, well… that episode will be forever implanted in my memory banks. Yes, selective memory doesn’t do shit in this scenario since I threw up all over the Harbor Master’s pristine uniform.

Yup, for some stupid reason I remember the uniform and that freshly starched scent. The poor Harbor Master never knew what hit him. (Well, actually he did, but wasn’t prepared, especially when no one shouted: “Incoming!”

After puking on the Harbor Master, I was led to the couch to try and steady my breathing and avoid hyperventilating. It was then, I realized, I’d never see Dad again; never come home, never give me a big old bear hug, never share some whiskey and never... just never... Selective memory took over and I’ve stopped using starch altogether.

Yesterday marked seven years since Dad’s death hence Mrs. Felton’s ‘Penny for your thoughts?’ It seemed like yesterday when the Harbor Master told me the bad news. Once I surfed and turfed all over the man, I decided that the only way to get by difficult situations is to spew sarcasm and babble random thoughts thus thwarting any desire for others to dig deep into my psyche.

So, in conclusion some people are stupid like a bag of hammers. They take up space and draw away oxygen from others. These are the people who walk around with their heads in the clouds or buried in the ground oblivious to whom they hurt. I’ve been asked an array of dumbass questions after Dad passed.

The top stupid question came from the town’s crowned Miss Lobster. “Do you think your father knew he was about to die?” she asked while adjusting her plunging red dress. I couldn't tell if I was dumbfounded by her question or the fact that she literally took out her boob in public only to adjust it before stuffing it back into her dress.

Shaking my head I replied, “Well, I’m not sure, maybe I’ll ask him in person... Oh yeah! He’s fucking dead and doesn’t give a shit! and that dress you're wearing is hideous!”

Bitch or not, that’s completely up for discussion.