My lawyers’ name is Paul Paddy. He was one of Frankie’s nerd buddies back in high school. They started a club in high school, the King Tut Club. Fucking idiots. Anyway Paddy liked weed and one summer day we sat in my ’64 Saab and smoked weed at the San Clemente campground. We ate a dozen deviled eggs apiece. I respected him for that. He could hang and as we grew older he could put away booze and handle all the partying that I could. How he got through law school, or college for that matter, is beyond me.
Nowadays I wonder why people hire him. He seems to be in a constant state of imminent urination. That is, he grabs at his crotch as he rocks back and forth or waves at imaginary creatures.
To visit him is to listen to his latest favorite song at ear splitting decibels, or watch him adore his cat and tell tales of its feline feats.
He might pop in a DVD of Howard Stern’s Funniest Moments which I’ve never found the slightest amusement in. He is often in possession of pills which I’ve never seen before which he doles out as he sees fit, which is entirely too slow to suit me. I thought they’d outlawed Quaaludes, but he seems to have found something quite similar.
Why he still has a driver’s license is one of the great mysteries of the world. If he ever does get pulled over, they will lock him away and he will pace like a caged animal. That will likely be the end of his career. He is insane, but like many lunatics, he gets by.
I should talk.
We used to drink in bars and shoot pool and shuffleboard. He is such sorry competition that I would wind up drinking unbelievable amounts of alcohol to level the playing field. That led to distractions on my part. What can I say?
He looks like a small gorilla with back problems.
He waddles like a penguin when he walks. He is my only true friend. He taught me how to be a friend. I hit his Volkswagen with a grapefruit thirty years ago. He has not forgotten. He will be missed, for I fear he will die. It would be good if he could drive me to Iowa.