“Peter. Peter? Please take that chair.”
I do a big number: it’s called Sitting Down. Chair? So that’s a chair. Don’t believe I’ve seen one before, how does it work? Peter has presented one buttock, then another. There’s a spot on the seat. Might be dangerous, scrape it off. Notice that one bootsole is dogeared; hike up the 44-inch waist on my secondhand pants. Sit. Ah, sitting. Why didn’t someone tell me about chairs before? Chairs good. I’m in a mood to ham it up: we’ve had two or three Heinekens since the last shabby hotel. John, Mr. Hall, my ersatz brother-in-law, thinks Peter is padding his part just a bit. Yet by this time he must know, as I certainly do, that my disguise is impenetrable. Greed affects the cognitive faculty. Anyhow, so what if I’m a fraud? As long as the Social Security folk are taken in, I’m worth lots of money. The spastic wrist comes up, misses my mouth by an inch, aims again. Too late: tobacco juice has brimmed over my lower lip and down.
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