Indian for dinner.


For those on the 9-5 Monday to Friday carousel Saturday means something different, something special. A milestone to grind towards. Because you know that when you hit that magical mystical 48 hour block the world goes from a ball-achingly boring sepia tone to a LSD enhanced explosion of clown vomit. A world so colourful and bright you’ll wonder why those balls ached in the first place. You can kick back and relax in that technicoloured haze knowing that the other 120 hours of your weekly life – that are apparently so horrendous that you put all your eggs into the weekend basket – are days away.

But Saturday in our household is just a day where I get to work a half hour less, there’s no day-care open to give the Wif a little reprieve from the two legged terror, neither of us can get to the gym and we somehow justify it in our heads to just pound the ever loving hell out of that $27 bottle of never-ending cleanskin vodka sitting in the frosted forgotten land of our freezer that I’m thinking of calling Siberia.

Last Saturday was a little different though. Last Saturday I had the pleasure of entertaining two people who couldn’t organise their own schedules enough to make it into my place of employ at a reasonable hour like 98% of the population. But they had money, and they were buying. And my bills ain’t going away no matter how much I try to dodge my adult responsibilities by playing Minecraft on my phone while passing bowel movements.

As it was, I didn’t escape work for another forty minutes.
You’re probably saying ‘big deal’ or ‘man up’, which is fine, go for it. I shout that at myself every morning in the mirror though so I’ll just let you know that when you say it, it doesn’t work on me.
It’s like trying to annoy a duck by pissing on it. Good try, but in the end you’ll just look like an idiot with his dick out in public and the ducks will be on its way, giving you odd looks as it waddles off thinking you’re some water-sports loving pervert. Which is fine if you are, I don’t judge if you get off on piss, none of my business.

Back to the encounter.
I got the sale, I got in my car, I got to about 20km/h over the speed limit on the way home and I got zero police pulling me over. All together not a shabby effort.
When I got home I changed out of my leather shoes, pressed work slacks and button up business shirt into a beaten ass pair of leopard print Chuck Taylors, camo print cargo shorts and a black hoodie. You wouldn’t recognise me as the man that just squeezed those extra dollars out of you 20mins earlier. Especially seeing as I had the window down on the drive home and my hair was tousled into a caricature of a Mohawk.

After brief hugs and kisses with the Wif and squeals and screams with the spawn, we agreed as a family that none of us could be eff’d cooking dinner. Yes, we even asked our 1yr old if she could cook for us. Which may seem laughable and desperate but I have no doubts that she could do a better job than me. The guy who has set the wall on fire cooking sausages on the barbeque on three separate occasions. Which is a heck of an achievement when you learn that my house is made of bricks, which aren’t traditionally considered flammable.

We rock paper scissored and decided on Indian for dinner, we then went best out of five to decide who put the spawn to bed and who collected the food. I won and got to walk around in the cold and dark to go collect food in a neighbourhood that’s dodgier than my aforementioned ability to circumvent adult responsibilities.

As I made my way out, I stopped by the mirror at the front door to get one last look at my unsullied face, just in case of the likely event that I got beaten to a pulp on my walk.
There, looking at my reflection, I had a funny thought. I look like a thug.
I look like I’d mug you if you ran into me in the street, you might even cross the street to avoid me. If I hadn’t already crossed to avoid you, because I don’t want to be near you.
But the fact is, you’re more likely to be mugged by me if you encounter me dressed to impress.

Approachable and willing to approach, not head down with my hood up avoiding your eye contact.
Smelling of Polo and promises of a bargain, not looking like I’d smell of stale pot and promises of meth and gut stabbings.
Smiling at you in a way that belies my overwhelming desire to push you in front of a truck so you’d not ever bother me with your boring stories of how you owned X product for X time and would never have one again because your uncles fathers cousins pet hamster read a bad review of it in choice magazine twelve years ago, as opposed to my resting bitch-face that pretty much projects that exact message.
And the funniest part is – if you were to meet professional Jacob at his place of employ, and not hood rat looking Jacob walking in the dark to collect a bounty of Indian cuisine – at the end of all the smiling, nodding, gasping in sympathy at your horrible tales and me smelling absolutely terrific; you’d end up shaking my hand and fucking thank me for taking your hard earned cash off of you.

The world has changed kiddies. Always remember that the clean cut man in the suit isn’t always going to be the one with your best interests in mind.
And the weirdly dressed misanthrope isn’t always going to be the one that’ll rob you.

But most importantly, while someone may seem friendlier when they look good, they’re likely a better person when they’re not being forced to play nice.

Also I smell terrific all the time. I may dress like an idiot but there’s no excuse for leaving the house without cologne gentlemen.

Things aren’t always as they seem.

– Jacob

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