Monday, November 01, 2010


Gerald Ingersoll

Seems like a nice guy. Has a friendly, open face. Kind of husky, and keeps crossing and re-crossing his hands. Things are going fine until he veers the conversation to his ex-wife and their custody battles. His half smile dims when I pull out my neon blue hockey puck and slam it front and center on the table.

James Kellogg

Ferociously red hair, like a tawny tsunami on his head. Kind of unnerving. Also, his name makes him sound like a president, but he’s not. He’s a watercolor painter, which, okay, does sound awesome. I ask him some shit about watercolor painting and he goes all bland. Time for the hockey puck? Yes. I slam it down.

Patrick Roy

Two first names. He’s a banker. A banker? I say. No, he says, a baker. Ah, this keeps the hockey puck at bay for a moment. Tell me, I say, do you come home with all sorts of delicious, slightly malformed pastries? Like this apple crumble has too much of the crumble part? No, he says, we don’t usually do that. Some kind of health code violation. The hockey puck descends like all hell on the table. He gets the idea.

Andrew Sanders

His lips are a bit too fleshy. I hook shot the hockey puck from the side almost like an afterthought.

Bill Tedstrong

Is that a name? Apparently. Fine. Let’s get on with it. The hockey puck is burning in my hand until he tells me his best friend is his grandmother. He loves all her stories about pinching pennies during the war, New York in the fifties, and the true meaning of grit. I almost put the puck away, but then he orders a diet coke and vodka. The puck makes an arresting cameo.

Sam Richardson

Ex-professor who quit academia to pursue his dream of making boats. I get the feeling he’s trying to seem all sandy and carefree. The puck quivers in my hand. What else do you like to do? I ask. Well, he says, I like to walk the boardwalk in Cape Cod in the crisp early morning while sipping a nutmeg latte. This sounds a little rehearsed to me. I do two fake outs before serving him the puck and also giving him the finger.

Andy Glade

A private investigator. Really? I say. Do you have any neat stories? Every spy on anyone famous? No, mostly it’s just looking through corporate records. Well, that solves the mystery of the missing puck, I say, as it appears on the table.


Anonymous allison said...

I fucking love this.

December 29, 2010 at 11:25 AM  

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