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Cue the Boomtown Rats

So I’m sitting in my underwear in front of the main Mac at somewhere around six this morning, hacking away at one of my friends, who I caught on camera in a display of public drunken duress yesterday while ambling around on Forest Avenue, when The Wife walks into the office.

“You’re up.”

“I never went down.”

“You came to bed right after I did. Your snoring woke me up.”

I point at BootzDog, curled in a ball in a corner of the office. “That was him.”

“He’s not allowed on the bed.”

“Says you.”

She looks over my shoulder at the monitor. “Any good pictures?”

“Not yet,” I reply.

I tossed an empty cigarette pack at the old iMac’s keyboard and its screen came out of its SETI@Home dreams.

“Those are the originals.”

She poured herself a cup of coffee and started scrolling through the roll, occasionally asking “Who’s this again?” The Staten Island Paddy parade always leaves her believing I know the whole goddamn Island, because in every one of the eight years I’ve been dragging her to this annual event, sometimes walking the line, lately not, she usually meets a couple dozen people she’s never met before that I’ve known for, like, forever. Or at least it feels that way.

I was continuing doing scatological things to one of my nearest and dearest when she tapped me on my shoulder.

“Who’s this one?”

I look over at the other machine. Some bald guy wearing a green Hibernian jacket and an official paddyboy sash is waving at me.

“No idea,” I say.

“He yelled over at us…at you. He said “Hey, Timothy Lynch” and you yelled back “Smile, you bastard” and he waved and then you took this picture.”

“Yeah. So?”

“You’re telling me you don’t know him?”

I looked at the face on the screen and came up totally blank. “Fuck if I know. I guess…probably…he sure shit knew me, but I have no idea who that bald boy be.”

She gave me the “You are such an asshole” look and I turned back to photoshopping. She finished off looking at the pics and said “”Where’s the Congress guy?”

“Why the fuck would I take a picture of Vito?”

“You took a picture of Schumer.”

“I had to,” I said. “He laughed when I yelled out “Hey Chucky, it’s Sunday, where’s the press conference?” And he was carrying that goddamn bullhorn. I like the guy. Besides, he’s the only Senator we got who I haven’t imagined getting hit by a truck. And he knows where Dongan Hills is. Chucky Cheese is okay in my book, even if he is a partisan hack. Is this a fucking warrant I’m walking down here?”

I got a second dose of The Look and then she called the bald guy back onto the screen.

“You really don’t know this guy?”

“Total fucking blank.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“What?”

“Everybody calls you “Lynch,” or “Red.” Nobody I’ve ever met calls you “Timothy.”

“My Mom does,” I say.

“She calls you “You.”

She gets up from the desk, kisses me on the top of my head, gives my ponytail a yank and amscrays off for work.

So now I’ve been staring at this face for like five friggin’ hours and I cannot fathom it ….

Who the fuck is this guy?

I am so not into Mondays today.

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