Viking
Viking is smoking a cigar in his wife’s white Mercedes Benz.
His wife is sixteen years his junior. I mean sixteen years isn’t that far out, but he tied the knot late in life, a 1960s’ casualty. So now he’s 60, she’s early 40s, and she switches from Lexus to black Mercedes Benz, from black Mercedes Benz to white Mercedes Benz, and I work for him, I run his packaging business.
And I’m in the warehouse, he pulls up in his wife’s white one, and hunkers there puffing on a cigar. His wife doesn’t smoke cigars, doesn’t smoke anything, so you can imagine the stink in wake. That’s when it dawned on me that he might be marking the territory, puffing not really at her, but at the other guy.
I was right.
In the end the wife moved out and Viking went south, I mean deep south. Eight years back they bought a house on the waterfront, started a kid, life grabbed in the last sec by the skin of the teeth began tasting like you wouldn’t know, and hram!
He must’ve been taking something, because often he talked nonsense when I called him about business. He lost his main supplier, some buyers, owed me almost eight grand in back salary when I left.
I called him Viking because he was of English and Scandinavian stock, and looked like one. His wife was three-quarters German and a quarter Jewish. And the other guy was full Jew.
Total nuts, America in a nutshell.
