Yo. It’s me. Betina’s pal Guido. She has axed me to come an’ once again elucidate for youse on a subject close to my heart. Home decoratin.’ Which I have been doin’ a lot of lately on account of my girlfriend vamoosed an’ took every stinkin’ stick of furniture in da house. (May her died blond hair get pulled out by its fat black rooots.)
She’s gone two days an’ here comes my two sisters. Who always drive me nuts. Them broads– they know how to put the hurt on a guy. I gave ’em every cent I had on me and a couple of credit cards from a guy who won’t be needin’ ’em anymore(wink, wink). Anyways, I told ’em. . . a good recliner and one o’ them big screen TV’s. On accounta I am a man o’ simple needs.
Whaddo I get? Boxes. Big, heavy boxes. Nine of ’em. Just for the livin’ rooom. There’s four more in th’ bedroom an’ half a dozen fer the kitchen. They went to someplace called Ike-ear or somethin’. Laughed their asses off. Well, almost. Both o’ them broads got way too much in th’ trunk to get rid of wit one cheap trick on a brudder. Gina, she hands me a screwdriver and says fer me to brush up on my prayers. I, o’course, called Ma. Who said it was all her idea. To keep me busy. Idol hands. . . ‘er some such.
I am not a man to be out-done. Respects to Ma, an’ all that, but I am not gonna sit around for weeks on cardboard wile I try to figure out how to put dis shit together. Pardon da French. Nor can I call any o’ my fellow wise guys an’ confess how my sisters got it over on me. So I head for dis Ike-ear place to find somebody who knows how to use a screwdriver.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph– the place was like five blocks long! I wandered around, an’ found a guy in a blue shirt who was talkin’ to some customers like he knew what was up. When he finished, I dragged him behind a bookcase, cranked on his arm a little, an’ persuaded him to come home wi’ me an put my stuff together. It’s what he gets fer sellin’ stuff half made, the little weasel.
Anyway, turns out– after he stops wailin’ and beggin’ me to let ‘im live– he does know how to put th’ stuff together. I hand ‘im the screwdriver and he gets to work. And –dam– dang, this stuff ain’t too bad. After half a hour, I got a coffee table. Then a end table. End of what, I dunno. Anyway, pretty soon, I got a sofa. . . which only needed feet. Sofas got FEET. Who knew? So, before long, I got bookcases. Two of ’em. Heh. Like I got any books. But this little IKEA turd tells me it was smart of ’em. . . on account of I needed some “verticals” in da room. I tell ‘im I’m more a hor-i-zontal kinda guy. But he says it’s decor-a-tor talk for fillin’ up the walls. Then he says my twisted sisters got the model with a little table (con-soul) in the middle for a TV. A big screen TV. Okay, so now I’m interested.
Pretty soon, I’m on the floor in my sock feet holdin’ the chair seat with one hand an’ my piece in the otha. An’ before long, I’m sittin’ at my own kitchen table– which I helped put together wit my own two hands. Not bad for my first time usin’ a strewdriver for anything besides jimmyin’ a lock. I figure the little turd deserves a beer. An’ while we’re workin’ on the bedside tables, he says I need some pitchers. Like hell, I says. Me and my buddies all drink beer like God made it– straight outa the bottle. Pitchers for the walls, he says.
An’ then he says I need some new curtains for da windows. Dese wi’ the little coffee pots on ’em has been here since WWII. Then he rolls out the rug and puts the tables in place and I’m–ya know–all choked up. An’ not like Vinnie’s got me in a headlock choked up. Maybe my sisters don’ hate me afterall. He pokes around an’ finds a picture of Ma and one of me wit some o’ my old P.S. 117 gang. Puts ’em on the shelves and. . . dang, th’ place is lookin’ downright homey.
So I order in some baked ziti an’ open a bottle of Chianti. . . an the Turd, who’s name is Sheldon, talks about how some new paint on the walls an’ a pitcher or two an’ I got a real pad here. Like one o’ them makeover shows. I ain’t never seen one, so I haveta trust him he ain’t talkin’ about
girlie stuff. Anyway, turns out, he’s not a bad guy. A little stiff. Like he ain’t exactly used to guns pointed at him. I guess it’s jus’ somethin’ ya haveta get used to.
Anyways, he tells me there’s dis layerin’ thing to decoratin’. You gotta think about things. . . like the “mood” you want in the room. Says certain colors have effects on people. Like red. . . makes people alarmed or excited. Yeah, I can see that. I see red on a shirt or a floor– I get a little excited. Anyway he’s tellin’ me all kindsa stuff about color and before I know it, I’m axin’ him to come wit me to pick out paint and drapes for the rest o’ that “makeover” thing. He says he will and we set a date.
I call ‘im a cab and as we stand waitin’ for it by the door, lookin’ at the front room. . . I just reached out an’ hug ‘im. You know. Jus’ a regular Goomba wise guy-to wise-guy hug to say thanks. He hugs me back.
Okay, I guessed straight up that Shel’s pitchin’ for the other side, know what I mean? And since he left I’m thinkin’ about that hug. I mean, he hugged me. Now whadda I do? I mean, I’m supposed to meet ‘im an’ pick out curtains wi’ him. An’ now I’m wonderin’ if that’s smart. I mean, what if he wants to hug me again?
What about youse? Done any redecoratin’? Got any makeovers? I’m thinkin’ maybe my sisters weren’t just bein’ mean. I’m thinkin’ maybe I’ll have them an’ Ma over for dinner some day. . . to say thanks. How do I handle the Sheldon thing? You ever had to put furniture together? Ever been to IKEA? Whaddaya think?