So earlier I was taking a shit. As I took this middlingly pleasant shit (yes, I score my shits), I remembered the meal that produced it. Then I jumped up, and dialed one of the numbers on the large-and-ever-growing whiteboard by the (fixed) phone.
"Woman! Did we pay those people ?!"
Imagine, if you will, she who picked up the other end of the line, at the time of the call over at the gym. A tall girl with big tits and an even bigger assi working the item in question off on the eliptical machine set to pedal-powered-chainsaw-through-hostile-jungle (a special setting they have here, it's like going vertically up a wall in high wind) because race is a purely cultural construct.
"What people ?"
"Last night. Did I just put on my hat, tip it to them and walk out without paying ?"
"Well... uh. I went to the bathroom. You ordered tiramisu."
"And then we left."
"Do you remember me paying them ?"
"Nope. But listen... they waved to us.ii And then we went into that thing downstairs..."
"What, they thought we were doing a caper and thought so much of it, you know, found it so very funny... What do you want me to do, should I jump in the car and go over see if they need paying ?"
"In this traffic ?"
"It wouldn't be the most pleasant thing in the world, but... Should I call them see what they say ?"
"Yeah. That's the more reasonable thing, say 'hey good people, I was there last night, with this guy in a suit, in the white panama hat, you remember us. Did we stiff you ?' and if they say yeah tell 'em not to worry about it, you'll come by tonight and pay."
So now... you know. Sinatra got nothing on me, I tell you. Landlords don't even expect to be paid, next thing you know they're going to come to my table bringing offerings of ready money and their nephewttes for lay-on-hands blessings.
You're just living in it, see!———