Insert Chassis Albuquerque: Chapter 1 - "Shimansky"

Chapter 1 - "Shimansky" OVERHEARD A conversation between my boss Shimansky and his son. They were talking on the phone. That asshole Shimansky said: "What are you doing…?" and the son must've replied he was drunk because Shimansky suddenly went berserk and shouted: "Drunk! Son of a bitch! Jesus Christ! It’s 11 in the morning - you’re only 12 years old…!" as if the time the boy was drunk mattered more than his age.
I'd remained emotionally detached listening to him berate and threaten his drunk 12 year old son. Most men do. There was nothing gained becoming hysterical and acting irrationally. August Burgman stood nervously nearby. She didn't say anything.
The boy must have asked Shimansky what he was going to do about it, because Shimansky suddenly shouted into the phone like a homicidal maniac: "Do about it…! Why, I'm gonna come home right now and bash your face with the iron to teach you a lesson, bastard!" and with that Shimansky had slammed the phone down and was gone.
So my day was clear.
"August! Hold all calls, I don't want to be disturbed!" I shouted down the phone at her.
She couldn’t have been more than seventeen going on stupid and the stinking danger of the permanently young showed on her face. I knew she was playing with her dolls, which was strange because she was practically a grown woman.
I lay back and slouched in the expensive leather chair, sat my feet up on Shimansky’s desk and stared out over the city. I wondered if it had occurred to Shimansky his boy had at least being honest, if nothing else. An honest drunk's a good drunk. Jesus! It could have been worse, at least the boy hadn't said he was drunk and on crack cocaine fucking a 70 year old prostitute! I also thought about the iron Shimansky had threatened the boy with - was it just a regular iron or a steam iron? Maybe it was even one of those old fashioned ones you had to heat on a fire first? That struck me as the type Shimansky would enjoy. I could picture Shimansky making the boy watch as, first, Shimansky would have to make the fire. Then he’d make the little guy wait while he heated the iron up. That would be just like Shimansky. It was from Shimansky I'd learnt a curious Polish tradition: Putting your child in the washing machine to improve and correct their attitude - depending on the severity of the misbehavior this determined the number of spins and type of cycle: Delicate, Regular, Half-load, Express, Wool - RINSE.
"Technology…!" Shimansky had beamed maniacally when he'd told me this.
So if it wasn't the hot iron treatment then it was the washing machine for the boy.
I figured they’d probably done about four rotations by now. Either that or the boy was on the way to the nearest ACCIDENT & EMERGENCY unit. Jesus! It could have been worse, at least the boy hadn't said he was drunk and on crack cocaine fucking a 70 year old prostitute!
That Shimansky, he sure was a messed up individual.

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