Saltwater Tibs Versus American Justice

"I have, what more than one subordinate has called, a 'death stare.'"

The old man swings back in forth in his recliner, sipping his whiskey on ice, the marks and cuts on his legs, bruises from an old accident, put me ill at ease.

"Now what do you think of that Mr. Tibs?" He says as he apparently attempts to give me the legendary look of malignance; which has held politicians, professors, bureaucrats and students in ire.

I take a drag from my tumbler, the cool glass is sweating out its ice, leaving my palm damp. The whiskey is sweet, mellowed from the ice. I stare directly into his eye and say: "It's not what I think, it's how I feel. The trick to a good bad look isn't what it makes the reciever think about, its how it makes them feel, preferably like they've done something wrong. For Instance, the look you would shoot a puppy when he shits on the floor. The poor creature doesn't think 'oh I shouldn't shit on the floor because that rug cost him 68.97 at the local Costco', he's feeling like garbage because you've basically bet the hell outta him with nothing more than a glare and telepathic intention."

"Haha! How right you are Tibs." The old man takes another sip from his glass, "I like you Tibs, you're sharp, a real merchant of thought with a good grasp of the economy of words."

I'm taken aback, slightly. I'm not too sure what to say, I have difficulty taking compliments sometimes, especially from someone two generations my senior with more pieces of paper on his wall and letters after his name than a Saudi prince. I nod and say thanks, feining interest with my glass.

"Alright boy, I better level with you, I have ulterior motives for asking you over, besides the reward the gods will give me for feeding a poor student some of the city's finest whiskey." He's my neighbor and has been known to send me on errands for time to time. He was in a car accident about fourteen months ago and although he has been recovering, slowly, I didn't mind giving him a hand when he needed it. "As you know, the divorce has been hard on me. My wife's daughter, the bitch, has cleaned out the old house." His third marriage had just fallen apart, the once respected professor has since retired and forced into a mousey old apartment in the historic North End. This suited him fine since he was once wrote the book on the area.

"What can I do ya for?"

"I need you to go to my old house, I don't have a key and I don't think the automatic keypad works anymore, if its still even there. I want you to break into the house, through the basement and see if you can find my mother's old elctrolux vacuum cleaner. The rug here is in desperate need of a cleaning."

An odd request, to be sure, but I figured I'd have a go at it. After the first time we went there he nearly broke down. The great house, once his home filled with happy memories and a loving family, had been scavenged, cleaned out, and used by vagrants. There was little hope I would find his vacuum cleaner, but there was a chance that it was still in his basement. The last time we went he found his collie, mistreated and hungry, and I'd never seen pain in another man's eyes like that, infact, it was after that experience that we took a cab to the liquor store and bought the whiskey we were gently sipping now.

We both take another gulp, the stereo was playing a compact disc in the background, Harvest by Neil Young.

"You'll never find a better songwriter than Young, Tibs."

"Oh really? I think there's alot of Dylan and Lennon fans that would disagree with you. Although I did find that his stuff with Crazy Horse was both well written lyrically, musically and could really rock."

"Ha! Typical young guy and his rock and roll. The key to a good writer is one who can appeal to a wide range of peoples and have a message to convey, listen to this album, its more folk, more country, sure. But I bet more people can identify with 'Old Man' than 'Cowgirl in the Sand'."

"That may be true, but it isn't what other people think, it's how it makes me feel."

"Yes, and believe me, that'll change in time."

I finish my glass and put it on the old, highly stylized coffee table in the center of the room. "Alright Doc, I hate to drink and dash, but I've got a meeting at the coffee shop down the road with an animator friend of mine. I'll take a shot by your place tomorrow afternoon, I'll stop by here with your stuff around 3, does that work for you?"

"Sounds great Tibs. See you then."