Mr. Marlowe and I agree that olives do not belong anywhere near martinis. We both prefer lemon peel or a slice. My wife enjoys olives and more than once, while dining with my wife, has my martini arrived, along with hers, with olives contrary to my order. This is always a horror show.
I cannot simply switch the olives to my wife’s drink and imbibe the erroneous martini, because I hate the stink of pickled olive juice! So every time I have to send it back with strict orders to not let an olive anywhere near my future cocktail. I warn you all, bartenders and waitresses alike, I can tell the difference!
Mr. Marlowe is not only like a brother to me. He’s like the dark side of myself unleashed. I’m an only child. I’d always wished I’d had an older brother, someone who could have learned the ropes first and interpreted them to me, like Edmund and Jamie in O’Neill’s LONG DAYS JOURNEY. Instead of an older brother, a dear cousin of mine was taken away by the temptations of adolescence, a buddy moved to a different school district, and an older brother type, another cousin, disappeared due to family troubles, never to be heard from again. He had protected me in my infancy. I have the pictures to prove it. Perhaps that’s why I turned to religion in my youth and fell victim to mythic meta-narratives?
Well, Marlowe is my Barney Fife. He’s also my Socrates. He’s my younger brother in emotions and my older brother in honesty. He spits out the venom and I guess I’m left to clean it up. Well, over the years, I’ve frequently cleaned up his vomit, but like those bits of chunks on the ground, there’s always a good bite to take away from what he says.
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