by Adam Kluger
Brickhead wasn’t the stupidest, he was just a little bit slower than the other guys, I guess.
It was my job to bring him up to speed on how things ran at the office. Over drinks was the best way to get that shit taken care of.
Anyway, Brickhead wasn’t a bad guy. He was just young and from the Midwest or the country or someplace, somewhere where they had chickens and roosters and cows and hens, and I really didn’t give a fuck about any of that. It wasn’t my job to care.
It was my job to train the new recruits so they knew how things were supposed to go and to get things taken care of without making any mistakes. That was the most important thing of all. No mistakes ever.
This bar I took them all to was called Mr. O’s. It was a favorite little shit hole because it was always empty, the bartender minded his own fucking business and he never charged me for drinks.
Why? I don’t know, but that was just fine with me.
The juke had a pretty good selection, too — The Doors, The Stones, U2, The Who, The Police, fucking ACDC. Good shit. They even threw me free chicken wings — a big, greasy bucket. Yeah, man, Mr. O’s is the shit.
Okay, so get this. Brickhead, who is nothing more than a little fucking shit-eating cowboy, he says to me, with this serious look on his face, “So when do I get to handle some real action already?”
Can you believe this fuckin’ guy — the balls on this fuckin’ retard?
I look at him and I’m about to slap this mutt silly but just then Charlie the bartender trots up with a couple free beers and a bucket of wings and I just laugh to myself. I eat a couple wings and down my beer, then I grab this motherfucking prick by his fucking neck with my right hand and I start to squeeze, and he looks at me, all surprised, but now I got his attention real good I start squeezing harder and harder, and his face starts to turn redder and redder, like a real brickhead. Now I got his full attention, his eyes start tearing, he looks all confused and then I whisper, “When I say we talk about business, that’s when we talk about business — do you got me? Nod if you understand.” I helped the kid nod.
Then I slowly eased up on the grip.
Same routine for over a dozen new recruits.
What can I say? They gotta learn from the get-go ‘bout the protocols.
Anyways, for some reason, schoolin’ this young prick made me think about all the other important stuff I had learned over the years about all sorts of shit.
Like, it’s always better to over-tip than under-tip. Just is. Redheads are all crazy. They just are. Always mute commercials — that’s why there’s a mute button. Never answer a phone call from a phone number if you don’t recognize the number on caller ID. Duh! Fuckin’ cops lie like a rug — just as much as criminals. Potato chips go great with ketchup. Always double down when you can. Don’t order take-out sushi. Never write down shit or text or email important stuff — only use payphones. Women never look fat … not if you wanna get laid. Don’t ever bet on the Jets. Always expect traffic …
Don’t trust nobody.
Adam Kluger is a New York City–born street artist and writer. A direct descendant of British sculptor Sir Jacob Epstein and a past art student of artist Ion Theodore, Kluger went to the same high school as Jack Kerouac and spent some time studying the great artists throughout Europe before settling back in New York. Kluger draws his inspiration from diverse sources that include Jean Dubuffet, Marc Chagall, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Andy Warhol, Bob Ross, Eric Payson and Pablo Picasso. Kluger is one of the leaders of New York’s growing anti-art movement.