Toadies

“Are you somebody?” 

This asked of me by a guy near my age at the pub a few weeks ago.

I told him who I was and he stared off into space for a minute. “Nope, never heard of you. But you look like you're somebody though. You've got the look of a banker or a politician...ever run for office anywhere?”

I've been compared to Peter Noone of Hermans Hermits and Joe Piscapo when I was much younger. Nowadays a Kennedy (If I comb my brilliant white hair a certain way). I guess I can have a look when I iron my clothes and shave closely for once.

So, I started peppering this guy with questions about who he is. By the end of our talk, I still didn't know, or rather kept everything he said in the possible “complete bullshit file.”

He claimed to be a one time town manager of Central Falls, a current restauranteur, an investor of local night clubs, past and present, an associate of Rich Lupo of Lupo's Heartbreak Hotel and a member of the Hope Artiste Village in Pawtucket, a sort of factory district revitalization trying to ape Providence's artistic renaissance.

He was a the kind of guy who rattled off his resume as you sat there, barely letting you get a word in edgewise. He didn't name drop but he made sure I knew how much he invested in certain enterprises. He had the talent of self promotion down pat and I really suspected he was complete horseshit when he said he lived in one of the Mansions down on Bellvue Ave in Newport at one time.

“Oh c'mon” I'm thinking to myself.

But here's the problem. Half of the things he said were true as I knew them to be. I guess that's the mark of a self promoter, you mix in lies with the truth. Always selling. Always trying to persuade.

Half his conversation to me involved bitching about various mayors, councilmen and little business tyrants who have managed to carve out a fiefdom here in Pawtucket or Seekonk. You could smell the competition and jealousy from him as he told various stories of his past successful “kills” and how he was thwarted by some up and coming politico at times and that was the reason a business venture failed. I do believe this part about him was true as he had the names and places down pat. When I mentioned the name of Lorenzo Tetreault, another local politician, all he could say was, ”Oh....Larry...yeah...I know him” and his voice trailed off with a sarcastic curl of his lip. Guess Larry wasn't on his nice list at all.

You know when you meet someone for the first time, peg them as a BS artist and wonder why they're going through such lengths and time to build a story? I felt a real sense of distrust coming over me while he was going on and on about himself. I felt that in any moment, he was going to ask for money, which many times, is what these guys lead to in the end. Oddly enough he didn't try. It was that creepy feeling that some one was “putting the touch” on. Perhaps he was just honing his craft...or better yet, he can't act in any other way because he was a natural born snake to begin with.

He reminded me of a kind of people we've all met, usually starting in high school where it's really apparent. You have people in the top clique schmoozing one another, each piling on the lies to one another in order to jockey for position. They act like their each other's best friend and wait for that moment to sink the knife in in order to move up a notch. It's blatant self aggrandizement and you can smell it forty feet away.

He finishes off his beer, gets up and pat's me on the back. “Well, Ron, I have to go...but we ought to talk further...you really have that face where you could sell something...have that look of a Kennedy if you wore a suit...and if you strutted around a bit like you owned everything.”

Great...I'm being groomed to be one of his buddies. I have no desire to be part of his circle, to be raw material for whatever financial dream he may have up his sleeve with promises of sure success and “It can't fail!”

He leaves. I then lean over to say to the doorman and ask, “Who the hell was that?”

K. who had been listening in replies, “Oh Jack? He's really was part of Central Falls all those years ago but...” He then traces a circle on the side of his head with his finger.

A quickie story about politicians.

Years ago, in the eighth grade in Goff Jr High, I had an English teacher by the name of Lorenzo Tetreault. I found him to be a general “nice guy” and a decent enough teacher. When I got out of Goff, I never saw him again and I figured I never was remarkable enough to him to remember at all.

Let's move forward thirty years.

Due to where I live, my polling station is at Goff Jr High. The 2008 election was here and I was walking towards the school and as usual, you see various people milling about ready to thrust into your hands some brochure, a last ditch attempt to persuade you to vote for this one or that one. As I walk by this one guy, he comes forward with his hand out and I shake it. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes and thinks for a moment.

“Uh...Ron...Ron M.!” It's good to see you! Hope your vote goes my way on the Council today!

I stood there, in amazement, when I finally figured out this guy was my English teacher from thirty years ago and remembered me. How the hell could he have remembered me? I was in no way outstanding in either a positive or negative light.

Later on, people have told me some of these guys have an incredible capacity to remember every single damn person they've ever met. I find that one hell of a skill though.