Of Bad Advice, young love and Gangster Boatmen
I have to admit, I feel extremely important when he turns off every single one of his TV’s to listen to me. Actually, he doesn’t really listen. But he does turn off the TV’s.
“It’s a chick, isn’t it?” he says, smirking.
I try to think of a way to salvage my dignity, but nothing comes. “Yeah,” I admit sheepishly. “How’d you know?”
“You’re smiling,” he replies. “And it’s not like I haven’t heard about the murderer in Elysian Fields.”
“So who is it?” he presses me.
“Well…it’s Demeter’s daughter. Persephone,” I say reluctantly.
He lets out a loud laugh (which is really more of a bark) and grins. “Man, you ain’t got no chance with her! Dude, her mom is so overprotective! Acts like the chica’s still 10, man! Get some Hades groupie or something and get your mind off her.”
“I don’t have any groupies,” I say stiffly. I am less than pleased at the advice. Instead, I leave. Fast.