I Can Spot One a Mile Off!

I knew what I was getting into when I took the job. My dad was exactly like Mr. Peters before the vegetarians got ahold of him. The day of the interview his first words were a concise autobiography. Omitting "Mr.", "hello" and all traces of friendliness from his invitation, he simply stood in the door and bellowed three words: my last name followed by a question mark and "come in" barked the way a sergeant says forward march. Not wanting the job, I got snotty and he gave it to me as if I were the goose that turned out to be the only successful alchemist. He slavered at my curtness. Gad, it's irritating to be treated nicely by someone you've treated badly. With the hope I could irritate him in return, I accepted.

George Masterson Peters never spoke to another man in tones weaker than a shout nor did he address males by other than their last names. This gave his customers that man-to-man feeling and his employees the impression they were butlers. All women were "Miss", recipients of gallant murmurs if pretty and, if otherwise, he mouthed everything he said to them as if they'd just this morning learned English and might be able to think for themselves in years to come if they put up a valiant fight against their gender. In addition, this booming gent had a fission-like way of commanding requests, somehow making accusations of compliments and issues of everything. He was the only man I ever knew who could make It's a nice day sound like an ultimatum to nature.

Of course, Mr. Peters enjoyed violently good health and loudly hawked the benefits of early rising and fresh air as if he owned stock in them. His panacea for all ills from chapped hands to paranoia was, "Dammit, man, exercise!" Then almost inevitably, sports were to him all in all. Like a bull that thought it was brave instead of merely obedient, he joined the nation in chanting football in winter and baseball all summer. Naturally the two never mixed; it was idiocy verging on sacrilege to mention a foul ball while there was still snow on the ground. This human megaphone could discuss each second of the historic two foot run by "Baby Doll" Zlamocyzkowicz in the Weevil Bowl game on the second Saturday of February, '09. He could discuss the left wrist of a Cardinal pitcher vein by vein as if he'd spent hours holding the hand attached to it. He knew every score, player, date and play of every game since Patrick Henry made his famous remark about liberty while trapped in a baseball dugout. George Masterson Peters made dull conversation.

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