It was like a movie. — act five: Benny

continued from It was like a movie. — act four: My Pajama Twin

Stay seated & avoid eye contact. This last premises is over-asserted by a scrapyard handyman whose truckdoor magnetic business card doesn't just boast a "Personal Experience!", but who's also finely skilled as a short-fused quicksilver Property of Character who goes off, & adamantly on, as Benny.

            His spouse has a name that I heard shouted once, then blocked out, but recall that it conjured the image of a refreshing summer cocktail poured from a blender at a putt putt golf lounge, which she probably needs to wash down the striking reality she's married to — Benny: a small, lean pork chop left on the grill overnight & fallen from its boardwalk hoagie bun that even the gulls won't eat. 

He strides the center of his no-laned street, madly chewing the fat, marching back & forth like a dogged solo parade float, passionately holding court on his cell in strips of words that clip like dull shears on a musty banner, undeterminable as to whether anger or delight, & usually offset for either with a "Love-ya-bruh" wrap-up. 

His non-infectious snicker-laughs burst in sharp rounds of three, like quick nicks carved between throbbing temples with a contaminated box-cutter.