I powered up my laptop. It buzzed, spit and fizzled with a little plume of smoke. The screen went blank. This is unusual. Normally it smiles at me and says, “Ahoy, Tommy! Where ya been?”
My laptop, upon which I had become creatively and financially dependent checked out.
I had a few choices: buy a new one, back over it with the car several times or call in my specialist (the very idea of which gave me hives). I sighed and reached for the phone. I really hoped he wasn’t home so I could leave a message. Eight rings later the line opened at the other end.
“Yoooo…. Sup?!”
Enter, Tony D.
The cigarette-infused voice boomed over a heavy thud of bad rap music. Tony D was at his usual post in his room in his parent’s apartment. If this were a movie we’d cut to a room lit only by a lava lamp and the glow of several computer monitors. There would be a hum of a dozen cooling fans competing with the bmpphh bummpphh of the rap music. Tony D, a short fat twenty something would be sitting in the middle of the electronic cacophony like a drummer at an immense drum kit. There’d be smoke hanging in the air and though it’s dark in the room, Tony D would be wearing thick black sunglasses because on one of the computers, he’d be on camera.
Tony D’s real name is unknown to us. He went by Tony D because it lends Street Cred. Especially the way you accent the D when saying it aloud. It’s said as if you got his first name out then got gut punched before coughing out the D. We know he’s Russian or Polish. His first name can’t be Tony and we know his last name begins with a Y and has something like fifteen letters, mostly consonants.
Tony D Loved the rap culture, wore the hat sideways, did the hand movements, called everyone “beotch”. He tried very hard to impress us with his immense collection of anything shaped like a large phallus; a sword, a flashlight that doubles as a survival kit or an autographed baseball bat though we’re not exactly sure who autographed it. Tony D was an alright guy but tried way too hard.
I sighed in defeat.
“Yeah, it’s me. I fried the laptop again. Could take a look at it?”
Tony D went into his routine as if I totally derailed his busy day of kicking ass and taking names. The only thing he’s up to is texting his mother downstairs about dinner.
“Oh dude, what would you do without me, huh beeotch? I’m on the line with all these honeys from Japan and now you call me. Yeeahhhhh, I’ll be over in a little while. You got any food?”
“Just finished dinner, sorry.”
“Sheeot, come get me and drop me off at Hunan so I can get some noodles. Got any soda or do I have to get that, too?”
Tony D stood outside his parent’s apartment with a small metal box in his hands.
A heavy looking black nylon bag slung lowon his shoulder: his high tech computer recovery gear. He got in the car: “Yo Sup!!” and slaped my hand, gangsta style.
At my place, after he finished his egg rolls and Moo Goo Gai Pan he got to work telling me tall tales of a little penis while typing furiously on my laptop. He grunted, burped and evaluated.
“You screwed it up again, Bro. Good thing I was home.”
He inserted disc after disc while the computer beeped and purred at his deft touch. Several hours later I’m not sure if the job was that involved or Tony D had that much crap to shovel in my direction.
My mind lulled into a near-catatonic state because there are only so many stories about the sexual prowess of one who never leaves the house I can ingest at one time. While he typed he told me of his time in the Navy SEALS, the fire department exam he got the highest grade ever on and the new girl that’s “all over his thang”.
Can’t you be happy you impress me with the fact that you can fix this thing and I can’t?
Tony D doodled, smoked and drank and asked if I could make him a bowl of Ramen noodles. He told me of his exploits in South America working with “the rebels” on a medical unit and now if he applied to medical school they’d take him because of his experience alone.
I contemplated paying someone to back over me with the car several times.
Tony D finally finished eleven hours after he first arrived. He packed up all his gear and said my machine was better than when I bought it. On the way back to his place he made me stop off for a slice or six at Nino’s Pizzeria. I was buying of course.
When I got home I turned on the Laptop. It smiled at me and said “Yo Sup, Beeotch, you got any food?”
Tom Serafini is a writer, illustrator, motivator of dreamers from Brooklyn, New York. His first illustrated picture book, Ollie Bug and the Icky Sticky Thing From Space, will be funded through a Kickstarter crowdfunding campaign coming soon.
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