This morning I had my daily encounter with Spooky Juice, my super. Spooky Juice has requested that we call him Spooky Juice and is eating up his new found kinda, sorta, fame in blog land. Anyway, I woke up late this morning because I was busy doing what I usually do, work myself to death. This was how today’s adventure with Spooky Juice transpired. He not only likes the notoriety, but he is now taking creative control of his online presence.
Spooky Juice: West Indian super from Guyana who is always into some mischief and is quite frankly spooky. Always wears a work shirt that has been burned in various places.
Me: Overworked woman living in Hell’s Kitchen with her costumes and twelve puppets. Exceptionally wonderful with crazy people.
Spooky Juice is on sidewalk
Spooky Juice approaches
Spooky Juice: My friend. I want some of your spooky juice.
Me: That’s your name.
Spooky Juice moves in to try to get a smooch.
Spooky Juice grabs my hand
Spooky Juice: I sat outside your door the other day.
Me: That was you ringing the bell?
Spooky Juice: Yes
Me: I was this thing called asleep. And that was truly spooky of you.
Spooky Juice: Expect me to be spooky.
We both laugh
Spooky Juice: Did you get the jokes I sent you? I want you to start using them in your blog?
Spooky Juice: You promised me my blog would be up yesterday. What happened? Where was the blog where I was the star? I read your blog about fuck my fucking vegetables a week ago and thought oh my God. Then I read your other blog about you kissing that guy with long hair.
Me: Sorry to break your heart, Spooky Juice.
Spooky Juice: No, that is okay. I just read the part where you almost got arrested taking the easy pass. What happened there, your friend didn’t have her sticker?
Me: No, she had it but she was out of money on it, so we backed up and went to another toll booth. We shouldn’t have done it and the cop appeared out of no where. Jessica didn’t get a ticket though.
Spooky Juice: I am glad. I want you to be safe. I have to send you the joke about why people think fucking is bad. I mean I don’t get why fucking is bad. It is just fucking. We make fucking bad.
Me: That is a very spooky thing to say.
Spooky Juice: Well I am Spooky Juice. Now put up my blog today.
We both laugh
LoveAprilI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace