Oh Brother Can You Spare a Like?

While exiting Dunkin Donuts in Colts Neck a dapper stranger held the door open for me.

“Thanks,” I demurred.

“Hey, can you do me a favor now?” the gent asked. Not a single salt-and-pepper hair out of place. He reminded me of a sixtyish JFK; certainly his light gray and powder blue pinstripe suit projected Presidential regalia. He inflected the word 'now.'

'Now' sounded complicated. So I, dressed in a stained Saint Peter's College hoody and mud-caked running shoes, stopped.

“Car broke? Need a ride?” If so, he held the door open for the wrong guy.

“No, I’m good.” He glanced with a boyish smirk over his shoulder in the direction of glossy, black CLS550 coupe, the Batman-inspired Mercedes. You're more than good I said to myself. What could I possibly give to this dandy?

“Can you recommend me?” he asked.

I squeegied up my face with confusion, scrunching both cheeks into my bent nose. I must have looked like a Charpay fighting Bells’ Palsy.

“You know, recommend me online. Do you have a phone with email capability? I’ll shoot you a link.”

He leaned in closer. I smelled Clive Christian “C” for men, retail $400 per ounce. I only know that because my eight thumbed cousin Shalootz got canned from his job in the Men’s Department at Macy’s for dropping a bottle and he came home reeking of the gack.

“So just go to www.stik.com. When you’re done there, jump to www.mixtent.com. What’s your name and e-mail?” he asked.

“Hey, mister. No offense but I don’t know you,” I said.

He raised a sophisticated eyebrow.

“I appreciate you holding the door open, but ...” I stammered. “But I don’t even know what you do.”

“It’s all there on my Linked-in profile. There are recommendations from other people. Read theirs. That’ll give you a sense of what I’m looking for. Oh, and when you’re done, hit me up on Facebook. My fan page. Like early and like often as they say at the polls.”

He finished his pitch, threw his angular shoulders back. I’d rather get to know your tailor, I thought.

“Good luck,” I nodded and continued to walk past him.

“Just like that?” he yelled back, holding his hands open and slightly annoyed. He wore a thin gold pinky ring that would have glinted under sunnier skies.

“After all we’ve been through together,” I muttered underneath my breath.

A cold drizzle started to fall as I walked the two miles to the house. Then the wind slanted from the west. Raw, the elements nearly froze my coffee in the cup.

When I got to my driveway I found the mailman, Paulo, waiting for me. Paulo wears his hair military short and once explained to me that he goes for two haircuts to two different barbers: first a trim to shed the excess and then a shape-up to edge the sides and back.

“Do I have to sign for a registered letter or something,” I asked.

Paulo shook his head.

“Don’t tell me the dog chased you again?”

Another shake of his head.

“Per favore mi puoi seguire su Twitter?” he asked. Bewildered, I again folded the second half of my face up into my mile high forehead.

“Sorry, English, English, English,” he chanted low and Monk-like. “Please can you follow me on the Twitter?” he said, recovering.