Perhaps it’s fitting that the day after Halloween, I saw a ghost.

But not your typical-run-of-the mill-I-died-40-years-ago-in-a-freak-welding-accident-at-the-old-steel-mill-and-now-I’m-forced-to-haunt-this-popcorn-stand-for-the-rest-of-eternity-type of ghost.

No, true believers. I encountered a ghost from the past.

Tony Lemons.

The sourpuss embittered guido from my Market Research class at UNH. The same Tony Lemons who apparently had not matured past sophomore year in high school, and still tried to get his work done through the smart kid.
That’d be me.

Mr. Lemons was fixing his coffee next to me at the Mobil On-The-Run. He didn’t seem to recognize me, but I recognized him. That high stack of Dragonball Z-inspired oil slick he calls a head of hair… that permanently etched scowl on his ugly mug… those club-trash pants and shoes that he so proudly adorned.

I never forget an asshole.

Of course, I didn’t bother to chat, since I have nothing to say to him. Except maybe, “did you manage to graduate without swan-necking over someone else’s exam during finals?” Or, “did you ever consider giving a buck to every person who brought your GPA up a hundredth of a point?” Or, “goddamn, you still look like your mom inserted a quarter-pound of quick drying cement into her cooch just hours before you came out of the oven.”

And then we parted company. He paid for his coffee while I was still fixing mine. By the time I arrived at the register, he was long gone.

So what’s the point to this tale? The point is I feel I deserve to be commended for not only biting my tongue, but also for repressing the urge to tackle him between the automotive products and snacks and bludgeon him with a bottle of Castrol GTX for being the asshole he is.

‘Cause you see, my friends, while I never forget an asshole, I never forgive an asshole, either.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.