Omar, My Man---Get a Job

Omar, My Man --- Get a Job!

“You’re on your cell and you’re calling from the woods, right?

“How did I know? Come on, ‘Fruit of My Loins’ I’m not deaf. I can hear the rustling of the boughs. Beside, you’re always hanging in the wilderness.

“And I know something else. You’ve got that little bimbo with you.

“How do I know?  I can hear her rapping soto voce in the background.

“ Omar, My Man, get a job!

“You’re a poet?  Poet my ass! Tell that muse of yours to help you crank out something besides rejection slips. Then maybe--- just maybe--- I’ll believe you.

“Omar, you’ve got to focus.

“Last week you were an astronomer. The week before you were a mathematician. And since second grade you’ve been telling people you’re a philosopher.

“You know what you are, Omar? You are a consumer.

“After you visit, when I look around there’s always another loaf of bread and a jug of wine missing. And I suppose you hooked my one poetry book, too.  Or did you leave it in the woods? Oh, never mind. Just return it.


“I know you don’t like the tent business. I’m sorry. What you need is another role model. Somebody like Omar Sharif, or Omar Bradley. Do something productive with your life and stop running off  to the woods all the time.

“What’s that? Someday you’ll be famous?  Yeah, for 15 minutes maybe.

“And, while I have your brief attention: Lay off the sauce.  Hell, maybe you should be a carpenter. Every time we talk you sound as though you’re hammered. You seem to think boozing it up in the bushes with that little nympho is paradise.

“What’s that? In vino veritas?  Now ain’t that the truth!

“No. I’m not upset with you. Look, your mother and I are not running a hotel; still, you’ll always be welcome here. And you know that. But unless you shape up, you’ll never amount to anything just as sure as my name is Ibrahim Khayyam.

“Okay. Enough already. When you come for Father’s Day, bring back my book, and I won’t charge you a late fee. And just one more thing: Omar; My Man; My Son; --- Get a job!”