Me 'n' Crow

by Bill Corbett

Hi, Bill Corbett here. You know, friends and family congratulate me on having such a great job. And they are certainly right - to a point. What they don't understand is that I wasn't hired by Best Brains Inc. to show up here everyday. No sir. I was hired by Crow himself - after an excruciating and sometimes physically painful screening process. (The cat'o'nine tails seemed a bit much to me.)

I am in fact on Crow's personal payroll. I am here to make life easier for Crow, as he has too many greater responsibilities to attend to. I think of myself as the Jeeves to his Wooster, even though Crow tells me "Don't dignify yourself with the comparison!" He's only joking, of course. Then he yells and curses and spits on the floor in front of me, but he's still just kidding, I think.

It's a tough job, being a lowly mud-crawling lackey (his preferred term) to an ingenious but temperamental small gold robot. Let me share a sampling of the duties I have to Crow (or, as he instructs me to call him, Your Excellency) during the course of the week:

  • Fix his favorite breakfast: Fruit Loops with Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee Beef Gravy.
  • Drive him to the dog track.
  • Help him with his times tables.
  • Read the entire medical encyclopedia to him, just for kicks.
  • Perform hand puppet shows that he can boo loudly and abusively.
  • Oil his beak to keep him in fighting trim for his bouts with bad movies.
  • Rent great classic movies so he can shout out highly complimentary remarks. ("Everyone needs to unwind", he says.)
  • Be the designated driver when he goes out pub-crawling with Servo. (Yes, I have to wait in the car.)
  • Fix his favorite lunch: cranberry cheese melt with Altoids.
  • Drive him to the dog track again. Lend him lots of money.
  • Ghost-write his scandal-soaked, tell-it-all, sex-filled autobiography.
  • Maintain his Kim Catrall correspondence in good order (see item directly above).
  • Call and try to get the Dalai Lama to endorse his new line of high-tech whoopee cushions.
  • Help him put on his disguise to avoid celebrity gawkers in public. He puts on a Trent Lott mask, and does nothing to disguise his body, so people are generally just frightened.
  • Fetch his spear gun and Bowie knife for him and then wait in the broom closet until he tells me I can come out. (I don't know what this is about, and I don't dare ask.)
  • Dutifully try to finish off the fights he picks in bikers' bars, even though it means frequent hospitalization for me.
  • Actively seek out and call foreign dignitaries who will have him as a pampered celebrity guest. ("Ruthless dictators are the funnest", says he.)
  • Fix his favorite dinner: chateau briand, white asparagus, roasted new potatoes and caeser salad. And oh yeah, with Fluff all over everything.
  • Review the day with him to see what I've done wrong, very wrong.
  • Tuck him in to his waterbed with his Harold Robbins novels, a bottle of single malt scotch and a big handful of Cuban cigars.

It is a good life indeed, if challenging and a bit unhealthy. But if I can be Holmes to his Watson, then... [Ooops. Sorry. Crow just saw me typing this, and finds this analogy a bit off. Correction:] If I can be a tubeworm to his Olympian God, then I'm happy.

Gotta go. Time to polish his scrimshaw collection.

[posted 7/98]

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