The Return of Guy Tarkington

Greetings, fellow Lemurs, and hello! It is I, Guy Tarkington.

First, a bit about where I’ve been.

Yes, it’s true that “Polka on the Pier” did not go off as well as I had hoped. I had once considered longshoremen to be true Renaissance Men, conduits in the appreciation of art, nature, literature (pronounced “LIT TRA CHUR”) and French poetry. But, when you arrive dockside by parachute, prance about in short-shorts playing the Beer Barrel polka and shove an accordion in their dirty faces, they tend to stab you.

Let’s just say that I, Guy Tarkington, lost something that day. My innocence. My wallet. Forty-eight dollars. A business card from a guy who I don’t remember.

But Guy Tarkington will not be beaten. You can force me to the ground, pin my arms and make me hit myself, but I still have my dignity. You can repeatedly ring my doorbell and knock, and I will look through the blinds and stand perfectly still in my bedroom, because I am afraid of 12 year-olds selling candy bars. But I am a prideful man.

I take pride in my job: Driver for the city’s red bus route, delivering people to their jobs, court appearances and homes. Some people ask, how does Guy Tarkington stay focused on his job, and with such enthusiasm? How can Guy Tarkington tip his hat to women, and call his male passengers by name? How can Guy Tarkington keep calm, even in the busiest traffic, and when careening across the grass of the city park? When Guy Tarkington discovered that the new overpass was not completed, how did he summon the gusto to “floor it” and jump the chasm, to the cheers of his passengers? I’ll tell you: Pure pride.

I take pride in my home: Every day, I turn on the motor that inflates the 20-foot-tall man who stands in front of my home, dancing.

I take pride in my appearance: A crisp, pressed waistcoat, hand-tailored breeches, knee-high stockings and a powdered wig. Occasionally, a silver snuff box under my arm.

Fear not, fellow Lemurs, for I am with you. You will never be alone, for wherever you walk, I walk. When you cry, I cry with you. When you are showering, I shall be in the bushes outside your window, masturbating.