Albert was a friend of mine who lived across the street from me on Delancey Street that is until mom found out he was using me to model stolen monogramed corduroy shirts. Then all hell broke loose. Mom made sure I never could even say, ”Hi, Albert!” to him again or I’d suffer a fate worse than death.
So, to my utter dismay I immediately stopped envying his pompadour, the dimple in his right cheek, his good looks, his prowess in football and his way with girls.
The last time I saw Albert he was twenty-five years old, working as a salesman in a clothing store, still sporting a ducks-ass haircut with a big pompadour on top and chewing bubble gum up a storm. I guess he never wanted to stop being a teenage football star.
Although Albert was also a pretty good quarterback, everything else in this story is a complete product of my imagination. Unlike the real Albert, the Albert in my story is more concerned with pleasing his parents than pleasing himself and winds up destroying himself in the process