Markie's Advice

His future was assured. I’ll tell you why. His father owned “Repairs and Parts Supply”. Though only twelve, already Markie could your median income at a glance descry and whistle as he raised your engine’s hood. With me, he mastered nothing. Didn’t try. What need had he for Treaties of Versailles? Before he came to school he’d greet the crew he knew he would inherit, by and by, and sell a solenoid – or maybe two. My classroom, in those days, happened to lie across the schoolyard. Out of habit, I arrived before the others. There I’d sit completely unobserved by prying eye, and grade some papers, daydream how to quit. Young Markie would approach me on the sly, just me and him, alone at Fleetwood High: his head appeared around my door to shout (it never varied – what a funny guy) “Just sort your life out, sir!” and then run out. Some jokes are full-on funny, some are wry: and humour sometimes makes us want to cry: our choices, often hard to justify. My friends all wish, and say so with a sigh, I’d followed Markie’s counsel. So do I.