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Barry

Which one was it, anyway? You know, Certs. Was it a breath mint or a candy mint?

That’s sort of how Barry was on his Harley hog. Was he a pirate? Or a cowboy? The argument pro pirate was fortified by the head bandanna and the hoop earrings. But then what to make of the chaps? And more particularly, the spurs?

Yes, the spurs.

Nickel-plated, rowel-less spurs, which, come to think of it, were of the sort for riding to the hounds. Or show-jumping. So the question, more probably, should be, was Barry a pirate or an equestrian when out profiling on his Harley?

One thing for certain: Barry was a thoroughbred phony. He did nothing that was not premeditated, that had not been calculated for augmenting the persona.

When you spoke to Barry, you were speaking to a guy who’d imagined spurs, who’d sought out and purchased spurs, who’d donned spurs to elicit frissons of wonder and admiration from those sufficiently fortunate to witness his grandeur.

And when Barry spoke to you, it was usually the spurs doing the talking.

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