Per truth, per fiction

Enough of pathos bordering on bathos and crossing over to the other side. Here’s a true story.

It must have been 1995 — spring or autumn — my colleagues dragged me into that bar — I suppose it was Moosehead on Polyanka — later the guy who ran it sold, or was beaten into selling the business to the Chechen co-owners — yes, surely it was Moosehead with a mini-garden by the entrance, beer taps right by the side, and that night I was introduced to an IT guy from New Zealand, already well soaked judging by his eyes — while I had only sparingly warmed myself up. Introduced right in the middle of a story he must have been communicating to someone else right before me — namely, how hard it was to be in IT in New Zealand, and that in order to succeed in IT in NZ, one had to be a perfectionist. Yes, he repeated, to succeed, you have to be that — he must have taken pride in being able to pronounce the tetrasyllable clearly in defiance of the beer downed. But as the pints had conspired to thicken his natural accent, the word that came out was in fact “perfictionist.” Who can resist it?

I’m not making this up, only some.

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