Jellybean Highfive found it ironic that the least ironic person he knew worked at an iron quarry. How ironic, he thought. Then he thought something else. He looked long and hard at Chip Beetle, the aforementioned friend. Chip had a mustache.
“Anyway, so that’s what I came to talk to you about,” Jellybean said, finishing a long and interesting monologue.
“There’s no need to get personal, Jellybean,” Chip said, doing nothing with his hands to his mustache. “I mean, do I come all the way to your work area and complain about the state of your trousers?”
“But Chip, Chip, Chip,” Jellybean Highfive said, unable to take his eyes off of what he was looking at. “I’m not saying your pants are beyond all human aid. I just think you should take neatness a little more seriously.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” Chip said.
“Because it’s simply daft to think about a rich bloke like you with your fancy office job, where you wear khaki all day and frolic with female coworkers, coming down here to an iron quarry to lecture me about how tidy my trousers are.”
“They’re full of wrinkles, Chip,” Jellybean said, sucking down a cigarette from a larger length to a shorter one. Just then, suddenly, another Chip came into view and then out of view as he walked in and out of view. Foreigners, Jellybean thought. Then he said, “You know what you need, buddy?”
“No, what?” Chip said in an English accent, because he was from England.
“I’m asking you, Chip. I don’t have any idea,” Jellybean said, throwing his spent cig to the ground in disgust as if it disgusted him.
“I could, I suppose,” Chip said, now almost touching his mustache with his index finger, “go to a shop and purchase an…”
“It’ll never work,” Jellybean said, cutting him off. “Let it go, man. Let it go.” Then Jellybean added, “Let it go, man.”
With a last, backward glance at what he saw when he looked there, Jellybean left the quarry.