I bought a magic hat. After I'd finished my work this past Saturday -- being out on Pio Nono -- I headed to the Smiley's to see what was shakin'. Lot's of browsing and no real deals were found. For one, the rain had diminished the vending masses and secondly, it was getting later in the day. So I picked up a couple of T-shirts and a hat that read: "Stinky's Love Shack"; prepared to call it a day. Then I happen by a booth patronized by three Mexicans fascinated by a pair of boots and the little skeptical lady who ran operations. On the table out front lay my magic hat, a fedora. Hmmm, I think, hmmm... will it fit? Before trying it out, I check the label and scan for scalp invaders. No lice, haints or boogers present and the size looks like mine. Wooo, I think, hmmm... should I? Oh but of course, and I did.
Unsure exactly if it was going to work out for me, I asked the going rate for such a fantastic topper, thinking the answer would make or break the deal. Three bucks. Three bucks, my man. I'll take it.
Thoughts floated that evening about the ensemble I'd have to wear with the hat to make it happen. By the time I was ready to hit the nightlife, it was settled. Without getting into great detail, suffice it to say I looked very much like Frank Sinatra. And the magic part of the hat? I felt very much like the Chairman, indeed.
I strolled down Cherry Street into the World Famous Elizabeth Reed Music Hall. Though the noise was tremendous and featured bands playing loudly, I could hear the thoughts of all those around me as I made my appearance. My mind's ear rang with exclaimations like, "Damn!", "Who's that suave hunk pimpin' his way through the crowd?", "I wanna be like him" and "I wanna be with him." Without a doubt, I garnered far more attention last night than I ever have anywhere else before in men's clothing.
By the end of the night, having not found even one of my suitors terribly exciting, I hung out after hours with Jason, Riddle, Big Round and Stick. While I helped sweep -- Jack and Coke in one hand, so it wasn't excellent sweeping -- a roar came from downstairs followed by the tip-tapping footfalls of Stick who was proclaiming, "The Good Food Truck is here! The Good Food Truck is here!" His call was met with "Oh shit!" and the quick gathering of grown men acting like little boys getting more exciting as the bells of the ice cream man come closer.
I followed one and all down the street looking for some explaination along the way. Few details came out but as anyone with half a brain would guess, this Good Food Truck is as it has been named, a good food truck.
Jason and Riddle were first in line with Stick right behind. I chatted with Round about going to Nashville, then we placed our orders. As we waited -- me, anxiously for the well-reputed pork chop dinner -- a fellow named Snake came by. Riddle was already eating his fish dinner and when Snake was rebuffed by the Captain, the propietor of the Good Food Truck, he came to Riddle offering to buy the half-consumed fish dinner for $15. Apparently, the Capt had already turned off the grills and deep friers, unwilling to fire them up for just one guy.
When Snake found himself rejected twice -- the fish dinner inseparable from its owner -- he returned to accuse the Captain of racism. "You don't care about black people!" Funny since the Captain and his wife -- also there -- are black. "You know my daddy," and variations on it were made without ever making any sense. But my favorite was, "You servin' these white muthafuckas but you ain't servin' me?!"
Immediately responses arose. First from Big Round: "Ain't no white mutherfuckers over here!" Then, Riddle, "What? I'm black." And finally me, "I'm neither black or a mutherfucker." Snake paid no attention as his confrontation with the Captain grew more hostile. It turns out that the Captain is really a police captain so he called someone and in minutes a patrol car was there. I was eating my pork chop dinner fending off Snake's attempts to bargain some fries from me when the cop arrived.
Between the time of the call and the arrival, Snake had more than casually mentioned three factors that would prevent his arrest or harrassment by "The Man": 1) His Dad owns half of Macon, 2) He himself was a Green Beret, 3) He is also a Sixth Degree Tae Kwon Doe... not a Sixth Degree belt, but a Sixth Degree Tae Kwon Doe. I thought about letting him know I was a Eighteenth Degree Kung Fu AND a Hundredth Degree Tai Chi. But my point was that none of those things came into play when the Po-Po made their demands.
Softly, quietly, Snake conceded when he was told to leave. The Captain had his day and we got quite a bit of free entertainment at 4am. Nice, nice, nice.
That's about that for now.
PS -- I need to know something. What does "ALOOF" mean? I've looked it up. I've proffered my opinion but there remains some controversy with a pal o' mine.
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