"To friends, wherever you find them," Chef Whaa said, doing more to remind me that that's what's happened rather than toasting the philosophy itself. And good God, what didn't I learn? And holy crap, if I can only find my house, my bed... maybe I'll write something on myspace. No, I wanna throw up. Nevermind. No, I don't, but I'm tired.
Kids, don't do this at home. I got in my car and drove the three blocks back to the crib. Thankfully, I made it home. Once home, it took me twenty minutes to unlock the front door. I chose the right key the first time, but I couldn't figure out which way to turn it and for a few moments, just talked to the door sweetly, hoping it would just do me a little favor... just open, baby. Come on, me love you long time.
Somehow, my struggle up the stairs didn't end in tragedy as I seemed to get more drunk the further from the Trail Bar I got. The army of my body was in dissent, each breaking free from the union and telling the others to go fuck themselves. I plopped on the futon/bed and decided that my legs -- in full rebellion at that point -- would not carry me all the way downstairs again should I chose to puke, so I was just going to vomit wherever I could aim my head.
Last night's last thought: Try to remember not to step in puke when you wake up.
But I didn't puke. I hardly ever do. No, I hold the poison and just deal with it the next day.
Which is today.
The alarm on my cell phone went off at 7:50am. Great idea setting the alarm on the phone, I thought as I had to find what I did with my phone the night before. I crashed again.
Rodball hollered up the steps. Just my name, which I only vaguely recognized. An hour had passed between my phone alarm and my friend alarm, but now, it was time for work.
Ooops.
I should be at work right now, but I just called to say I was running late and my boss (I could tell, he did no confessing) had just woken up too. So no hurry.
Over the course of the past three or four hours, those parts of my body that suceeded had returned, realizing like once-angry lovers that they really did need each other. The last to reconcile was the most crucial. Head, face, brain.
For example, after -- AFTER -- I took a shower, I decided to brush my teeth. So, logically, I grabbed my toothbrush. Not so logically, I also grabbed a nearby bottle of Powerade and poured it over my toothbrush.
Work was grand. Where was I?
Yes.
This whole ordeal began when I suddenly recognized my hunger was specific. Trouble had a name: Cheeseburger.
Knowing of no other place in these parts with a better ground round, I hit the Trail Bar. I took my new magazine and a notepad. As always, Simone Says greeted me. She would have had my drink ready and waiting but I've proven in the past to favor two different beverages.
"Tall Miller Lite or Jack and Coke, hon?" She asked.
Beer was my choice. I only wanted one (to be social) and the burger. And that's exactly what was happening.
I smoked a few smokes, I read a few articles, I watched a little football and of course, I enjoyed an excellent cheeseburger. I was licking the last few drops of Miller Lite out of my mug when the cook, Chef Whaa, sat down next to me. I'd seen him several times, been cordial and all that. Never talked to him much, though.
Simone introduced us formally and I thanked him for the meal with a bottle of Budweiser. He inquired about the magazine and we made small talk until I was more interested in my magazine.
Strange. I had a feeling then -- one I sometimes get -- that where my attention was wasn't where it should be. Something interesting was going to happen if I allowed my focus to be courted.
I don't know how it happened exactly. Something about the barkeep saying I was her "Georgia Cowboy", I think. I explained to Whaa that there weren't many cowboys in Georgia when cowboys would have been prevalent, so I was something of a find.
He ordered another and I was done with mine, so I consented to a Jack and Coke, which she makes with a strong emphasis on the former. He's from Kentucky, he says. A dry county. I offer trivia about Lynchburg (where Mr. Daniel's made his whiskey) being likewise dry.
He'd been to Nashville for a while almost twenty years ago to become a...
Whoops... my bad.
He'd been to Nashville for a while almost twenty years ago to become a country music star and told me this, I believe, mostly because he wanted to tell me about a really nice, embroidered pearl button shirt his backers provided him.
Then he told me a little about his wife. His second wife after being married "only twenty years".
"It's supposed to last forever," he said when I questioned "only" since twenty years is still eight years longer than my folks lasted.
"But my wife now, she's great. We've got a screen name," something about "two freaks".
"That's us. Two freaks. You know, leather, chains. That sort. She'd suck a bowling ball through a garden hose."
I laughed and turned my head. It never ceases to embarrass me everytime I hear someone's special someone described in such a way.
"She may not be much to look at -- a heavy girl -- but," he paused to be tender, "But she's real good to me." I believed him with everything I had.
Whaa explained his tattoos, the fringe benefit of military service.
"This one, I had done. It's a ying-yang with the eagle and American flag," I nodded and filed away with the knowledge that he's still calling the fries at the Trail Bar 'Freedom Fries' because he hates the French, "And because a certain ethnic group gets on my nerves, I had this one done: Country til I die!"
I still have no clue what ethnicity is traditionally one-upped by those who refuse to denounce their country roots. Whoever they are will be pissed when they hear that despite not having a tattoo claiming the same, I adhere to the essence of that sentiment.
"I've seen Panama, Kosovo, the first Desert Storm and every shithole in between. It was good, too. Until 1990," he said, "See, I had this one CO who I didn't always see eye to eye with. His orders were just asinine. So one day..."
He didn't pause, he just kept going but I feel the need to mention that up until this point, I was completely floored by how cool this guy was. The whole of it was very fortuitious, if you ask me. He could do no wrong.
"So one day I pulled out my service pistol and shot him in the head."
I could have done a very authentic spit take.
"Do what?!" I exclaimed.
"The world's a better place for it, trust me."
"Uhhhh," I intelligently described my position of non-violence, love and compassion.
"Doesn't make it right, I know, but I don't regret it or anything else I've ever done."
You know me. I'm not easily shaken and I'm not long without words.
"Why aren't you in jail?" I asked hoping the answer would prove it all one elaborate lie.
He then explained that he figured the Air Force had invested so much money in him already that it was best to sweep it under the rug and discharge him without a pension.
Uhhhh... I say still.
He got up and went to the bathroom. I got up and went to the jukebox. The whiskey whitewashed everything but the warm fuzzies I had from making a new friend. I played two songs before Simone called me back to the bar where Whaa was seated again.
"Come here. You gotta see this. He's going to fuck you up."
She had a deck of cards and was setting them before Whaa who was protesting that he didn't really want "to do this".
I stood on the side of the chair opposite of the Chef and asked earnestly, "You aren't going to physically fuck me up, are you?
"No, just gonna mess with your mind a little."
I sat down and he handed me the deck.
"Shuffle these and when you're ready, put em on the bar."
I did both.
"There are fifty-two cards in a deck, right?"
Yep.
"Four suits and thirteen cards for every suit, right?
"Affirmative," I answered. I was guessing. It was getting to the point that I would soon be unable to spell my own name let alone do any sort of mathmatics.
"Okay, choose two."
I did. And without giving away anything else, he proceeded to blow my mind. In the end, Simone Says was somehow pulling the card I chose from an enviable position in her bra.
I played the rest of the songs for which I paid and demanded he do it again, determined to figure this thing out.
He did the whole thing over and though I saw some holes, I still didn't know how he did it. The card had again ended up nestling Simone's boobs.
"It's simple, really," he said, "Simple." He took a swig on his beer and ordered another. I asked for another Jack and Coke.
"I used that trick to prove my thesis when I completed my Master's."
"You have a Masters?" I asked.
"Yep, psychology."
"No shit."
I was back to being enamored with this guy. Platonically, of course, but really more like an apprentice to a mentor. I wanted to be this guy.
He'd said over and over all night, "It's like Seagal said, 'I'm just the cook.'" Later, he dropped the introductory phrase. "I'm just the cook" became a really good answer to a lot of difficult questions.
"Ever hear the one..."
He had a lot of bar jokes. He shared them to impart knowledge the same way Jesus employed parables. Weird.
"My uncle has a bar... In the time I've been going down there, I've only seen three fights and I started two of them."
He told me about the particular discipline of martial arts he'd learned and called the philosophies of Akido and Jeet Kun Do "wrong for so many reasons" since they were both fundementally offensively minded. "I like to give a man a chance to explain himself before I kill him," he expounded.
He had more beer and I had more Jack n Cokes. I was feeling it. I could have sworn I saw a nipple or two somewhere in there. Nice ones, not like the kind you see on old men.
Once I was good and buzzing, but not yet destroyed, I ordered a beer. A raggedy, evidentally homeless woman came in the bar. She was the only person in there besides me, Chef Whaa, Simone Says and some friend of hers whose name escapes me.
The stranger ordered a beer, bummed a smoke and asked about the nearest bus. Not that I'd have known shit from Shinola at that point anyway, but I certainly had no clue as to the comings and goings of the busses, and I told her so. Whaa was of no help.
She asked several times. At this point I was writing down most of the things the Chef was saying. I don't know what I did with that notebook.
For maybe the third or fourth time, he told me, "I seen you in here before over in that corner, reading. You look like you're in your own little world but you're taking notes on whatever it is -- it isn't my business -- but I liked that about you. You looked like you were always trying to learn something."
Thanks, bud.
He also invited me to what sounds like the best time anyone could have in Michigan. His basement with his friends, beer, Texas Hold'Em and karaoke. If I had a date, I'd ask if I could take her. It sounds like fun and Lord willin', that's where I'll be come Saturday.
Friday night, the Miller Girls will be at the Trail Bar and to be courteous, I will be swinging by to say hello. For my feminist friends, I'd like to point out that I'll be appreciating them for their minds, not their bodies.
That is, unless they ask me to appreciate their bodies in which case, I'd be rude not to.
The Public Transport Fan asked again about the busses and got the same response. Almsot the same. This time around there was a little vinegar thrown in because it was almost close and no one seemed to want her sleeping there.
She asked me for a ride and I informed her that I couldn't see myself driving myself anywhere at this point.
"Later maybe?" She asked.
I did something I feel bad about now but was right to do then. I said, "I don't think so, hon." I can be a cruel bastard.
When I looked back, Whaa was unfolding a bar napkin. He was twisting it as he talked, "Sometimes when these girls are having a bad night or you know, just because I feel like it, I try to do something a little special for them. It doesn't cost nothing, but it says you're thinking about them."
By the time he was finished speaking, he'd produced a rose from the napkin -- origami for Americans -- and was taking the top off of a small bottle of Stetson. He dabbed his finger with it and used that finger to scent the inside of the rose.
"So when they're having that off day or whatever, you hand them this. You say, 'Here honey, stop and smell the roses.' They'll take it and be like, 'Yeah, whatever.' But you say, 'NO. Stop and SMELL the roses.' They'll take a whiff and see it really smells like something and usually, they'll ask, 'What's that?' See, so always carry around a bottle of your scent with you or at least, a small bottle. My scent is Stetson," he elaborated.
He tried to show me how to do it, but I was sloppy drunk. My rose looked like a joint gone awry. If I had handed to a bartender, she would have probably been disappointed if only because there was nothing she could do with it.
I haven't even started carrying a bottle of my scent with me.
Shit. I haven't even decided upon a scent.
Sooner or later, the Bus Stop Pilgrim was kicked out, but in the most polite way possible. The guy whose name escapes me escourted her out under the pretenses that he was going to give her a ride. Even we believed him.
He simply shut the door on her and locked it.
Around 2:20am, Chef Whaa looked at me and said, "Well, it's like they say, 'You don't have to go home but you can't stay here.'"
I peed and left, shaking hands with him and echoing later what he'd been toasting all night, "To friends, wherever you find them."
He even told me how to install a drop ceiling for $25 instead of $325.
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