45
I’ve found myself in an early morning Casey’s conversation with Jeff. I have a nice hot cup of coffee in my hand and he’s going on and on about his past job and whole life he had down in Indiana.
“Car mechanic, yup, car mechanic ten years.”
Man can he spin a tale. He almost has me rolling.
“This big old jackass came in, ordinary afternoon, his arms all full of grease, like, all full.
He’s pissed up talking shit ’bout how he can’t fix his damn engine.
This poor fucker’s ass cheeks were squeezing themselves up his jeans man, up and over, and he’s rambling, man is he rambling.
He’s telling me all about this morning he was having, his wife.
Guy’s a lunatic I’m thinkin, for sure.
Looked like he hadn’t slept or bathed in a month.
No lying.
Anyway, he’s getting worked up and I haven’t said a word.
He’s just turning red in the face man I’ve never seen anything like it, this guy.
Anyway, this poor bastard starts havin a heart attack! Right there in the shop! Not lying! Oh Jesus he kept sayin, here we go again .
He kept saying that.
Here we go again .
’Parently, this happens to him all the time.
I’m panicking calling 911 ah God the whole thing.
He was alright though, don’t worry, don’t worry.
He ended up bein just fine.”
Jeff has some pretty zany yellow teeth, but my God does he have an honest smile.
The way he’s bulleting on and on into this six a.m.
story makes me start laughing, and I damn near can’t stop.
He’s bringing tears to my eyes.
The coffee is setting in and I’m buzzing.
To think I had zero intention of saying a word to Jeff this morning.
“Anyway, what the hell is it you really do, Cash?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, when you’re not painting and shit.”
“Good question. I like to write.”
“No kiddin?”
“Yeah man.”
“Man, that’s crazy, that’s crazy because I used to be a writer. I used to! My pops had this real old fuckin typewriter stored away in my basement, ya know? And I used to sneak on down and get that thing spinnin, I tell ya, I swear to that! I coulda been Bukowski!”
And now I’m really enjoying myself because I loved Bukowski, but Jeff really meant what he said.
He really believed he coulda been Bukowski if he’d only kept at it.
I found that endearing as hell, and hysterical too.
I knew that any kid in the world could pound away on a typewriter, and that being Bukowski came down to an altogether different thing, an altogether different life.
I don’t know how to explain that to Jeff and also, I don’t want to dampen his hard earned high.
The world needed more of honest Jeff’s enthusiasm, that’s for sure.
How the hell would I know if Jeff had the juice? I couldn’t tell ya.
He certainly filled the air with phenomenal tales, so eccentric and everything.
Maybe he coulda been Bukowski after all.
Whenever Jeff paused for two seconds to ask me something about myself, I couldn’t bear to tell him the whole truth. I didn’t want to go too deep because pretty soon he’d be back rambling about his life, which I found much more interesting.
“Ah damn Cash, I like ya man. You know I imagined I’d be just about anywhere but here. Figured I’d be doing some other work by this point, not here. Maybe I seriously oughta sit down and see if I can make the typewriter dance.”
“Make it dance!?”
“Make it dance baby.”
And I fucking lose it again laughing. What’s up with this maniac? Everything about him I’m finding earnest and hilarious. He said it with such a straight face, I swear. Make it dance. I liked that.
“Listen man, I believe you can do anything in the whole wide world, but if you’re gonna do it, you better get round to doing it, ya know? You’re not getting any younger.”
“God do I really look that old?”
“You know what I mean.”
Crazy Jeff. My coffee is damn near gone and I kid you not, there hasn’t been a single other customer that has come through the place since I arrived.
“God Jeff you sure get swamped mornings, huh?” And he really snorts at that and cackles.
“That’s a good one,” he says, pumping some tobacco into his lower lip.
“Fuck’s sake man, ain’t it a bit early?”
He shakes his head and says.
“just depends how you’re keepin time.”
I’m enjoying Jeff more and more by the second. He’s his own man. He could chat about damn near anything, but all at once, he gets sort of quiet and serious. He leans in a tad.
“You know, man,” he goes.
“I would never propose, or go ’round tellin nobody bout nothin like this usually, but I like ya and well I might as well get to it, there’s a guy outside of town that’s been gettin his hands on this Alice man, solid for years, and I see him from time to time.”
I squint at him.
“Alice? What the fuck are you talkin about?”
And he gets this stupid grin on his face and goes even lower with it, barely a whisper.
“Come on. man, shrooms man, mushrooms. Alice in Wonderland.”
Ah, of course. Are they really calling it that now?
“Anyway man, I’m tellin ya, just cuz you been sayin how you’re hunkered down and all and kinda bored sometimes and what not, and I see you’re kinda on this odyssey right? Least that’s how it seems, I don’t wanna assume nothin, but ya know I have something for that, more than usual from a recent trip out and if you want a bit, it’s yours, man. All yours.”
And what an absurd comedy Jeff and I have found ourselves in this morning. All jazzed on coffee and riding a positive jam. It shouldn’t surprise me that he offered me drugs, but somehow it caught me off guard. Wild Jeff was hitting Alice on his off nights and mornings, and that extra glint in his eye made a little more sense to me now.
“Well?”
And I laugh a little, shake my head and say.
“Yeah man, why not?”