Wednesday, November 25, 2009

All I wanted was a coffee...

Pulled into downtown from the backside, near all of the new palaces. I got a little confused on streets that I could once navigate in my sleep. They were too crowded now with buildings that held no life. I was out that night for no particular reason, and since I had Bobbie McGee’s freedom, I went looking for other souls.

The lifelessness drained me, and I thought a cup of Joe might perk me up. Every haunt I knew had been swallowed by the palaces and my confusion was rising. I stopped to get my bearings, and took in the scene. As I studied it, an old song started playing in my head. I looked for a landmark and saw the sign in the distance. Coffee was what I needed, and the sign was pointing the way.

There was still lifelessness around me as I trudged on, and I half expected to run into the Halloween Jack.

Shock froze me as I peered in the door. Expecting stainless steel, formica and fluorescence – I found greenery, woods and soft leather. Where were the world-weary inhabitants? Where was the atmosphere that invited you in, while driving away those too faint of heart? This place was nice, and homey – and everyone was sleek and beautiful. I checked the sign again and opened the door.

I thought I was confused because I was tired, but now I doubted even that. The menu was not making much sense to me and everybody ordering was speaking a type of gibberish. I started feeling like a stranger in my own world. I told the counter person that all I wanted was a small cup of coffee, but I couldn't find it on the menu board. In response, I was given such a sneer that I haven’t seen since I arrived at Swingo’s for dinner wearing jeans and old cowboy boots.

At least now, I could relax in one of the sofas and drink my joe. I reached for my last cigarette and heard such a scream I thought we were being held up! I looked around to see what the hell had happened, and everybody was pointing at me and screaming for me to leave. A waitress ran over and pulled the cig out of my mouth and broke it in half while screaming that I couldn't do that here and started pushing me out the door. Now, I had been thrown out of better places than that (Swingo’s) and a lot of worse places than that, but never with such conviction and menace! What really teed me off was that my last cigarette was lying on the floor inside, broken in half.

I looked around the palace’s lobby and saw a newsstand still open, and he was selling my brand. At least, something was going right. The guy behind the counter was laughing, being that he witnessed my banishment, and between guffaws, he asked what I wanted.

I asked for my favorite brand, and he quoted me a price that was nearly double of what I usually paid. Wondering why I was being robbed, I asked him why it was so expensive. He just laughed at me and said it was because of the taxes. When he saw my confused look (and I’m really getting tired of being confused) he explained that the taxes were high to pay for the palaces. The fog was lifting, I finally wasn’t confused. The taxes were high on my cigarettes to pay for the palaces that were empty of souls and had replaced all the street life that I had enjoyed and now did not let me smoke in said palaces. Got it! I understood! I don’t know how, but I guess it made sense, at least to someone.

I walked out the front door to the street and lit up. Again I heard screaming! Now the newsstand guy was babbling at me at the top of his lungs and shooing me away! I finally made out that I could only smoke a certain distance away from the door. I looked to the left and only saw more doorways so that direction was out. In front of me was the street, and as lifeless as the street was, I didn’t feel like dodging the occasional bus or car. My ride was parked down the street some distance to the right and I figured that was the safest way to go. Actually, I just wanted everybody to stop being mad at me, and trudged on to my ride, aching to get out of there.

As I started out, I saw a pair of eyes staring at me from under a hooded jacket straight ahead. The figure was standing at the entrance to an alley that I hadn’t noticed before. I could only see eyes staring straight at me from under that dirty jacket, the hood put everything else about the eyes into dark shadows. As I walked toward the figure, the eyes seem to stare more intently.

With my luck tonight, I expected the worst. I started to walk with more bravado, lighting up, half to strike a pose, half to have a lit cigarette in my hand as a weapon. It was after I lit up while getting closer to the figure that I noticed the eyes change. The change was from a look of intimidation, to a look of need. I stared straight at the eyes, daring the figure to address me, when in a quiet, polite tone he asked if he could bum a smoke.

He was dirty and his clothes had seen better days. Dressed in about ten layers of clothes, I couldn’t even tell what his true size was. It was the politeness in his voice that made me reach for the pack. I handed him a cigarette, and he apologized again, asking for a light. I handed him my lighter and took a sip of my coffee. He studied me for a second, and I felt like he was sizing me up. He told me that he heard the yelling about me smoking while in the alley, and he figured that I would be an easy target to bum a smoke. I cracked a remark about being such an outcast, and he just burst out laughing! He tried to say that he knew how I felt while laughing hysterically. We both stood there laughing now, laughing at the irony.

His name was Lou, and he once lived in the old flop house that the palace had replaced. We shared some old memories of the dives and the joints that were once part of the street. I remembered some of the characters, long since pinched by LE, or blown away in some headline-grabbing fashion. He talked of the ladies, and while he talked, he seemed to grow younger. I couldn’t figure out his age, but his stories betrayed the generation he was referring to. He talked of Chicago and New York, Detroit and Saigon.

I don’t how long we talked, but my coffee was long gone and my smokes were burning up with the memories. I thanked him for the laughs, and asked him if I could buy him a cup of coffee. He looked at the sign in the distance with such disgust that I knew it was a bad idea. I lit up another cigarette, tucked an unlit one above my ear, and handed him the pack. He nodded in gratitude and squirreled it away in the folds of his jacket. I reached into my pocket for the lighter and an extra ten spot I had when we heard footsteps crossing the alley. I handed him the ten when I heard the young prince walking by say to his princess what a waste of money I was committing. I loudly told Lou to buy himself a sandwich, a drink, a smoke, or a piece of ass with it and he laughed.

I got to my ride and cranked up the stereo –


“Crawling down the alley on your hands and knee
I’m sure you're not protected, for it's plain to see
The diamond dogs are poachers and they hide behind trees
Hunt you to the ground they will, mannequins with kill appeal”


I was thinking about Lou’s last words to me. We had just finished laughing when he asked God to bless me. I don’t really know why, but for the first time in a lot of years, I wondered if that was possible.

5 comments:

  1. http://13stitches.ning.com/profiles/blogs/nicotine-fixes

    I love this story... remember the night we went to see my cousin's band? I wrote the above piece the day after.

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  2. Kim - I remember that night - a great time! Great story!

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  3. Suze - coming from you, I consider it a high compliment! How are you feeling?

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  4. I always love the mood you bring to the stories you tell. I always enjoy feeling like I was there because of your easy style.

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