Inside the organic grocery store, airpods in, noise cancelling, no music. I can hear the tinkling and irritating smooth jazz piped in to calm the herd. I knew the melting of reality was in progress when I saw Alan Watts in the booth next to me, facing me, smiling, eating overnight oats, beard flickering in the light from the sky lights. Rodger Waters of Pink Floyd fame, was sitting a bit further away in some dark maroon worker outfit, an exterminator, I think. Sipping his coffee, and some breakfast taco he was eating with a fork.
Me? Sitting here, writing this. To whom? Whomever.
Did my taxes on the day they are due. $600 refund. That’s not even going to help. The nine months of shame did little more than stabilize me, inspire another book and a lot of mindfulness training, to survive a shitty retail job. Ho hum.
The day, today, stretches out before me like a cheap poylyester digital rug from Amazon, that sheds more micropastics than I can manage. I think there’s more of the run in dust and itching-powder-sized hairs. I’m going to roll it into the dumpster outside when I leave this shithole of an apartment. The view of the pool is nice, though. I used to like watching the pool at my dad’s castle on the hill. Twinkly lights of Austin, in the rain-fogged distance. This pool provides ambient lighting on the ceiling, giving the popcorn texture a wavy motion.
Until the couple above me starts banging on something or playing their music really loud. I wasn’t meant for apartment living. There are young women here, however. I’d need to get in much better shape to attract the ladies. Men hit on me all the time. My 23 yearold daughter says, “You’d make a cute gay guy.” So I’ve got that going for me.
Today, I’m tethered to the wifi of an old employer. Hey, look that’s Doyle Bramhall II, working on his laptop, looking all serious and shit. I do not look serious. Things are pretty serious, though. I’ll spare you my whining and “the one that got away” laments. I am not going to talk about the girl either.
Shit.
Rodger Waters is now drinking his pint of whole milk. Must need the calcium.
And like magic, Mr. Waters approached me and said, “I’m sure you get this all the time, but…”
“Go ahead.” I smiled at him. [comfortably numb playing softly in the background]
“You look a lot like George Lucas. With the light behind you, glowing almost.”
I turned the screen to him and showed him the line about him drinking milk.
“Magic trick? What the fuck is this?”
“I’m just a writer. Imagining you look like Rodger Waters of Pink Floyd.”
His face lit up again. He put out a fist for a bump. We bumped.
That is when Janice Joplin in pink mirrored shades sad next to me in mom jeans and sipped her coffee. Now, she’s up and heading to her car or Waymo. It’s a mysterious morning in a familiar place. I think I’ll stay here and catch more vibes.
Oh shit, that’s Alan Ginsberg looking a bit fatter but quite alive and proud. That crazy uncle from Napoleon Dynamite, he’s chatting up a dude in a thong. It’s an odd and wonderful morning to be alive, even if broke. Not afraid.
Ready for the world, Mr. Lucas. “Action!”
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