As most of you who read this outpost of a blog are well aware, I do so enjoy being an envoy for the absurdities that define our doomed existence. I dabble in all manner of trouble. So you don’t have to.
And . . . you’re welcome.
So it was that this afternoon, I was having a legit conversation as per my latest storytelling idea with a dude who used to do Summer Stock, all over the map. Richard is sixty-ish, semi-retired and he lives in a condo. He’s also fairly ambivalent when it comes to his live-in girlfriend. The dude is loose threads in the cosmic sense, but he’s why I love actors. Because they jump first and ask the more pertinent questions later on.
“I’m going with my undertow story.” I say.
It takes a few moments for words to catch up with what’s left of his cerebral cortex- which no doubt resembles a taco stand. But when he finally gets around to collating, it’s Climax Blues Band on methamphetamine sprinkled chalupas. Which means, it’s delicious sounding shit.
“Oh shit yeah that’s a funny story! The waving? Priceless. You have to go with that one. Shit yeah!”
If I had a dollar for every time Richard says “Shit, yeah.”, I would own the New York Yankees, have PSL’s to Golden State Warriors games and Oprah would be on speed dial. Richard may speak in clipped appraisals, but when he throws a Hallelujah at you, it’s as if you just watched Jesus in a fist fight.
From there, I go long form with him. I spill a few loose thought ideas so’s he can reduce the elements whilst identifying the cutting room floor material. Dude has a sixth sense about these things. He’s a modern day proverb dressed in stage lights. I love the systemic advancement he uses in order to shelter the wild nature of feral thoughts.
The moments are so very elegant and purposed, and then Sesame Street goes drive by on my ass.
“What are you talking about?”
It’s Danielle. She’s all of twenty one and her interests include Instagram, breaking up with boyfriends, Snap-chat, breaking up with boyfriends and Taco Bell. I’m sure there’s more where that came from, but really . . that’s enough.
“Oh my Gawd! Your video was soooo funny. Is that like stand up?”
I explain to her what storytelling is all about as if I was a human GIF, because that’s the language she speaks. While I’m attempting to send her on her way, she asks if I heard the news about Linkin Park front man Chester Bennington.
“Yes, he committed suicide.”
Richard chimes in with, “Strange day, Chester Bennington hangs himself and O.J. Simpson gets cut loose.” The man has a chime to his rhyme, tell you what.
“Who’s O.J.?” Danielle asks.
Not that long ago, this was a two syllable trivial pursuit question with one hell of a racial slip-switch. (Not that long ago? Meet a million years ago. And even though the two of you have absolutely nothing in common, go have sex. And make babies that ask questions like this.)
“Simpson.” I replied. “O.J. Simpson.”
Her hesitation was a notarized reminder of how quickly time flies. And it signaled my removal from this Bermuda Triangle of crimes and misdemeanors. Hey man, I can run five miles on a ninety five degree afternoon, but I just don’t have the patience for this. It’s fucking exhausting.
“Go with that undertow story, Marc.” Richard winked.
The universe came calling, and it was dressed in a ponytail with yellow colored shades and a forever sounding reminisce of big mistakes dressed in fine solutions.
I winked back.