Just because I knew the guy from way back when didn’t mean I wanted the conversation to proceed, but he continued to stand in front of me, blocking my way. “Excuse me,” I said.
“Jeff Bridges died.” He spoke fast. “Order a White Russian.”
Towering over me, I had to look up at him to meet his stare. He took a large, slow sip of his American Double Stout, the liquid like chewing tobacco spit, and smiled. I expected the thick, dark brew to be clumped up in his mouth, sticking to his teeth. It wasn’t. Even his beer projected disingenuousness. I didn’t smile back.
“Did you hear me? I said Jeff Bridges died. Go order a White Russian.”
“I heard you.”
“So. . . .”
“So okay.”
“Okay then.”
I joined Giovanni at the bar.
“Did he try that one on you, too?”
“Jeff Bridges?”
“Yeah.”
I took a sip from my beer and glanced at the televisions around the bar – all tuned to the Phillies game – nothing out of the ordinary. “I don’t believe him.”
So we played with our smartphones for a second and then placed them on coasters, not surprised that there was no news about Jeff Bridges – good or bad – online.
“I should have said ‘Yeah, well, you know, that’s just, like, your opinion, man,’” I mumbled. Giovanni laughed, flagged down the bartender and ordered sweet potato fries.
We finished our beers, ordered another round, talked about our women – or lack thereof – and comics.
I let the door swing closed behind me on our way out. He was standing outside, as if waiting for us, leaning against the wooden facade, smoking a cigarette.
“You guys leaving?”
I had to ask. “What do you have against Jeff Bridges, man?”
He explained that he and his friends would do this frequently when out late. “Do you know how little milk a bar normally stocks? They have to send a guy out just to get more. The more people we get ordering White Russians, the more they send some sad sack out for milk. You know how hard it is to buy a gallon of milk at one a.m. in this town?”
He laughed and spat on the sidewalk.
I shrugged. Giovanni and I walked away, down 15th Street.
“Why doesn’t he just say it’s his birthday? Why’s the joke have to be about death?”
(Lee Porter is the writer/producer of the award-winning comedy Web series My Ruined Life and the founder/editor of the food/drink site Chocolate Covered Memories. Lee’s work has been featured on Zoo With Roy, The Gaggle, Philly.com, Comcast SportsNet, Shmitten Kitten, and even tweeted by Questlove. Lee lives in Philadelphia.)
Queen of Spades
Jimmy had been playing poker for fifty eight straight hours prior to boarding the 3:30 am bus back from Atlantic City to Philadelphia, aside from a few breaks to scarf down a bowl of udon noodles or a sandwich. No sleep. He plopped himself into a window seat and rested his head on its poor excuse for a cushion, and closed his eyes. Exhausted as he felt, he was wired, and found himself rethinking a hand he'd lost a few hours earlier, defeated by the Queen of Spades on the river....
"Anyone sitting here?" She had bluish black hair tied neatly in a bun, and she stood in the aisle looking down at him from above, motioning toward the seat beside his.
"No, feel free."
"Thank you."
She sat and removed a blue and white notebook from the pocket of a gown-like jacket she wore well. Jimmy thought she looked very comfortable. She opened the notebook on her lap, pulled a fancy gold pen from another pocket, and started writing. The pen caught Jimmy's eye: its cap was shaped like a gold and red petalled flower, its alternately circular and pointed design seeming vaguely familiar to him. He thought of asking her about the pen, but instead just closed his eyes in the hopes of falling asleep.
"What's your purpose?" he heard her ask. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since she'd sat down or whether he'd slept.
"Excuse me?"
"What's your purpose?"
Jimmy thought of commenting on the strangeness of her question, but found his mouth moving to answer her.
"I don't know. I like playing poker."
"Hmm, okay." She paused. "So your purpose is to play poker?"
Jimmy shrugged. "Sure, just livin' life, getting by. What about you?"
"I'm a facilitator."
"A what?"
"A facilitator."
"What's that mean?"
"It means I help people make things happen."
In spite of his curiosity, Jimmy was too tired to ask any further questions, and he let his eyes start to close anew.
"Sorry to bother you," she said, "I'll let you sleep."
Her tone of voice had a hint of wanting, as if she'd hoped to engage in meaningful conversation with a random person like Jimmy on a 3:30 am bus ride. Perhaps Jimmy would've filled this need if he weren't so tired – she was cute and had a mysteriousness about her that intrigued him. But he just didn't have the energy.
When Jimmy awoke, the bus had parked at its Philadelphia destination. The seat beside him was empty. He scratched his head and rubbed his eyes and looked around for the girl, but she was nowhere to be found.
"Anyone sitting here?" She had bluish black hair tied neatly in a bun, and she stood in the aisle looking down at him from above, motioning toward the seat beside his.
"No, feel free."
"Thank you."
She sat and removed a blue and white notebook from the pocket of a gown-like jacket she wore well. Jimmy thought she looked very comfortable. She opened the notebook on her lap, pulled a fancy gold pen from another pocket, and started writing. The pen caught Jimmy's eye: its cap was shaped like a gold and red petalled flower, its alternately circular and pointed design seeming vaguely familiar to him. He thought of asking her about the pen, but instead just closed his eyes in the hopes of falling asleep.
"What's your purpose?" he heard her ask. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since she'd sat down or whether he'd slept.
"Excuse me?"
"What's your purpose?"
Jimmy thought of commenting on the strangeness of her question, but found his mouth moving to answer her.
"I don't know. I like playing poker."
"Hmm, okay." She paused. "So your purpose is to play poker?"
Jimmy shrugged. "Sure, just livin' life, getting by. What about you?"
"I'm a facilitator."
"A what?"
"A facilitator."
"What's that mean?"
"It means I help people make things happen."
In spite of his curiosity, Jimmy was too tired to ask any further questions, and he let his eyes start to close anew.
"Sorry to bother you," she said, "I'll let you sleep."
Her tone of voice had a hint of wanting, as if she'd hoped to engage in meaningful conversation with a random person like Jimmy on a 3:30 am bus ride. Perhaps Jimmy would've filled this need if he weren't so tired – she was cute and had a mysteriousness about her that intrigued him. But he just didn't have the energy.
When Jimmy awoke, the bus had parked at its Philadelphia destination. The seat beside him was empty. He scratched his head and rubbed his eyes and looked around for the girl, but she was nowhere to be found.
Googling Parenthood
"How was school today, son?" The father asked the question, but did not expect to receive much of an answer. Usually his boy responded with 'good' or 'okay' or nothing at all.
"Something strange happened, dad."
So accustomed to his son's shyness was the father that the boy's words startled him. They sat across from each other in the family room of their two bedroom apartment while the boy's mother fixed dinner in the adjacent kitchen. The steady hum of the kitchen exhaust and crackling of fish in a frying pan drowned out any chance she had of overhearing their conversation.
"What happened?"
"You know John, my friend who is always so quiet?"
"Yes, I know him."
"He's the smart one who gets good grades but he never speaks much in class."
"Yes son, I know him."
"The one who shared his pbj with me that time I forgot my lunch and—"
"Yes, son, I know which boy you mean. Please, continue with the story."
"You know my friend Kayla who I've known since we were babies?"
"Yes."
"The one who's a little bigger than the other girls?"
The father sighed. "Yes, I know her."
"Well this other kid Ricky who's kinda a bully, he's always picking on John but John never does anything, well Ricky was really mean to Kayla and all of a sudden John just snapped and tried to fight him. He ran straight into him and they both fell over."
The father took this in and mulled it. A lot of questions came to mind, but he knew that his son could shut down any moment if he asked the wrong thing.
He decided to ask, "What happened next?"
"The teachers pulled them apart so nothing really."
"Dinner's ready!" Father and son heard mother's voice from the kitchen. They looked at each other and father waited to see if his son had anything else to say.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"If John were your kid instead of me, if you were his dad, would you be mad at him?"
The father considered, then said, "I'd be proud of him for standing up to a bully, but I'd tell him to always try to find a solution other than fighting."
The boy scrunched his face and looked down, then asked, "Like what, dad? How do you stop a bully without fighting?"
The father put his arm around his son. "Let's talk about it after dinner. Come on, go help mom set the table."
The boy nodded and walked off toward the kitchen. His father knew that by the time dinner was over, he'd have to come up with some nonviolent ways to handle a bully. Perhaps he'd have a chance to google "nonviolent ways of handling a bully" after dinner, before resuming their conversation?
"Something strange happened, dad."
So accustomed to his son's shyness was the father that the boy's words startled him. They sat across from each other in the family room of their two bedroom apartment while the boy's mother fixed dinner in the adjacent kitchen. The steady hum of the kitchen exhaust and crackling of fish in a frying pan drowned out any chance she had of overhearing their conversation.
"What happened?"
"You know John, my friend who is always so quiet?"
"Yes, I know him."
"He's the smart one who gets good grades but he never speaks much in class."
"Yes son, I know him."
"The one who shared his pbj with me that time I forgot my lunch and—"
"Yes, son, I know which boy you mean. Please, continue with the story."
"You know my friend Kayla who I've known since we were babies?"
"Yes."
"The one who's a little bigger than the other girls?"
The father sighed. "Yes, I know her."
"Well this other kid Ricky who's kinda a bully, he's always picking on John but John never does anything, well Ricky was really mean to Kayla and all of a sudden John just snapped and tried to fight him. He ran straight into him and they both fell over."
The father took this in and mulled it. A lot of questions came to mind, but he knew that his son could shut down any moment if he asked the wrong thing.
He decided to ask, "What happened next?"
"The teachers pulled them apart so nothing really."
"Dinner's ready!" Father and son heard mother's voice from the kitchen. They looked at each other and father waited to see if his son had anything else to say.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"If John were your kid instead of me, if you were his dad, would you be mad at him?"
The father considered, then said, "I'd be proud of him for standing up to a bully, but I'd tell him to always try to find a solution other than fighting."
The boy scrunched his face and looked down, then asked, "Like what, dad? How do you stop a bully without fighting?"
The father put his arm around his son. "Let's talk about it after dinner. Come on, go help mom set the table."
The boy nodded and walked off toward the kitchen. His father knew that by the time dinner was over, he'd have to come up with some nonviolent ways to handle a bully. Perhaps he'd have a chance to google "nonviolent ways of handling a bully" after dinner, before resuming their conversation?
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