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.)
Showing posts with label cigarette. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cigarette. Show all posts
Comfy Couch
On a comfy couch in the corner seat, you snuggle with the world. Whatever else: the wars, the debt, climate change, you wrap your arms around it and feel the pain and stress and paranoia and squeeze tight so it can’t breathe. A movie, or two. Popcorn on the table, in and out of sleep, the occasional cigarette, a text message. Barefoot between carpet and tile, reaching into the freezer for Ben and Jerry’s, back on the couch eating straight from the carton.
You’re protected by cushions. You can fall asleep for the night and wake up in the morning and make breakfast and it won’t matter. Another text message, mindless chatter, the only kind you could stand at this hour on a small electronic gadget, if you must. Face to face we could go deeper, if we wanted, but most likely I’d be in the other corner, curled up in a ball, and we’d just laugh because we could do anything but all we’d want is the couch and the tv and snacks anyway.
But you’re there and I’m here and we each need to get through the days, separately, working our jobs and doing chores and telling our families we love them and once in a while meeting friends for drinks or dinner or both. You clean the house and wait for the moment when the long day yields, you’re on the couch again, knowing I’m out there on a couch somewhere too, the great world spinning as we grip our pillows and rest.
You’re protected by cushions. You can fall asleep for the night and wake up in the morning and make breakfast and it won’t matter. Another text message, mindless chatter, the only kind you could stand at this hour on a small electronic gadget, if you must. Face to face we could go deeper, if we wanted, but most likely I’d be in the other corner, curled up in a ball, and we’d just laugh because we could do anything but all we’d want is the couch and the tv and snacks anyway.
But you’re there and I’m here and we each need to get through the days, separately, working our jobs and doing chores and telling our families we love them and once in a while meeting friends for drinks or dinner or both. You clean the house and wait for the moment when the long day yields, you’re on the couch again, knowing I’m out there on a couch somewhere too, the great world spinning as we grip our pillows and rest.
Reconnaissance
As Joseph jumped up the subway steps at City Hall, he marveled at how long it’d been since he last set foot near Rittenhouse Square. One could live an entire lifetime between Northern Liberties and Fishtown, he thought.
Even now he only came this way out of necessity, on a rescue mission he feared would become nothing more than reconnaissance, said fear stemming from the following text message exchange with Annabeth after she didn’t answer either of his calls:
Joseph: When you coming to JB?
Annabeth: Probably not but come to McG!
JB stood for Johnny Brenda’s. A bar stool there having cushioned Joseph’s backside for the previous three hours, he and Garret and Suki waiting to hear from Annabeth about when she’d be joining them, Joseph felt toasty during his midnight trek on the Market-Frankford line. At first Joseph thought McG meant McGillin’s, but then he remembered that Billy was a smoker, so it had to be McGlinchey’s.
Joseph strode through McGlinchey’s doorway and spotted them right away through the smoke filled haze. They sat in a booth on the left side of the bar, Annabeth beside Billy, a young guy with long hair Joseph had met a few times seated across from them. Joseph cringed, swallowed his pride, and sat next to the guy whose name he’d never remember.
“Hi,” he managed a smile as he waved at them all.
Annabeth looked in his direction, a devilish face, cigarette between her left index and middle fingers. Billy exhaled and shook Joseph’s hand. The young guy, who’d been jabbering away as Joseph joined them, said, “Yo dude,” and then kept talking. Music blared, an old Velvet Underground tune, Lou Reed’s voice floating indiscriminately among the crowd, through the smoke.
When the kid stopped to breathe, Joseph said, “I’m gonna grab a drink, anyone in need?”
Billy answered, “I think we all could use one.” The others nodded. “Shot and a beer, you choose.”
A tall, slender bar tender with tattoos in various places, the one of a diamond on her left breast in particular catching Joseph’s unwitting eye, asked, “What can I get you?”
“Four Miller Lites and four shots of Jameson.”
He paid the fifteen bucks he owed and left a five dollar tip, carried the drinks back to the booth in two trips.
“Thank you much,” Billy said.
“Yeah, thanks dude,” the young chatterbox offered.
“Since when do you smoke?” Joseph asked Annabeth.
“From time to time,” she said airily.
“I didn’t know.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Joe.”
Joseph caught a smirk on Billy’s face.
“Excuse me,” Annabeth said as she rose. She looked back at Joseph and winked as she entered the Ladies room.
The music changed and now Nick Lowe sang, ‘Cruel To Be Kind.’
Raising his shot glass, his Yoda tattoo purposefully visible to the others, Joseph indicated for them to raise theirs. The three men threw back their Jamesons.
“So Billy,” Joseph managed to start before the kid could talk again. “You head back to Chicago at all?”
“Naaahhh,” Billy drew out. “No way to get back. Besides, Philly’s been too much fun.”
The long haired kid stayed quiet for a refreshing few moments and Joseph heard the music say, ‘it’s a very very very good sign’ just as Annabeth returned from the restroom.
She sat and pushed her shot over to Joseph. “You want mine too?” She asked. “I don’t need this.”
The whiskey went down the hatch and Joseph felt his buzz kick up a notch, watched an anthropomorphic red glass ashtray throw a punch across Billy’s face. He knew then it was time for him to head home.
“Well I was just in the neighborhood so wanted to stop in for a drink, but I gotta go.”
Annabeth eyed him quizzically, knowing he’d actually just been four neighborhoods away.
Goodbyes were said and Joseph hoped he’d catch the train before it stopped running for the night, save the eight dollar difference between that and cab fare. He decided not to call Annabeth for a few days, give her a little space.
(Listen to the original version of Nick Lowe's 'Cruel To Be Kind' here. For a live version performed with Wilco last month, click here.)
Even now he only came this way out of necessity, on a rescue mission he feared would become nothing more than reconnaissance, said fear stemming from the following text message exchange with Annabeth after she didn’t answer either of his calls:
Joseph: When you coming to JB?
Annabeth: Probably not but come to McG!
JB stood for Johnny Brenda’s. A bar stool there having cushioned Joseph’s backside for the previous three hours, he and Garret and Suki waiting to hear from Annabeth about when she’d be joining them, Joseph felt toasty during his midnight trek on the Market-Frankford line. At first Joseph thought McG meant McGillin’s, but then he remembered that Billy was a smoker, so it had to be McGlinchey’s.
Joseph strode through McGlinchey’s doorway and spotted them right away through the smoke filled haze. They sat in a booth on the left side of the bar, Annabeth beside Billy, a young guy with long hair Joseph had met a few times seated across from them. Joseph cringed, swallowed his pride, and sat next to the guy whose name he’d never remember.
“Hi,” he managed a smile as he waved at them all.
Annabeth looked in his direction, a devilish face, cigarette between her left index and middle fingers. Billy exhaled and shook Joseph’s hand. The young guy, who’d been jabbering away as Joseph joined them, said, “Yo dude,” and then kept talking. Music blared, an old Velvet Underground tune, Lou Reed’s voice floating indiscriminately among the crowd, through the smoke.
When the kid stopped to breathe, Joseph said, “I’m gonna grab a drink, anyone in need?”
Billy answered, “I think we all could use one.” The others nodded. “Shot and a beer, you choose.”
A tall, slender bar tender with tattoos in various places, the one of a diamond on her left breast in particular catching Joseph’s unwitting eye, asked, “What can I get you?”
“Four Miller Lites and four shots of Jameson.”
He paid the fifteen bucks he owed and left a five dollar tip, carried the drinks back to the booth in two trips.
“Thank you much,” Billy said.
“Yeah, thanks dude,” the young chatterbox offered.
“Since when do you smoke?” Joseph asked Annabeth.
“From time to time,” she said airily.
“I didn’t know.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Joe.”
Joseph caught a smirk on Billy’s face.
“Excuse me,” Annabeth said as she rose. She looked back at Joseph and winked as she entered the Ladies room.
The music changed and now Nick Lowe sang, ‘Cruel To Be Kind.’
Raising his shot glass, his Yoda tattoo purposefully visible to the others, Joseph indicated for them to raise theirs. The three men threw back their Jamesons.
“So Billy,” Joseph managed to start before the kid could talk again. “You head back to Chicago at all?”
“Naaahhh,” Billy drew out. “No way to get back. Besides, Philly’s been too much fun.”
The long haired kid stayed quiet for a refreshing few moments and Joseph heard the music say, ‘it’s a very very very good sign’ just as Annabeth returned from the restroom.
She sat and pushed her shot over to Joseph. “You want mine too?” She asked. “I don’t need this.”
The whiskey went down the hatch and Joseph felt his buzz kick up a notch, watched an anthropomorphic red glass ashtray throw a punch across Billy’s face. He knew then it was time for him to head home.
“Well I was just in the neighborhood so wanted to stop in for a drink, but I gotta go.”
Annabeth eyed him quizzically, knowing he’d actually just been four neighborhoods away.
Goodbyes were said and Joseph hoped he’d catch the train before it stopped running for the night, save the eight dollar difference between that and cab fare. He decided not to call Annabeth for a few days, give her a little space.
(Listen to the original version of Nick Lowe's 'Cruel To Be Kind' here. For a live version performed with Wilco last month, click here.)
Robert Drifts
Robert opens the backdoor and lets Bubba out. The grassy backyard is extraordinarily large for a city row home. Aged wooden fence enclosing him, Bubba can run around to his heart’s content.
As is his Saturday morning ritual, Robert ascends the rear stairs with his freshly poured cup of coffee. He breathes heavily when he reaches the third floor and thinks of younger years when scaling the Art Museum steps would’ve felt like less work. Easing into his most comfortable chair, purchased twenty years ago when he was a ripe twenty five year old rebel, he places the coffee mug on a table to his right and lights a cigarette. The chair faces out the bay window protruding from the third floor’s back room, his study, and he sees a landscape his wife wouldn’t recognize.
For the best, he supposes, to replace abandoned buildings and old, empty warehouses, relics from an industrial economy long since displaced from Philadelphia to China and wherever else. He sees the many young folks starting their Saturdays and imagines himself in their shoes, new to the neighborhood, not a care in the world, meeting his wife for the first time at Ortlieb’s on a Tuesday night.
Closing his eyes, drifting, Robert strolls with her down 2nd Street, drives while she adjusts the radio, stands beside her in their garden. . . .
Bubba barks loudly, startling his owner. Robert re-lights the cigarette and walks downstairs to join the chocolate lab. He lets Bubba lick remnants of coffee from his mug as he stares off into uninterrupted blue sky, trying hard to feel something other than sadness.
As is his Saturday morning ritual, Robert ascends the rear stairs with his freshly poured cup of coffee. He breathes heavily when he reaches the third floor and thinks of younger years when scaling the Art Museum steps would’ve felt like less work. Easing into his most comfortable chair, purchased twenty years ago when he was a ripe twenty five year old rebel, he places the coffee mug on a table to his right and lights a cigarette. The chair faces out the bay window protruding from the third floor’s back room, his study, and he sees a landscape his wife wouldn’t recognize.
For the best, he supposes, to replace abandoned buildings and old, empty warehouses, relics from an industrial economy long since displaced from Philadelphia to China and wherever else. He sees the many young folks starting their Saturdays and imagines himself in their shoes, new to the neighborhood, not a care in the world, meeting his wife for the first time at Ortlieb’s on a Tuesday night.
Closing his eyes, drifting, Robert strolls with her down 2nd Street, drives while she adjusts the radio, stands beside her in their garden. . . .
Bubba barks loudly, startling his owner. Robert re-lights the cigarette and walks downstairs to join the chocolate lab. He lets Bubba lick remnants of coffee from his mug as he stares off into uninterrupted blue sky, trying hard to feel something other than sadness.
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