12.21.2009

The barristas sighed in unison, rolling bloodshot eyes.

"Babe, that's him!" I said
almost choking on my
Chocolate Truffle Espresso.

"Who?" she asked
turning around in her seat.

"Albert Taylor," I answered.
She knew the name well.
I'd mentioned him every time
we passed the McDonald's on
Eighth Ave where Albert and I met
three months ago at four in the morning.
I'd been chasing shots of Sambuca
with gin-and-tonics for five hours;
he'd been talking to himself
in busy fast-food restaurants
for a few decades.
Somehow the playing field
was leveled.

When I stumbled through
the Golden Arches
in a non-discerning search
for breakfast food or cheeseburgers
Albert caught my ear, my heart, my liver.
He was muttering to himself about
Xerxes, Thebes, Alexander the Great.
A sheet of music and three wrinkled
newspapers sat on the table
in front of him, a cup of black coffee
in his left hand.

Al was one of those intriguing black men
who could've been anywhere from fifty
to seventy-five. His melon-colored button-down
meshed nicely with the pinstripe suit he wore
and his gnarled, broken teeth sat between
his heavy lips making him resemble
a jabbering hippopotamus.
I sat across from him for at least two hours
listening to his passionate soliloquies
as I ate my Deluxe Breakfast Platter
washed down with orange juice from concentrate.
Twice I offered to buy him something
perhaps a refill for his Joe
but he fervently declined.
All Albert wanted as a soul to talk to, or at
and I was in no shape to refuse
let alone walk back and figure out
which of the three keys
opened their three respective locks
to her apartment.

By the time I managed to escape
the sun was coming up over
the jagged city skyline.
He was talking about the laws of Logic
after my failed attempt to explain the
Law of Syllogism when I finally interjected:
"Albert, the Law of Woman says I'd better
be getting home before mine starts to worry."
He kept on rambling as I rose and donned my coat.
I'd done my part in terms of exiting politely.
He'd done his in helping me sober up a bit.
The odds were in my favor again.

When I told her about my fascinating encounter
she shook her head and said I shouldn't
talk to crazy strangers while drunk
and alone in public. The beauty of
the scene was lost in my poor explanation
as is often the case with my limited abilities.

But now the man was back.
Out of seven million people
bustling about the Isle of Manhattan
I had chanced to stumble upon
this unmistakable individual yet again.
It seemed a gift from God.

"I want to say Hi," I told her
with naive enthusiasm.

"Don't bother. He won't remember you,"
she said snidely between sips.

"I know that. But I remember him.
Come on, I'll introduce you."

"Don't you dare..."

The conversation drifted elsewhere though
my eyes kept drifting back
to Albert's progress through the room.
All the seats were taken
at the overpriced chain coffeehouse
and that was all he'd come for.
After one disheartening lap throughout
the shop he made his way for the front door
and walked back out into the brisk night.
His lips didn't stop moving once
while he was amongst us. Albert
was just as certifiably nuts
as the first time I'd seen him, not that
this came as a surprise.
Part of me was glad to see the man
was still kicking. I thought of
how ridiculous I must've looked that night
sitting at his table listening intently
to all he had to say. Who was truly
the one out of his mind in that scenario?

"I should've said something," I groaned
shortly after his departure. "It's such
a random coincidence to be seeing him again
that it seems like a waste of fate not to act on it."

"No. You're better off leaving him alone."

Too many people already have in his lifetime, I thought.

We left it at that and went back to talk
of Russian literature
and all its confusing characters
and sub-plots. It seemed much
less substantial, though.
Dostoevsky spun in his grave.

Next time, Al.
Next time.



Currently reading:
"Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" by Hunter S. Thompson

No comments: