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The Audiot
It's just that, well, I'm not wired right.
For one thing, I remember every sound I hear: the wind blowing through beech leaves in October, a red-wing blackbird singing on a rooftop, Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys playing Mexicali Rose, my kindergarten teacher reading Dr. Seuss's One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish.
Every noise, every voice, every melody, I recall.
The melodies stream like the world's biggest jukebox on shuffle. A tune plays every waking moment, while I'm dreaming even. Sometimes two or three at a time. Ruby Tuesday flute solo, Mose Allison Bye-Bye Blues, the soundtrack to The Natural, a Peruvian folk song, Robert Johnson singing "Generator won't catch a spark" from Terraplane Blues.
It's like a multichannel radio station in here, all playing simultaneously, in stereo. Whatever I'm doing, whoever I'm talking to, whatever other music might be playing, the songs keep looping, sometimes the same snippet stuck on repeat for hours.
The 24/7 music's not the only mutation I'm dealing with. One month in college I thought and dreamed entirely in Russian. For a whole summer all my thoughts were in rhyme. All the time.
In social situations I'm out of body. "When can I leave? Where's the nearest exit? Don't say something stupid." When I do say something stupid (it's just a matter of time), the person I said it too is usually more embarrassed than insulted. However polite they may act, I know they're wondering, "Doesn't this guy know where the nearest exit is?"
Let's face it, I scare people. In addition to being permanently preoccupied, I'm big. And far too loud, on occasion. Plus, one side of my face sags, especially when I'm tired, which makes me look like I'm ticked off, but I'm just tired. And scared, probably.
And uncomfortable, certainly. Especially when the socializing involves alcohol. Extra especially when it involves strangers consuming alcohol.
So now you got weird brain, knows it's weird, tries to act normal, fails, but it's okay, you've gotten farther than you ever thought you would. So enjoy and abide, mind the drunks, end of story, nice knowing you.
By the way, I'm Eddy. Pleasure.
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Town Grill, where you can be what you wanna be
Two young men sit across from each other in a window booth. One wears a small hat. Neither speaks. Neither looks at the other. There isn't a sound in the cafe.
A third young man walks in and sits backward at a counter stool near the booth. "What's playing?" he asks.
The man without the hat answers, "Robert Earl Keen. The Road Goes on Forever. Live version. Steel guitar and fiddle duet."
"Don't know it," says the man on the stool as he spins around 180 degrees.
"What else?" the man in the hat asks.
"I never caught the name," the hatless man answers. "Early 20th century classical. Atonal. Maybe Stravinsky."
"'Maybe Stravinsky,'" the hat repeats. "Too bad you can't make any money off that." He turns to the man at the counter. "How can magic ears here make some money off it?"
The man replies without turning around, "Donate his brain to science. The sooner the better." He looks around. "Do they still sell coffee in this place?"
"When was the last time Herm and me talked about the Lions in here?" the hat asks his booth mate.
"Two Saturdays ago at breakfast. 'Not in your lifetime, not in your children's lifetime if they should have the misfortune to be born,' you said, then Herm said 'Kiss my ass....'"
The hat, who's called Shave or Shaver, is struck by how much Eddy sounds like Herm when he repeats their conversation from weeks earlier.
Eddy continues: "And you said, 'No one currently alive in the tri-county area will ever see the Lions play in the Super Bowl because the Lions will never win their division let alone the NFC Championship....'"
Do I sound like that? thinks Shave. I must.
"Then Herm goes, 'Law of averages, law of averages.' And you said, 'Take your averages to Vegas and watch them get flushed with your dreams.' And I said, 'It's possible, a definite possibility,' but I don't think you heard me because you and Herm started talking at once: 'This could be the turnaround year,' said Herm, and you said, 'You're dreamin', buddy boy.'"
"I didn't say 'buddy boy,'" Shave says but knows he's wrong and Eddy's right.
Herm says, "This is the year. Lions all the way." The server arrives and pours the coffee. Shave and Eddy shake their heads.
After a pause, Eddy says, "Sergio Mendes & Brasil 66, Fool on the Hill." Another pause. "On the jukebox." Pause. "While you were talking."
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One hour later, the cafe is half full and a top 40 station is playing on the radio. Herm has joined Shaver and Audy in the window booth.
A short man in a leather jacket and long, hand-knit scarf shuffles in and rolls into the booth's empty seat. Herm asks him, "Expecting snow?"
The short man ignores him and tells Eddy, "Kamel's looking for you."
"Kamel's out?" asks Shaver.
"When did you see him?" asks Herm.
"Snow in July, that's a good one," the short man says to Herm. He signals to a waitress who ignores him as she walks past the booth with a full pot of coffee. "Says he's got a job for rabbit ears."
"I already got a job," Eddy tells him.
"Not like this one you don't," the man says as he adjusts the scarf.
"Take that thing off," Herm tells him. "I'm chokin' just lookin' at it."
"Choke then," the man replies. He drops his hands but leaves the scarf in place. He turns back to Eddy. "Kamel says be at The Bull at six."
"I work at six," Eddy answers.
"Tonight you work at seven," the man replies. He empties one of the coffee cups on the table, gets up, and leaves without saying another word.
Herm, Shaver, and Eddy look everywhere but at each other. After a minute, Herm says, "So Kamel's out. That was quick."
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The Bull is a place I heard about
The collision of the pool balls hits Eddy's ears like a slap. Susie Q by Creedence is on the jukebox. Eddy plops onto the stool at the far end of the bar. He waits for his eyes to adjust to the dark.
Before they do, he hears Gene or Eugene say "Eddy." He has known Gene or Eugene for 12 years, so he remembers his adolescent voice. It reminds Eddy that Gene or Eugene was once a kinda-nice guy.
When he turns around Eddy still can see only the outline of the jukebox. "C'mon," Gene or Eugene says, and then to the bartender, "Bring him a beer to the booth." Gene or Eugene taps Eddy on the shoulder. "Long time no see, my friend. This way. Over here," he says as he leads Eddy to a middle booth.
Before Eddy can sit down the bartender places his beer on the table. Kamel is sitting on one side of the booth. He motions Eddy to sit opposite him. "How are you, my friend? I enjoy our talks about music," he says enthusiastically. Eddy remembers 17 conversations with Kamel in the 10 years since they met in a high school machine shop, where they shared a tool cage. Kamel actually did know a little bit about music: he listened to old jazz and new rock in equal measure.
"I have to ask you to do me a favor," Kamel says before Eddy has settled in. "I need to borrow your ears for an hour or so in exchange for $500. All you need to do is listen to a conversation, and then write it all down for me." Kamel leans forward. "And this is the thing, I need you to write down every word, even if you think it doesn't matter. Every word, okay?"
Eddy fakes like he's drinking the beer and then fakes a burp. "Who?"
"An associate of my uncle, nobody you know," Kamel says. "Nothing shady."
Eddy nods. "Good," Kamel says. "Go with Gene. When you get back, you'll write some notes and walk out of here flush."
Gene or Eugene helps Eddy out of the booth and guides him out The Bull's back door. Then he helps Eddy into the passenger seat of Pontiac Bonneville. Five minutes after he walked into the bar, Eddy's speeding out of the parking lot with a guy who has been shooting people -- accidentally or on purpose -- since he was 15 years old.
To be continued....
For one thing, I remember every sound I hear: the wind blowing through beech leaves in October, a red-wing blackbird singing on a rooftop, Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys playing Mexicali Rose, my kindergarten teacher reading Dr. Seuss's One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish.
Every noise, every voice, every melody, I recall.
The melodies stream like the world's biggest jukebox on shuffle. A tune plays every waking moment, while I'm dreaming even. Sometimes two or three at a time. Ruby Tuesday flute solo, Mose Allison Bye-Bye Blues, the soundtrack to The Natural, a Peruvian folk song, Robert Johnson singing "Generator won't catch a spark" from Terraplane Blues.
It's like a multichannel radio station in here, all playing simultaneously, in stereo. Whatever I'm doing, whoever I'm talking to, whatever other music might be playing, the songs keep looping, sometimes the same snippet stuck on repeat for hours.
The 24/7 music's not the only mutation I'm dealing with. One month in college I thought and dreamed entirely in Russian. For a whole summer all my thoughts were in rhyme. All the time.
In social situations I'm out of body. "When can I leave? Where's the nearest exit? Don't say something stupid." When I do say something stupid (it's just a matter of time), the person I said it too is usually more embarrassed than insulted. However polite they may act, I know they're wondering, "Doesn't this guy know where the nearest exit is?"
Let's face it, I scare people. In addition to being permanently preoccupied, I'm big. And far too loud, on occasion. Plus, one side of my face sags, especially when I'm tired, which makes me look like I'm ticked off, but I'm just tired. And scared, probably.
And uncomfortable, certainly. Especially when the socializing involves alcohol. Extra especially when it involves strangers consuming alcohol.
So now you got weird brain, knows it's weird, tries to act normal, fails, but it's okay, you've gotten farther than you ever thought you would. So enjoy and abide, mind the drunks, end of story, nice knowing you.
By the way, I'm Eddy. Pleasure.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Town Grill, where you can be what you wanna be
Two young men sit across from each other in a window booth. One wears a small hat. Neither speaks. Neither looks at the other. There isn't a sound in the cafe.
A third young man walks in and sits backward at a counter stool near the booth. "What's playing?" he asks.
The man without the hat answers, "Robert Earl Keen. The Road Goes on Forever. Live version. Steel guitar and fiddle duet."
"Don't know it," says the man on the stool as he spins around 180 degrees.
"What else?" the man in the hat asks.
"I never caught the name," the hatless man answers. "Early 20th century classical. Atonal. Maybe Stravinsky."
"'Maybe Stravinsky,'" the hat repeats. "Too bad you can't make any money off that." He turns to the man at the counter. "How can magic ears here make some money off it?"
The man replies without turning around, "Donate his brain to science. The sooner the better." He looks around. "Do they still sell coffee in this place?"
"When was the last time Herm and me talked about the Lions in here?" the hat asks his booth mate.
"Two Saturdays ago at breakfast. 'Not in your lifetime, not in your children's lifetime if they should have the misfortune to be born,' you said, then Herm said 'Kiss my ass....'"
The hat, who's called Shave or Shaver, is struck by how much Eddy sounds like Herm when he repeats their conversation from weeks earlier.
Eddy continues: "And you said, 'No one currently alive in the tri-county area will ever see the Lions play in the Super Bowl because the Lions will never win their division let alone the NFC Championship....'"
Do I sound like that? thinks Shave. I must.
"Then Herm goes, 'Law of averages, law of averages.' And you said, 'Take your averages to Vegas and watch them get flushed with your dreams.' And I said, 'It's possible, a definite possibility,' but I don't think you heard me because you and Herm started talking at once: 'This could be the turnaround year,' said Herm, and you said, 'You're dreamin', buddy boy.'"
"I didn't say 'buddy boy,'" Shave says but knows he's wrong and Eddy's right.
Herm says, "This is the year. Lions all the way." The server arrives and pours the coffee. Shave and Eddy shake their heads.
After a pause, Eddy says, "Sergio Mendes & Brasil 66, Fool on the Hill." Another pause. "On the jukebox." Pause. "While you were talking."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One hour later, the cafe is half full and a top 40 station is playing on the radio. Herm has joined Shaver and Audy in the window booth.
A short man in a leather jacket and long, hand-knit scarf shuffles in and rolls into the booth's empty seat. Herm asks him, "Expecting snow?"
The short man ignores him and tells Eddy, "Kamel's looking for you."
"Kamel's out?" asks Shaver.
"When did you see him?" asks Herm.
"Snow in July, that's a good one," the short man says to Herm. He signals to a waitress who ignores him as she walks past the booth with a full pot of coffee. "Says he's got a job for rabbit ears."
"I already got a job," Eddy tells him.
"Not like this one you don't," the man says as he adjusts the scarf.
"Take that thing off," Herm tells him. "I'm chokin' just lookin' at it."
"Choke then," the man replies. He drops his hands but leaves the scarf in place. He turns back to Eddy. "Kamel says be at The Bull at six."
"I work at six," Eddy answers.
"Tonight you work at seven," the man replies. He empties one of the coffee cups on the table, gets up, and leaves without saying another word.
Herm, Shaver, and Eddy look everywhere but at each other. After a minute, Herm says, "So Kamel's out. That was quick."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Bull is a place I heard about
The collision of the pool balls hits Eddy's ears like a slap. Susie Q by Creedence is on the jukebox. Eddy plops onto the stool at the far end of the bar. He waits for his eyes to adjust to the dark.
Before they do, he hears Gene or Eugene say "Eddy." He has known Gene or Eugene for 12 years, so he remembers his adolescent voice. It reminds Eddy that Gene or Eugene was once a kinda-nice guy.
When he turns around Eddy still can see only the outline of the jukebox. "C'mon," Gene or Eugene says, and then to the bartender, "Bring him a beer to the booth." Gene or Eugene taps Eddy on the shoulder. "Long time no see, my friend. This way. Over here," he says as he leads Eddy to a middle booth.
Before Eddy can sit down the bartender places his beer on the table. Kamel is sitting on one side of the booth. He motions Eddy to sit opposite him. "How are you, my friend? I enjoy our talks about music," he says enthusiastically. Eddy remembers 17 conversations with Kamel in the 10 years since they met in a high school machine shop, where they shared a tool cage. Kamel actually did know a little bit about music: he listened to old jazz and new rock in equal measure.
"I have to ask you to do me a favor," Kamel says before Eddy has settled in. "I need to borrow your ears for an hour or so in exchange for $500. All you need to do is listen to a conversation, and then write it all down for me." Kamel leans forward. "And this is the thing, I need you to write down every word, even if you think it doesn't matter. Every word, okay?"
Eddy fakes like he's drinking the beer and then fakes a burp. "Who?"
"An associate of my uncle, nobody you know," Kamel says. "Nothing shady."
Eddy nods. "Good," Kamel says. "Go with Gene. When you get back, you'll write some notes and walk out of here flush."
Gene or Eugene helps Eddy out of the booth and guides him out The Bull's back door. Then he helps Eddy into the passenger seat of Pontiac Bonneville. Five minutes after he walked into the bar, Eddy's speeding out of the parking lot with a guy who has been shooting people -- accidentally or on purpose -- since he was 15 years old.
To be continued....
