Home at the Bistro
“Wait it out, Stevey,” the Luddite Marcus Samsa advised. “We could try getting YouTube to take that video down, but that could draw mainstream media attention. You don’t want that. Believe me,” he said, summoning an authority he couldn’t possibly possess, “these videos stop being popular as soon as the next crazy thing pops up. Your fifteen minutes of fame are almost over, Steve. You’ll be a nobody again in no time. Free to throw yourself into a search for the next soul-crushing job of your choice. You’ll be fine. Trust me.”
*
These days, I find myself wondering if Frost might have gotten it wrong. Maybe home is not so much where they have to take you in, but a place from which they’re not likely to immediately toss you out.
These days, often as not, you’ll find me in Pablo’s Bistro, buying drinks for the house with what little cash I still have, shooting the breeze, and rubbing elbows with my boys: Blind Billy Tober, poet extraordinaire; Alva J. Caldwell, retired philosopher/dentist/auto technician and gigolo; Fred Slocam, stockbroker gone to pot; and William Fitzhugh III, nattily attired professor emeritus of several nonexistent institutions of higher learning.
We smoke cigarettes, talk politics, current events, sports, life and literature. Always, it falls to me – the Bistro librarian – to field questions that, Maryland Model notwithstanding, might never be completely answered.
Today, we’ve talked about Grisham’s latest novel, college football rankings, the Visitor Bureau’s list of hot spots in Platinum, chances for peace in the Middle East, the price of oil, taxes, and poverty.
And now, Blind Billy speaks: “What do it mean,” he asks, “‘the meek gone inherit the earth?’”
“Who got dope?” asks Fred Slocam. “Who got?”
“What the Meeks ‘pozed to do,” booms Alva J. Caldwell, “‘til they inheritance come in?”
“Will anything be left of said inheritance once the corporations get through defiling it and the scurrilous lawyers finish pilfering their shares?” wonders William Fitzhugh III.
“Who holding?” Fred repeats, “Who?”
“How much longer we gots to wait?” asks Billy.
Two months ago, I might have gone through the motions for each of these guys. Repeated each of their questions tongue in cheek, paraphrased, verified and pretended to find complete and meaningful answers for all. Chances are, if the economy ever straightens out, a certain YouTube video falls off the radar, and I land another job behind a reference desk anywhere on this planet, I’ll go back to handling my business with all requisite professionalism.
Today in Pablo’s, though, I look directly at Billy, Alva J., Fred and William, shrug my shoulders, and answer as completely and honestly as I can, “Fuck if I know, fellas. Fuck if anyone does.”
Then we drink some more, squint against the smoke until we are functionally blind, and shout out any kind of nonsense that helps drown out whatever the roaches, windows, paint chips and pipes might be suggesting.
