A man walks up, dressed like a farmer, a hayseed. Straw hat, coveralls, plaid flannel. He's old, shorter than me, wearing glasses over the clear pale eyes of alcoholism.
"Is this the taxicab?"
And he's pointing to the tattoo parlor, so no, it isn't. Up the street? No, no. Try the payphone.
He shakes his quarters; through his thick slurred voice makes it clear there's a problem with using the payphone, but who knows what.. Do you have any change? Only four cents, sorry.
Slowly, the story comes out: He was at the hospital, he saw his therapist, who gave him money for food. He went to the bar. This is why he doesn't like the suggestion that he go to a bar, where they will call him a cab.
I don't wanna go in no fuckin' bar! Excuse my french, I just..
It's all right, and I'm trying to edge away. Sad, but it's futile to give him money. He thinks he's a trickster, he'll say what he has to and maybe he'll get his cab or maybe he'll get another drink.
I lost my family.. I went to Rainier High School. I lost my mom in '75; I'm still not over that. And then my dad..
He must be 65. I'm sorry, that's a shame. Too bad. My condolences. Somebody took my fuckin' pills! I'm supposed to have two orange ones and a blue one, to help me sleep. Excuse my french. I never swore in front of a lady before.
It's fine. try the Al-Anon Club, they'll help. Maybe they can get you in touch with your therapist. He's attached himself, now, won't be shaken off. Are you going this way? Want to go get a cup of coffee? We have to go, sorry. Back to New York? He laughs madly. (My friend had never gotten a cab, except in Manhattan.) No, home. Just home.
Yes, go right down this street, it's on the same side. The Al-Anon Club. They can help you out. They're good people. I've never been there, but envision a future where the unshakable, far-seeing old man follows to the side forever and everywhere. But I can't read! Hey, are you good with the telephone book? How do you spell therapist?
He turns to my friend.
You live around here? Got a phone? I expect him to say no, but he says yes, though he can't always remember his number. And the old man gets a piece of paper off some raver/poser street kids, and a pen. He writes his number, does that look right? Yes. I assume it's wrong. Me? No, I don't have a phone.
You live together? No. Neighbors, then? No. What, you live ten miles apart? Laughs, that's ridiculous. No, more like thirty.
Good luck.
So where's 4th? Here, we're on it. The Alano Club, on 4th.. And I didn't tell him that. I gave him the wrong name (unintentionally), and no street. So after all, it is just a ruse.
And again, good luck.
And we turn our backs, walk quickly without looking back.