... a case of "the Icks" (pt 4)

There is a restaurant in Union Sq called "Coffee Shop". It's name is meant to be ironic, I guess. Lots of people go there. It's trendy, hip, over priced for it's quality, and welcomes patrons from every shade of snob. At midnight tonight Princess, The Hate, and myself, having been turned away from the place we actually wanted to eat, and knowing that most every other kitchen would be closed, headed for Coffee Shop for supper. I had not before had the priviledge, and tonight was an "occasion" as I finally got paid for being in New York - a milestone for many reasons.

Our "waitress" was either an unfortunately frail and feminine man with breasts, long fingernails, and hair-extensions, or a slightly masculine girl with the social grace of Lurch (from the Adams' family) and a probable crack addiction. We couldn't decide. "Lurchess" kept staring at me (as the Hate was quick to point out), and called me "baby" and/or "sugar" when I asked for something. Alas, my charming disdain wasn't enough to get us moved out of the kiddy pool and into the adult swim area, and I was stuck in the aisle of the patio to be bumped and jarred by every passer-by, having been refused my request for relocation by the she-beast with huge feet. In the middle of it all, Princess claimed to have gotten "a sudden case of the Icks."

It was a bumping kinda day. Directly in front of my building on my way home this afternoon, I brushed shoulders with Bill Murray. He was obviously out for a jog, wearing shades, a bandana, and thigh-high blue running shorts, and humming to himself. He made eye contact as I passed, smirked, and kept humming. I didn't meet him. Never said a word. But he knew. He'd met greatness.

...
Strike that.
Reverse it.
...

I'll close tonight with a story. A short one, I hope. "The Girls" brought up tonight that though we've exchanged lots of information about our current lives, and they have each shared lots of erratic facts about college and their home lives, I haven't "expounded" on any particularly "scandolous" or "funny" stories about mine. I asked if they wanted "scandolous" or if they wanted "funny". They said both. I'm not sure I have either, and I'm not sure why I asked. So here's a random one. It's an excerpt from a book I'm working on about my parent's lives.

Princess.
The Hate.
Enjoy.

................


Looking back, it probably wasn’t that great. If I were to hear it now, I wouldn’t be impressed, I think.

Stephen was a coke-addict when he came to live with us. His life was broken, and Dad helped him fix it. At about 18, he was older than most boys we took in. No one knew he was a musician.

Stephen was sharp-tongued and street-wise. He was cool-looking, well dressed, and incredibly intimidating. Asked later to recall his first impression of Stephen, my dad said, "He was the meanest teenager I've ever met in my life. I was honestly scared of him."

We loved him immediately, even when we were afraid of him, which, for me, was pretty often. I think I was 11.

Mom plays the piano, so we’ve always had one. I don’t remember not having one close-by. Stephen just kinda sat down one day and played. If I were to hear it today, I probably wouldn’t listen for long. He would just play, and I, and a few others (we followed him around the way zombies follow the living), we would just sit and listen.

I don’t remember what he played. I do remember trying to do it myself. Only when he wasn’t there. Stephen. When he was gone, I’d sit down and just hit keys and try to “let it happen”. It was terrible. Even then.

Stephen was charismatic, tender, and intense. He was passionate about whatever he said, and he worked himself ragged, always with a smile. This isn’t to say he didn’t have his struggles.

I’d wake up late on Saturday and hear the daily publication of gossip around Stephen running away to score drugs, and come back after a night of heavy partying and some crazy story about him beating up some of the other boys. I don’t even know exactly how much of it was true, but he did seem to lapse a lot over the course of a few years.

Oh, but when he played, my God.

Still, if I heard it today, it’d probably be crap.

I remember the first day he came to live with us. We stopped at wal-mart on the way home. I don’t know why we picked him up. Most people got dropped off at our house by their P.O., some school official, a Pastor, or their parents. Anyway, he told me his brother liked to skateboard, and I immediately wished I wasn’t terrified of skateboards. Not so much the boards, but falling from them in motion. He was instantly the kind of person you wanted to please. The guy who you wished liked you. The guy who’s respect you wanted to earn. To deserve. To not need.

The same day, his first day, was the second time in my life I heard someone say something “sucks”. The first was years before when Greg Primm (a counselor at the home, and Principal of the private school), in one of his classic moves, called all the boys from the school outside. All 20 or so of us. All ages. He wanted us to stop saying things “sucked”. He said it was a perverted word. This was around 1986 (so I was about 7). I was lost, but I remember thinking, “Wow, what a great word. Why is it dirty?”

Stephen said it about my Nintendo. He couldn’t beat the 3rd level of Super Mario Bro.'s. This was about four years after I'd heard it the first time. I felt grown up. I knew what he meant.

I told on him.

I hoped when he got in trouble for saying it, he’d see the light, come back to me, and have tremendous respect for my honesty. My integrity. My conviction.

The same day, after being assigned his bunk bed, he beat the crap out of one of the guys. I don’t remember which one. I just know Stephen won the fight. As soon as the light went off, he warned the guy to stop doing something, I think smacking gum.

Well, he warned him.

I don’t think he ever got in trouble for his language that day. There were bigger fish to fry.

Stephen became a staple for our ministry. He was “the” success story. I’m sure a lot of people were jealous of him. I know I was. I didn’t know we weren’t competing. All I knew was he got a lot of attention. I mean, a lot. He was so cool, so dangerous, so smart, so sincere, so rude, so… Stephen.

Stephen professed, profaned, and pretended a lot in those first few years. But after a while, the days of his random escapades grew less frequent, and the days I’d see him volunteering to clean the kitchen for my mom, or sitting under a tree reading his Bible, or practicing his guitar grew steadily more prevalent.

My dad started asking Stephen to travel with him to churches. Dad would speak to raise money for the ministry, but the opening act would be this handsome ex-drug addict to sing a song on his guitar. This violent, institutionalized thug. This tender, sweet-spirited musician.

I knew this marked a change.

I had to make some changes too.

I had to learn to play the guitar.

Stephen loaned me his guitar to learn on. I'd go to the dorm, where he lived, and pick it up on Sunday nights. I'd keep it until Monday, when I'd have my lesson, then return it on Tuesday morning.

When Stephen died, I was about 14, I think. The guitar was given to me. A month ago, for the first time since then, I parted ways with it, leaving it in Texas with my parents while I moved to New York.

I know that, looking back, he probably wasn't some amazing musical freak. If I heard him now, I would probably be unimpressed. I'm a "man of the world" now (or so I'd like to think). I've seen it all when it comes to music and instrumental prowess. Still, sometimes when I play, I can't help but hope I'm someday able to "play like Stephen".

...

I told you. Neither scandalous, nor funny.
Meshach.