It was 11:37 AM when I finally tumble-weeded out of bed on a hot Saturday morning in August. Coffee. I needed coffee. The 7 or 8 flies buzzing ‘round my body told me it was time to take a shower. I lashed out at a singular beast that landed on my nose, but I only managed to agonize my face in the proceedings-I continued to swing to no avail. “Bastard! Die! Die!” It was never rational the venom that boiled through my veins for aviate scourges. Privately, I loathed cursing, but it was part and parcel of the show-the spectacle of my life as a desperado. Where did it come from? I inquired of myself in a moment of intimate rumination. The malice, the loathing for my fellow critters? And the inability to articulate what I was feeling without cussing-from what part of my black heart did it emanate? “To hell with all of you!” I lashed out again. Too ambitious. I wiped the alcohol-free whiskey stained drool from my lips and preceded to the toilet. Relief, as my bladder granted me clemency. I grabbed a bar of black pumice Steele & Co. Soap, and strode into the shower-like walking through saloon doors-an activity I had performed mucho times always seeking approval from an expecting damsel but perpetually coming up empty. But, hey, I was happy.
I smelled liked tea tree oil and pine as I heaved on my boots. As I slated for the door, my eagle eye caught sight of a sinister headline: The Bad Plus Joshua Redman tonight only at Jazz Fest. Euphoria and horror permeated my leather brimmed dusty heart as I made haste for the local coffee dive. Ethan Iverson, the lone pianist of the notorious trio was coming to town. Iverson, an incessant Tweeter, and I had traded heated words over the merits of Robusta vs. Arabica coffee, not to mention the key of Giant Steps. As I loped down the street, I commiserated with my thoughts as to my predilection as a social coffee drinker and my inability to enjoy a good home brew. Was it the lack of a quality grinder? My technical inability as a barista? Or, was it the need to feel part of a community of caffeine believers. Had I become an espresso acolyte? An intermission in my reflections as I made my way through the backdoor of Hey Happy. At that precise juncture, Iverson, flanked by Redman and King ambled through the front doors. They seemed oblivious to my presence. I stared them down regardless, fanatical in my commitment to reclaim my Twitter honor. I knew Redman would wither, like a music critic who'd just been asked to play something, under the ferocity of my gaze-or was it muted confidence? His affectations announced an espresso prima donna, but I perceived cowardice. On this stage, King seemed aloof and he faded to the background-ostensibly more engaged by a Gizmo lunchbox. My only consternation was in my inability to perceive the whereabouts of crazy Reid Anderson. With his adroitly trimmed beard, slick rakish hair and long-fixed gaze, he disturbed me more than a nest of rattlesnakes. I observed the clock turn from 11:59 to 12:00 PM. It was high noon and time and chance had brought us to this wood, glass and steel bar top.
Iverson adjusted his black framed nerd glasses. The last time I saw him he’d been wearing silver framed spectacles and I silently wondered why the change? He spoke, “Have you ordered sir?” “I haven’t”, I retorted. Games, the usual games. “So, here we are”, I countered. “Do I know you?” he parlayed. “Cut the existential amusements and just order!” He twitched. I squinted. He sniffled and blinked. I had him. “Espresso,” I asserted. “Good?” he proffered. “Best damn coffee in town,” I rebutted. He paused, and I caught a bead of perspiration-could be the suit. “Macchiato,” he uttered in perfect Italian. I had him. I laughed with ease and surety in the weakness I had just witnessed. I was The Bondsmen and I moved in to claim my prize. “Why don’t you order an Appletini while you’re at it?”
