Here’s a quick Paul story. Me and him have been like brothers for almost 10 years, yet sometimes he still manages to surprise the shit out of me.
One day, this past winter, Paul and I are sitting on the side of 7 Eleven, having a smoke and sipping on Four Loco. It’s cold, damp, and beginning to get dark. We count our loot and realize we both had enough success on the corner to call it quits for the night.
“What do you wanna do now?”, he asks.
“Well, I still gotta charge for an hour or so at least if we gonna have any entertainment for the night.”
“Yeah. Where do you wanna go?”
“I dunno. Starbucks?”
“Man… I don’t really like going there. Let’s go to Tom Thumb gas station.”
Tom Thumb gas station is a great spot when the weather is nice. The clerks leave a nicely padded mat under the outlet, that I’ve often laid down on for an hour or two while watching the world go by on the main drag. Other members of our community will often pass through for a little conversation or a few minutes phone charge. The evening shift dude comes out to smoke every hour or so, doesn’t mind us being there, and is usually good for some interesting conversation.
“Why not? Fuckin’ cold out here, Paul. I’m in Starbucks almost every night lately. The girls call me by name, they know I’m outdoors – yet, I tip on every purchase, I work on the novel, I clean up after myself, chat with them about random crap, plug all my shit in to charge, and hell – occasionally I leave to fly for awhile as stuff charges. What the fuck’s wrong with Starbucks??”
“I don’t know. I just don’t feel like I belong there.”
“Well, it could just as easily be said that I don’t belong there either. But I go there, and they are quite friendly towards me.”
Paul gets a serious look on his face and says, “Right. What I am trying to say is, you start bringing your asshole friends in there, next thing you know you’re not so welcome anymore.”
I chuckle, and realize what he’s trying to tell me. See, Paul has been out here for more than 10 years. He doesn’t even really know what “inside” is anymore, and the ability to socialize with (let alone feel comfortable around) those other people is long, long forgotten. At this point, Paul’s idea of indoors is the few times a day he goes into 7 Eleven for a beer or smokes. I will often go to Tom Thumb for groceries, Walmart for oddities, Walgreens for points, Dollar Tree for basic necessities. Whatever, you know? I am comfortable at Starbucks just being who I am. I haven’t seen him walk into a single one of these places, ever – now that I think about it. He’s like the feral cat that might come up on the porch when you put some food out for him, but won’t come inside or let you pet him. He drinks a lot, has almost as foul a mouth as I do, and his clothes – once put on, are usually worn until they fall apart. Changing is not something he is accustomed to. It’s just who Paul is, and as he and I have been close for almost a decade, it just never occurs to me to think of such things. Until this moment, that is.
“Point taken. Tom Thumb it is!”
We both laugh hysterically. “You get me now?”
“Yea, man. Fucking awesome. Let’s go git ‘er done so we can go home and watch some Rescue Me.”
He may be feral, but he is certainly aware of his limitations and – as usual – has my best interests at the forefront of his mind. Love that motherfucker.
Latez,
-Sully
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