My Good Buddy Burt And I At A Local Taco Bell With Burt’s Uncle, Gary Busey
Last Friday evening I met my good buddy Burt at our local Taco Bell.
“Hey I hope you don’t mind but my uncle will be joining us, he just got into town,” Burt informed me as we stood by the glass front doors.
“Not at all.”
Sixteen seconds later a sage green Suburu Forrester roared down Pennsylvania Avenue and squeeled a u-turn before slamming into a parking bumper in the Taco Bell. Stepping out into the fading daylight was a familiar looking man with wild silver hair, wearing dark jeans and a blue Hawaiian shirt, completing the look with aviator sunglasses. As he took off the sunglasses he looked even more familiar and as he got closer his familiarity hit me.
“Hey does anyone ever tell your uncle he looks like Gary Busey?” I laughed.
“Oh yea I forgot to tell you… my uncle is Gary Busey.”
Gary Busey came up to Burt and squeezed him into a bear hug. He tussled his hair roughly.
“How the hell are ya?” his rusty voice asked.
“I’m great uncle Gary. And this is my buddy Eric I told you about from law school. The one who drank like a fish and received the highest score on the bar in 12 years.”
I extended my hand and said, “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Busey.”
Gary Busey gritted his teeth and looked at me skeptically, then looked down at my hand in disgust.
“You know,” he said, “in Japanese culture when you meet someone you stand six inches apart and bow at that person.”
“Oh,” I replied, and nervously bowed.
“What are you doing? I’m not Japanese son,” he smiled and extended his hand. I shook it and it felt like tree bark.
We walked in. “I’ll order first,” Gary Busey said.
He walked up to the cashier. “Howdy… Phillip. How long have you worked here?”
“Six days,” a seemingly annoyed Phillip answered.
“Ah I once spent six days locked in a hotel room in Amsterdam. When I got out the third world war had ended.”
“I see.”
“Anyways, what kind of soup do you have?”
“Sir… we don’t serve soup here.”
Gary Busey turned to us. “What the hell kind of Olive Garden did you bring me to?”
“Oh no Uncle Gary, this is a Taco Bell.”
“Ah ok,” Gary Busey seemed satisfied with that answer. He turned back to Phillip, “How do you guys cook your Tofu?”
“We don’t serve that.”
“Serve what?”
“Tofu.”
“Oh no thanks, never cared for Tofu.”
Gary Busey spent two and a half minutes more looking at the menu. A bit of a line had begun to form behind us.
Finally Gary Busey asked Phillip, “What do you recommend?”
“I don’t know. Tacos?”
“Ok that sounds good. I’ll take tacos.”
“How many?”
“How many what?”
“TACOS!”
“Six.”
“Hard or soft shell?”
“Yes please.”
“No sir… would you like the tacos to be hard shell or soft shell tacos?”
“Absolutely.”
“So three of each… any meat?”
“Got any fresh caught salmon?”
“No.”
“No meat, thank you. I’ll buy for these boys too.”
Once we got our food and drinks and sat down I couldn’t help but begin fan-boying.
“Well Mr. Busey it’s a pleasure to meet you. I loved the Buddy Holly mov — ”
“ --Sh sh,” Gary Busey cut me off. He began sniffing aggressively. “Do you smell that?”
Burt and I both sniffed the air. “Smells like they’re cooking more rice,” I suggested.
“No, no… one of you boys is not well.”
He sniffed some more and sat queitly thinking. He put his face in his hands, then rubbed his temples. “It’s the bubonic plague.”
“The plague?” I asked.
“That’s right. I’ve spent a lot of time around other cultures. I know the smell of the plague more than I know the smell of my own odor,” he informed me before biting three fourths of one taco.
“I can’t imagine I have the bubonic plague,” I said.
“Most people who have the plague don’t think they really do. It must be you. It can’t be Burt. No Busey has ever had the plague. Plus I see the bumps on your face.”
I self-consciously touched my face. “I do have a bit of acne.”
“No no,” Gary Busey said through bites of taco, “You’re insecure. But no worries. I have a cure. I met a shaman last month and he gave me a special lotion. I’ve kept this lotion in my pocket ever since that day… in case I happened along someone in your condition.”
Gary Busey pushed his tacos away and stuck his right index and middle finger into his right jean pocket. He pulled his fingers out and they were completely covered in a thick white substance.
“Stay still and close your eyes,” he demanded and placed his fingers in the top-middle of my forehead. He moved his fingers slowly down in a straight line between my eyes, down my nose, past my lips and to the base of my chin. He then started from my left temple and drug the lotion across each of my eyes to the right temple.
“Now let that sat a moment,” he said, then five seconds later. “Okay use your water to clean your eyes.”
“But it’s Baja Blast.”
“USE THE LIQUID TO CLEAN YOUR EYES!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. I did as I was told. My eyes burned as I opened them and I could see Gary Busey calmly eating his tacos. All I could smell was cocoa butter.
We ate for a bit in silence then I said, “So anyways, I loved the Buddy Holly movie you were in.”
“Eh, never cared much for Buddy Holly’s music,” Gary Busey said whilst spitting pieces of lettuce and totilla. “Was a bigger fan of Hashib Moomad.”
“I’m not familiar,” I mentioned. Gary Busey started banging unrythmically on the table and singing off-key, “HUSSH SHI HUSH. HIIIYA HIIYA. HUSSH SHI HUSH. SQUAWK!”
“Sounds a bit like Sigur Ros,” Burt noted.
“Well I don’t remember the lyrics too well,” Gary Busey told us. “But it’s about a boy who lost his marble collection and finds it weeks later in a creek. Along with his dead brother.”
“Oh my.”
We finished our meals and got up to leave. Gary Busey accidently broke his chair as he stood up.
Once we got outside we were saying our goodbyes.
Gary Busey shook my hand then leaned in way close to my ear. “Do you ever think about the fox and the deer?
“Not really… no.”
“Well the fox and the deer don’t hunt for the same food, but they know of each other. But they don’t have much to do with each other, because they live different lives. But if they only knew they could learn from one another, wouldn’t that be something?”
“It was nice to meet you Mr. Busey.”
“Call me King Franco of the Nile.”
He backed away from me and slapped Burt on the arm. He hit the dumpster backing out. “SHIT!” he yelled and roared off into the cool night.
“Hey I know my uncle can be a bit much, but he means well.”
“Don’t worry. He’s ten times cooler than Mike’s uncle. Uggh I hate Nick Nolte.”
“Hey my uncle and I are going to the flea market next Wednesday. Wanna join?”
“Absolutely I do.”
