Jul 14, 2017
An Evening with Jeff
a piece of short, ridiculous fiction by Tommy Paley
I once was a pedestrian who got struck by a bus. It was totally my fault as my mind was preoccupied thinking about my old friend Jeff who I had not seen in ages. He had always had that effect on me. Luckily for me the bus had been parked at the time and when I say I was hit by the bus it was actually more like I repeatedly jumped into the stationary bus and lay on the ground near its front tire squealing like a pig just hoping a passerby would take pity on me and take me home to nurse me back to health which had always been a fantasy of mine.
Jeff and I had always been best buddies, even when he used to sadistically deflate my balloons and draw colourful pictures of amazing landscapes on my sister. The pictures were incredible, but it took hours to scrub her clean — I still remember the crying as if it were yesterday and that is mostly because I recorded it and was just listening to it yesterday. We grew up next door to each other, attended the same school and joined the same clubs. He was like a brother to me and I was more like a cousin to him — a close cousin, which was fairly similar in reality to a brother, but just not quite the same.
To say that we both loved sports would be entirely accurate. To say that we both loved ancient Greece was entirely not. Jeff was the star quarterback and I was his always-on-queue backup who rarely got to play a snap. I suggested that I should be the receiver so that he had someone to pass to, but he was too busy blowing kisses and signing autographs with imaginary fans that I more properly referred to as blackberry bushes. We would run together and he was always so hyper competitive and usually hid my shoes as well as ripping my socks to shreds beforehand (which I claimed was excessive and unnecessary) thus guaranteeing a victory.
I was on my way to his apartment now. I couldn’t believe how much time had passed since I last had seen him. The picture I have in my head is of the back of his head as he walked slowly away the final time we saw each other. He was walking so slowly that the image is actually more of a slow-motion video that goes on for at least 10 minutes and I have a really hard time imagining it all in one sitting without taking multiple breaks that involve at least one face washing and a cream puff from the local bakery. He used to have quite the spectacular head of hair and I mentally prepared myself for the inevitability that it will either be as amazing as I remember it thus producing an audible gasp or two from me or it will be even better as he may have invested an understandably large amount of time and money into improving upon the perfection that was his head of hair.
“Don’t forget the Mexican spices” Jeff had reminded me on the phone before I left my house in a tone that came across as quite menacing which was a result of his still recovering from elective tooth implants. He had told me he was having larger and sharper incisors put in exclusively so he could increase the frequency and level of enjoyment of his wild boat intake. I was pretty sure he was leading me on as he had led me on relentlessly and continuously from November 4th, 2006 to January 11th, 2007 which was easier to grow accustomed to than if he had taken breaks or mixed things up either due to misplaced pity or actual pity (I wouldn’t have been picky) as, if nothing else, it was quite predictable and comforting to an extent as well.
We were making tacos. We were always in a state of making tacos. Either planning to create them, actually cooking them, or laying, belts loosened, on the floor (when he was between couches) dreaming of the next tacos in the near future. I once opened up to him about a dream I had where I was somehow unable to move from my chair at the kitchen table and he arrived on his golden steed, bursting into the kitchen, observing my motionless body and then creating the most delicious tacos imaginable only to eat them all himself. All I received was a kiss above each eyebrow and exposure to a wonderful and dusty cloud of cumin, coriander, cayenne pepper and what I surmised was fennel, a surprise guest to the party, before proceeding to hack and cough as he rode away thus ending the dream. I loved tacos and I loved that they brought me closer to Jeff, even if the love was atypical to say the least.
After dinner he told me about the crazy adventures of his rock band “15 Years Without Parole” and how things were looking up and up and occasionally down just as everyone’s necks were quite sore but then up again after a prescribed rest period of looking at, and gaining a new appreciation for, floor tiles. They had a moderate hit that was played on stations in town called “We Are Going To Rob The Bank On 3rd and Brown on Monday the 21st at Precisely 2 pm Dressed As African Gorillas Escaped From a Local Wildlife Enclosure and We Will Be Parking Our Getaway Car Around the Corner Near the Ice Cream Parlour That Makes Those Sundaes That Were Featured In the Lifestyle Section of The Weekend Paper”. The ridiculously cumbersome title and chorus were counterbalanced by a very catchy hook and uniquely modern chord progressions as well as absolutely beautiful harmonies during the bridge.
The song had been meant as a read-between-the-lines subtle satire poking fun at those who were trying to enforce limits on the length of popular song titles, but, unfortunately, the rest of the band members (and the law enforcement officers) took the title and lyrics quite literally and they were now actually spending 15 years without parole in jail which, due to their lack of liberal arts education, meant that the irony was also lost on them along with their freedom to create more harmonious and modern rock music for the locals to enjoy. Jeff felt badly, to a point, that they were all in prison and that he was free and that was mostly as a result of his initially not feeling badly and gallivanting around town like nothing had happened and receiving some fairly harsh criticism from the media. He probably felt worse about the negative attention and less about his band mates, but he was willing to spread it around.
It was my turn to share. I told Jeff about how I had hit rock bottom a few years ago and that it all started when I went to Chicago once and I just did not feel safe. I had intended on taking a soul-searching journey where I travelled the world to find myself as well as any other cliches linking travel and personal improvement that I could incorporate into the trip on a limited budget. I left my home one day and ventured forth, excited by the journey ahead and stubbornly refusing to even peer behind me to see what a trip that way could bring. I dreamed of visiting India, the Far East, and the old country (I wasn’t totally sure which country it was as I come from a long line of mumblers).
I only got as far as Chicago, which for some would be quite impressive, but for me it was only a short 30 minute ride on an air-conditioned express bus with plenty of comfortable seating, as I live just 30 minutes outside of Chicago and go there quite often. This time, the mean streets of the big city, which had previously fallen somewhere between nice and ambivalent towards me, were pretty mean which I guess was their prerogative. I felt viciously attacked, almost as if I were a dirty stained shirt being tossed around and around and around and then having the laundry machine specifically choose not to wash me citing ethical reasons almost as if that made it okay or right. I stumbled around town looking for love, for acceptance, for a really good slice of pizza (which I found plenty of) and after weeks or months (I lost track due to my disorientated state — I later found out that I had either been there for one day or not at all, it is quite unclear) I decided to return home because I was fairly certain that I missed it as that was probably what I was supposed to feel. Turns out I was just a bit gassy.
Jeff rose and gave me the most awkward combination of a pat on the back and a hug that I had ever received which was quite impressive as he had announced that that was what he would be aiming for as he walked towards me and he completely nailed it. We hadn’t seen each other in so long, but our friendship was still as strong as it ever had been and I told him how much I appreciated that he was always there for me even when I was unable to find him for years. We took turns expressing our parting words and I left and ventured into the frosty night. Jeff was a good friend and he wasn’t pushy at all — he could actually stand to be slightly pushier as a person as I think, what with his good looks, disarming falsetto and charm to spare. He could get away with it.
As I walked through the night back to my place I imagined that I was the lone person walking my way and I was being met by a veritable army of invisible, expressionless drones walking towards me. I had to force my way through them and I felt as if I were Moses parting the sea except that I had to actually part it myself, which made me a tad bit jealous. These drones pushed against me as if to convert me to their cause, their fight, their direction of movement and I fought against this as much as I could without drawing attention to myself as all anyone else would see was a guy walking by himself making overly dramatic and concerning hand and arm gestures. I’ve always disliked pushy people, especially those that were invisible, showed no emotion and were products of my vivid imagination. I was quite annoyingly precise to what kind of pushy people I disliked and was thinking of pitching that to Jeff as an idea for another mind-numbingly long song title, that I knew he was partial to, once I got home.
