I’ve been to the same tavern three times now, which if memory serves me correctly, makes me a regular. The girl behind the bar already knows I drink Hefeweizen, and the drunk guys a few stools down already make eye contact with me when they’re cracking Michael Jackson jokes. They discuss Jackson’s finances, dividing into two distinct camps of thought - the first being that Michael Jackson has squandered away his money and is broke, and the other being that he is still filthy, stinking rich.
“Broke to Michael Jackson would be if he made four of my salaries. That’s what broke would be,” says Bob, who appears to work in an auto parts store by the look of his jacket. He is obviously in tune with the Jackson financial situation to be able to make such an accurate comparison to his own finances, and is readily accepted as his group’s spokesman.
“No.” The opposing sides position is solid and unwilling to budge. Their spokeman is ironically named Rich. “I have a cousin who has a friend down in . . . “
How is it that everyone but me has some sort of relative who knows someone, who also knows someone working in retail, who saw Michael Jackson shopping? I feel like I have been deprived of some God-given right to hear third hand stories because my ancestors all chose careers in highway construction and appliance repair. You can see why I am at the tavern. Sure I sometimes need beer, but what I really need are the stories.
Linda, by the way, is nowhere to be seen, and I can only imagine that she is outside somewhere, battling the atmosphere. Even Linda knows someone in retail, I bet.
Rich controls the bar for at least thirty seconds with his story of Jackson spending $8000 in less then a minute on something. It is a grand tale of money squandered and drives home his point. The men all shake their heads in agreement and then begin to talk about the Super Bowl.
I could be just about anywhere in the world sipping a beer, and can’t help but wonder why I am there. On the television over the bar, the volume turned off, I watch Larry King silently interview a group of people. I don’t have to hear his voice to actually hear it. I don’t watch Larry King, and yet somehow his voice is in my head. How can this be? Is Larry King’s voice my third hand story of the distant friend who works retail? I think about telling the guys at the bar, but they are so caught up in their Super Bowl stories that I don’t want to interrupt. Maybe Linda will come in. I could ask her.
I watch Larry King talk to a group of people who are said to be the powerful Christian conservatives who influence George Bush on a regular basis. Franklin Graham is there, Billy’s son, and some woman named Beverly Lahaye. The blurb under her name says she has founded a group called Concerned Women of America. It is an interesting name for a group. I think about starting my own group called Men Concerned About Women of America. I think that it would be quite a large group. We would need to rent the Astrodome or someplace like that to hold our meetings.
Anyway, I’m glad that the volume is turned off, because I think I might already have Franklin and Beverly’s voices trapped in my head, right in there somewhere beside Larry’s. I swear I can hear what they’re saying, even if I know I can’t. Besides, even if I don’t have their voices already in my head, by the looks on their faces and their painful gestures, I think I might be able to make something up. And I’m glad that I can’t actually hear them, or I wouldn’t be able to hear the jukebox quite as well. The Black Crowes come on, and as Franklin Graham talks, I pretend he is lip-synching the words to the song.
Am I just too crazy?
Am I just too proud?
Sometime later, Beverly Lahaye will do a nice job with a Blondie song. Her passion and dedication for whatever it is she is talking about fits in nicely:
One way, or another
I’m going to find you
I’m going to getcha, getcha, getcha