wrangled and wrinkled.

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

Now don’t get me wrong. All these people are my friends. We have had many good times, we have shared a lot and been there for each other. I am being hypercritical in my analysis. I tend to do that sometimes. I also fashion myself as a closet introvert. I mean, look at these writings, don’t you think I am a tad pensive? Or am I thoughtless, heartless and selfish. I am hard on my friends, but it’s all honesty.

So I have another one for you. His name is Red. Red got his name, or at least from me for being the exact opposite. He is very black and white in his thinking. You are either right or wrong, and you always have 2 choices. To Red, there is no gray.

Thursday night, Red joined us in the usual spot at the coffee shop. Now as a group we are being very stereotypical of 20 something’s. We sit in a shop, which sells these terrible tasting drinks. In this shop we confer, we adhere, and we encourage each other. These talks are a big pat on the back to our collective ego(s). We sat a round table. We being Tim, Con, Red and I. Con and Tim were already up to their usual banter. They are both creatively inclined. It’s nice to eavesdrop sometimes, on their creative conversations, but other times, it’s such a burden. I wish that for once we could not talk about these such issues: art, politics, music, and gossip.

Red sat down, slowly in his hard-backed chair. The shop had bad drinks, hard backed chairs, and loud music. Hardly a place for geriatrics, I know, but that’s probably the exact reason we conversed there. Red usually brought his own drink, which was most likely against house rules, but these neo-beatniks cared nothing about it. To them, this was a means to get their poetry careers started.

One time, at an open mic, I heard one of them:

"Air so thin, I can hardly breathe
I’m filled with such angst, and with no re-reprieve
You desert me again.

Now I wander with no purpose
I shop with no purses
And I’m stuck in the cereal isle."

Red had respect for the arts, and loved debates. He hated that poem, but the one who read this atrocity was kind on cute, in a neo-beatnik way. I respected her for giving it a go, but she needed to list in a few more literature courses. She probably ain’t even read Poe.

Turning his chair backwards, Red announced his arrival. "Hey guys." Red’s greetings were often short, but always polite. I loved this guy. Red never bothered telling you all his stories, he was never interested in boosting his own myth, but he was always interested in ours. Ours being Tim, Con and Mine. He was a man of few words, but when he did speak it was always well said. Tim and Con ignored Red, save for a nice "Hi" and a quick nod. Then back to the action of the debate of the night.

"Hey, Red, how are you? Anything interesting going on?" I replied.
"Oh, well I just got back from that lecture I told you about. It was pretty interesting." Red didn’t coat his sentences in superfluous adjectives or action verbs. He was strictly a get to the point type of person. He was Red, and he was black and white.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

is that from that methodist book again? you know you are going to let me borrow it this summer. <3 amanda