Sometimes There's A Stranger In The Kitchen
10:08pm, Friday, 11-21-2004
Jake is awake. He picks up his gloss black Parker Sonnet fountain pen, only to drop it on a clean white page with the cap still in place. He does this repeatedly for a few minutes until some profound thought spontaneously materializes. In a flourish he removes the cap and touches the nib to a pale blue line. There the nib stays as black ink pools meaninglessly. The words just won’t come.
“Shit," Jake says, capping the pen and tossing it onto his desk. The yellow clip-on light flashes beautifully off the gold plated Parker arrow. “I give up,” he adds, laying his forehead on his notebook. He knows he should join the party downstairs. His roommates and neighbors will never forgive him if he doesn’t.
10:45pm, Friday, 11-21-2004
Jake is bouncing one leg to the beat of some trance song he doesn’t know and comparing his hand to paper. “Damn, I have basically no melanin left at this point.”
Jake hates the cold and all that comes with it, including snowboarding, despite Rodney’s assurances that he won’t face plant so much if he practices.
Jake also hates trance music. His roommates nicknamed him Buzz, short for buzzkill, and now everyone on the block thinks it’s his real name.
Suddenly he’s energized by another idea. “No. No. That’s basically just the opening scene of Star Wars. I can’t just write some wonky version of everything I love, I have to try new things.”
11:31pm, Friday, 11-21-2004
Jake is staring at a blank page.
11:56pm, Friday, 11-21-2004
Jake rolls his chair back and stands with a decisive oomph. “Fuck this.”
2:14am, Saturday, 11-21-2004
Jake is buzzed up and primed for cosmic inspiration, but the leather office chair rolls off its plastic mat as he sits down. He blames the inebriation, but there’s already a wheel mark in the dingy wooden floor from countless prior occasions.
He picks up his butt and eases the chair back to its protected habitat. “We got this,” he says as he leans his weight onto his elbows and cracks his knuckles. He doesn’t know who he means by we.
2:28am, Saturday, 11-21-2004
There’s a growing puddle of drool under Jake’s face. He’s snoring.
4:40am, Saturday, 11-21-2004
One page temporarily sticks to Jake’s face as he rouses. “Ohhh gotta piss, gotttttta piss,” he blurts when he’s finally conscious. The Jack and Cokes have run their course. He scrambles for the bathroom, bangs a shoulder off the door trim, and on the rebound he glances his wrist off the doorknob. “Ah-howw, oww, goddamnit…”
He needs water, cold pizza, coffee, and in that order. Just as soon as his bladder stops screaming.
4:43am, Saturday, 11-21-2004
Jake safely rounds the corner into a tiny cubby of a kitchen and is struck by the raunchiest sight he’s ever seen in real life. “What the fu-”
“Hey!” Says the scruffy middle aged man pissing into the bread drawer of the refrigerator. Manic joy fills his eyes as he smiles devilishly at Jake. He starts wagging his finger like a stereotypical old school teacher. “Don’t let me ever catch you pissin’ in the fridge toilet.”
Jake is stunned by the turnabout. “Wha- Yuh- YOU STOP PISSIN’ IN THE FRIDGE TOILET!”
The man’s mirthful laugh is deep and wolfish, the kind of laugh that only decades of cigarettes, motorcycle rides, and no-shits-given can make. “Buh-hut it’s a fridge toilet maaan, what else should I do? Huhuhuhuheheheheh…”
Jake stands there for a second, listening to the unending plasticky drizzle and remembering that Rodney never closes the bag up when he “borrows” slices of bread. This enrages him. He snatches the old rotary phone on the wall and chucks the receiver at the man. “QUIT PISSING IN OUR FRIDGE YOU ASSHOLE!”
The receiver gets hung up by its tangled cord and smashes into the counter behind the man.
The man laughs, steps out of the pants that had been laying around his ankles, growls, and runs straight at Jake with his fists out in front of him like Superman. Jake lurches to the side and the man escapes through the front door, naked as a newborn.
6:21pm, Wednesday, 6-17-2024
The jingling just won’t stop, and Jake can’t concentrate. He lays his reliable old Parker Sonnet on the kitchen table next to his notebook full of half written poetry. He smiles down into that intense border collie stare and makes his decision. “Alright, fine, let’s go.”
Rocket blasts through his doggie door. By the time Jake’s sandals meet pavement, the crazy dog is in the truck kennel waiting and barking. Lots of barking.
“Yea yea yea, pipe down,” Jake tells his best friend.
6:33pm, Wednesday, 6-17-2024
A red disc golf distance driver is jetting fast across the big field, but rocket is already underneath it.
“Flies a lot better than an old telephone,” a man says in a voice that sounds like it belongs at the dog park more than any dog.
Jake spins to face the man immediately. He knows. “Oh my god it’s really you…”
The man nods. His mane is all gray now, and tied back neatly. His face is clean shaven, too. He’s wearing a fresh t-shirt with some branding on it, which turns out to be one of the local farm to table joints. “I’m really sorry about that night, man, and I don’t know how I can ever repay you. For what it’s worth…” He offers a view of the gold and black ring on his finger. “Twenty years sober.”
Twenty years is too long to hold a grudge, even for Buzz. “Yea. That’s good, man. And I guess it’s all water under the bridge.” Jake immediately regrets his choice of words.
The man’s eyes twinkle, but he shows restraint and skips the joke. “Paul,” he says, offering a farm tanned hand.
Jake reaches and their hands meet with a friendly slap. “Jake.”
7:11pm, Wednesday, 6-17-2021
Rocket and Paul’s rescued greyhound Betty are laying by their respective owners’ feet, panting heavily. They’re having a great night at the park.
“Well,” Paul says. “I guess we better head out in a minute, but I wanted to ask you something the second I saw you.”
“Shoot,” Jake says.
Paul smiles and looks him straight in the eyes. “Rodney says you might be looking for work, and I could use a guy in the greenhouse. I really need a good hand in there.”
A long reel of memories plays in Jake’s mind, all the times Rodney mentioned a friend of his, a guy named Paul. Jake always wondered why they never met, and now it’s clear. He nods and holds back a flood of tears. He knew Paul understood, because Rodney knew everything that had happened. It’s been a difficult four years for Jake, since Covid. “No charity?” Jake asks.
“Nah,” Paul said, holding back tears of his own, trying to keep his voice steady. “Just need a good guy in there. I’m slowing down a bit, and the young ones still need some leadership.”
Their hands meet again, this time with a firmer slap. It’s a done deal.