Archibald

The other day at Starbucks I wound up standing next to this old lady who looked very out of place. I’d never heard anyone say “Venti mocha no whip with foam and nutmeg” in an old person’s voice. That’s not to say it’s never happened before, but it caught me off guard.

We were both staring at the same New York Times front page on top of the stack next to the counter. It had news about the hurricane, and so I mumbled some comments about what a tragedy it was, and how I wished there was more I could do to help, etc. She listened politely, nodding, and then a look crept into her eyes which reminded me of the fabled center of such a hurricane. She began humming the tune to “Jesus Hits Like the Atom Bomb,” and I couldn’t tell if it was a fearful or a hopeful hum.  Maybe both.  Probably neither.

I perfunctorily retrieved my brew as the faggot behind the counter waxed shriller in his impatient summons, “Grande LATte!”  The smell of the place surged with me out the door and into my truck, and swirled around with the leather seat odor before succumbing to the sulfur and tobacco of a pipe ignition.  

It struck me for a half of a moment that the sheer pleasantness of it all was stretched to the breaking point to cover up the stench that must be New Orleans.  The putrefied soul of a people and a nation lay in mounds and filthy pools in the Big Easy, tenuously veiled by a saran wrap thin cover of giddy comfort.

I thought about what I might do, but then I caught sight of the old lady on her Harley, laughing, and my thoughts turned back to my schedule for the day.

After I swear in the King at his coronation, he asks me for a cigarette, which I happily produce, though I’m not a cigarette man myself. But when you know there is a king nearby who likes a drag, it’s good to have a few on hand. You can hear the cameras fluttering as I hold the match for him. He drags lazily, and then starts up the massive stone steps to the leather chair where he is going to be sitting a lot in the years to come, ruling the world’s most powerful nation.

In a world where not long ago two-bit whores, perverts and dope pushers were freedom fighters, kings smoking cigarettes are outrageous pariahs. But that doesn’t make him not king. This one cares little for the moral do-gooding of the treacherous, and so he drags some more, deliberately surveying the pensive twenty-five thousand or so thronged into the fabled Kirklaidir Square.

The tip lights up like the one bright dot in a sea of drab stares, commanding the attention not only of those in the square, but also “of our friends joining us from their living rooms via live satellite.” Suddenly the tip goes dark and the king’s eyelids droop a little with evident pleasure. Shutters whir again as a hazy bluish cloud gathers above the newly crowned pate. His shoulders betraying a slight chuckle.

“First case!” he shouts in that accent peculiar to those raised in the southeastern part of the continent, near the capital city. Everyone sort of looks at each other quizzically to see if they heard him right. He told us all along that he thought governing and not grandstanding was the business of the king, so I can’t help the smile I feel overtaking my otherwise appropriately solemn countenance. No speech, it’s time to govern.

Droning advisers commence the buzzing in his ears, and it looks like they’re pointing to schedules and things, and speed-dialing like mad on their cell phones. The king appears to have selective cotton in his ears, filtering out the protestations of the off-point. This scene reminds me of a time when he was still a little boy, and I was visiting his father on a matter involving one of our diplomat’s mistreatment in one of the stubborn old industrialized countries…

I have so much time, I thought I’d write for no one in particular, for no particular reason. Somebody wrote that writer’s write because they have something to say. That one didn’t. I’m writing because if I don’t, I’ll have to do my work.

I’m a professional student. You can read that in a couple of ways: 1. My career is being a student, or 2. I am a student learning a profession. You may be right.

I think I’m writing because I need to learn to write. You can quote me on that. There is a certain discipline to it, like when you are learning to eat the whole bowl of ice cream even though you are full. It’s something you have to do to be a man.

We’ll see what shows up here. Hope you come back.