Out in the parking lot, almost done for the night, white smoke circles Wendell’s head and hands like his soul escaping and he’s humming softly the chorus to something it takes me a second to figure out is Guns N’ Roses’ “Patience.” Dale is doing calisthenics, touching his toes for a ten count and every time he straightens up, he raises his arms up over his head and lets out a long relieved sigh. Across the way the Bayview sign reads ALL U CAN EAT TACO TUES NECESSITY IS THE MOTH OF INVENTION.
“The moth of invention,” says Wendell. “What the fuck?” Dale stretches, he chuckles. “You ever see that one Simpsons?”
“Nah, bro, I don’t watch cartoons.”
“Oh but it’s so much more than that.”
“Yeah? How do you figure?”
“Because, man, it’s.”
“Ain’t it a buncha little animated people?”
“Yeah but you don’t get it, dude. It’s like... satire.”
“Satire. Go the fuck back to college with that.”
“Dude, I’m in college. Currently enrolled.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “The University of Life.”
“You got it, Sweeney.”
“And what kinda school is it, again?”
“A big old shitty one.”
I roll up all the mats and I’m mopping the line when inspiration hits. That may be the one thing work is good for. Thinking about everything else except work. Most of the time this will lead you into the mind’s dark corners. Yet every once in a while, if you’re lucky, brilliance.
After Dale, Wendell and I punch out, we walk over to the Bayview and get to work on the sign, rearranging the letters, hiding behind the ship whenever a car comes. It’s a serious business, all sweat and labored breathing, and we’re silent and methodical. When we’re done we step back and gaze at our creation, then crack the fuck up for a good five minutes. “Sweeney, I gotta hand it to you this time,” says Dale.
Wendell says, “Let’s go to my place, have some pops.”
“You got a place?”
“Yeah. I call it Chateau Dale Fuck Off.”
It turns out Wendell lives across the bay, just a five-minute walk away, right on the water, in a one-room, one-window shack with a cooler, TV, love seat and twin bed with no sheets. There is nothing in the cooler but ice and Bud tall boys.
“Wendell,” I say, “are you from a movie?”
“Shut up and drink, Sweeney.”
We each crack a tall boy and Dale proposes a toast.
“To the U of L,” he says.
Wendell goes next. “To eating, shitting, working and dying,” he says.
“All right,” I say. “Here’s to having not.”
We knock cans and drink. The room is warm but the beer is so cold it seizes my temples and locks me up for a second before unleashing a terrific release, a giant hot and cold flower bursting into dramatic bloom, sped up, like on a nature show.
“We oughtta do more of that shit,” Wendell says. “You know? Get into a little more trouble. Fuck more shit up. When I was in my prime, boy, that’s just about all we ever did was fuck shit up. Look at me now. It’s sad. Living this respectable life.”
“Say what? Respectable? You don’t even have a refrigerator,” Dale says.
“Yeah but I got a job, homes. And I go to that fucker every day, rain or shine. If I didn’t, you best believe my PO would have my ass.”
“PO? Dude, what the fuck?”
Wendell shrugs. “There’s been some road bumps.”
“No shit. What’d you go in for?”
“A buncha shit I did over the years so I wouldn’t have to have a job.”
“Dude, no. Let’s back up here. Be specific.”
“That’s about as specific as I like to get.”
“You got a record?”
“Yeah Einstein, I got a record. Then I got my shit together. Or I should say was made to get my shit together. And now look. Everything works out. I’m being made to live the American Dream. TV, job, a frosty pop after a hard day’s work.”
“Dude, wait a second.”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me something.”
“Yeah?”
“What’s it all about, jail? What’s that . . . whole scene like?”
“Why, you writin a book?”
“No. Just curious.”
“You’re awful quiet, Sweeney. Thought you’d be the life of the party.”
“Just listening.”
“So you’re just curious and you’re just listening. You all must be some smart motherfuckers. What’s jail like? Good question. All I can say is sometimes . . . it’s weird, sometimes I’ll have some freaky thought when we’re in the shit and Skip’s going crazy and the waitresses and all. And I think of my goddamn nose-blow paycheck they pay me to stand around and do this. And I think Man, I’d give anything to be back there.”
“Back in jail?”
“Back where I at least knew where I stood. At least a little bit anyway.”
He drains his second beer and burps, the last noise for a while. Dale grabs another tall boy and rolls the cold can across his neck. “Wendell, I’m telling you, dude, you gotta give The Simpsons another try.”
“Maybe someday I will. Or maybe I’ll just shove my balls back into my stomach and go back to fuckin kindergarten. Whattaya say?”
“Dude, you know that’s not kind.”
“Yeah but this is,” letting out another tremendous burp. My right knee pops as I stand. “Gotta shove off.”
Wendell walks me the two inches to the door. “That was good earlier, man. Like I said, we gotta really fuck some more shit up.”
“We will,” I say, shaking the hand he offers. “For sure.” The door closes behind me. The only sounds on the walk back are the waves lapping in the bay and gravel crunching under my heels. I feel lonely and small, a piece of space dust floating through the endless galaxies. But I feel good too. It’s good to be alone and hurting. Back in the Café parking lot, digging around for my keys, I look up the hill at the sign we made, lit in the darkness: EAT ALL TITTIES OF INVENTION.