Truth Of The Matter

“Ain’t that some shit, man?” I said. “She didn’t even hear my poetry.”

“That’s rough.” said Yas, took a gulp of his dark amber beer.

“What kind of shit is that, man?” I asked.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” said Yas.

“Fuck her then.” I said. And raised my beer glass.

“Cheers.” Said Yas.

“Cheers, god damn it.” I said.

And we drank.

We drank in the same corner booth we’d drank in the last twelve times after finding O’Neals. It easily became our haven after Cafe’s and shows and the other things we did around Little Tokyo. The same quirky, blonde, waitress, Sarah, served us alcohol. The same lights were lit, the same industrial pipes lined the roof and walls. The same empty booths and empty stools.

It was a perfect place for a couple of humanized humans to sit and burn their throats until they forgot why they became human.

“What the fuck, man?” I exclaimed, eyes bloodshot immediately. “What does that fool do that I don’t?”

Yas took a gulp of his beer.

“I mean, sure, he probably has a job. A job that pays him a lot more money than I make. But I’m an Artist! Capitol ‘A’! The poems I write about her are priceless! No one knows her chubby-faced ass more than me! No one can make her smile like I do. No one can make her laugh like I do. No one can make her feel good like I do! I’m her best friend, man! Doesn’t that count for something?” I lamented.

Yas took another sip of his beer. He pulled out two pens from his shirt pocket. Laid one in front of me. He held the other one in his off hand.

I took a mean swig of my beer. “He’s a punk bastard rat ass kid. Televised tattoos. Commercialized bald head. Probably doesn’t know the difference between a tender kiss and a sloppy one. He can’t do the things I can do! All he does is take up space in this universe. That’s all he does. So what the fuck does she see in him?”

Yas wrote one word on the butcher paper that table clothed our booth.

“Seriously, man. I should’ve knocked that motherfucker out. Why didn’t I? Who gives a fuck, really? She’d still go home with him. Fuck, I can just imagine it right now. They’re parked under some lap post light somewhere around here, making out, undressing each other, about to get their fuck on. While I’m sitting here drinking with you.” I said, swigging. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Said Yas, as he underlined the on word he wrote on the paper table cloth.

“Shit, man. Why the fuck am I doing this to myself? Why am I driving myself crazy? Why the fuck am I in love with this woman who doesn’t love me back? What is wrong with me? What’s wrong with me? What is it about me that she just can’t get over?”

Yas took a gulp of his beer. Placed it back down on the table. And said, “Stability. Security.”

I looked at him. Paused my maniacal rant. Looked at him. In those crazy eyes of his. The ones that look passed everything except a persons soul, a persons truth. I gulped.

He pointed to the word he wrote on the paper table cloth. It read, ‘Money.’

“You don’t have any. None of it.” Yas said, took another gulp of his beer. Finished it off. Raised his hand to order another one. The waitress Sarah swiftly came by, picked up the empty glass with her pinkie and fluttered off to the bar for the refill.

Money. Stability. Security. Yas was right. I had none of it. So what if I traveled the country more times than anyone could in their lifetime. so what if I wrote a million poems and stories about love, life, and the pursuit of happiness. So fucking what if was the most honest, most raw, most brilliant Artist capitol ‘A’ out there that I self-centrically knew. None of any of that mattered. Because of the things Anna Lisa Kristina really wanted.

Art was nothing in comparison Not Struggling.

“Cheers.” I said.

“Cheers.” Yas said.

I gulped down the rest of my beer. Raised my hand to catch Sarah’s attention. And said, “I’m gonna go get a job.”