“..Make it scintillating..
a jumble of tanglework.. knots, if you will ––
at once disarranged and jarring, raucous and viscous.. but ordered and plain, soothing, BALSAMIC –––
and pictures.. lots of black and white photos.. kinda sexy, pseudo–stilted–like crap... evocative of all within ourselves and stand alone and
out in the weeds....”
––
Made no sense to me, and a no nevermind palliative to the odd feeling of presentiment that hung over today’s Lunch.
“Meatloaf again..?” I presumed more than quizzed, hoping to deflect attention.
His combing the plastic menu, making nervous sounds with already clawed laminate corners –– turning, unturning thick, sticky pages –– hinted my posit a tad overweening.
“Today ––– the Chicken Salad..” augustly pronounced as if wearing purple vestments.
“It should be like no other,” he continued.
“Any publisher would hate it. A book on Men.. but not really. Mostly, sort of.. Homos.. hmmm.. but more broad –––
“POEMS, PORN and PUSSIES... and stories. Yet, personally.. calling some of your unfinished ramblings ‘stories’ might be somewhat far–reaching.. And what writer rhymes today...?
“Further, I bet you’ve writ the words ‘ever’ and ‘glim’ at least a hundred times, each, since Thursday.
“Now ‘ever’ I can almost abide, but ‘glim’? Are you looking to go viral with some archaic lexical unit that doesn’t really mean what you think it does....?”
Waiting for all the other several shoes to drop, expecting worse swipes to follow, I endeavored unfold my paper napkin neatly upon my lap.
“And if they say, ‘No’ ––– are you prepared to make changes?”
Oh... THAT question.
The wad of gum I earlier and sub rosa rescued from restive bicuspids and swaddled with my serviette made what should have been an effortless bid at laying said napkin more an artless ordeal. In my periphery loomed an apron.
“Coulda stuck it under the table like everyone else –––
“Got 3 sons and 2 exes, all who fart like cows. Ain’t afraida no stinkin’ Doublemint...”
Primly passing my napkin lump to our Server’s twitchy palm, receiving a fresh one back, my now stiff grin and flush cheeks attempted to communicate my order.
––
“Ga.. um.. Grilled Cheese... Soup?” I seemed ask demurely rather than affirm my resolve.
“Tomato or Bisque?”
“Tomato..” I muttered –––
“Chicken Salad, me.. Marge. Do you like Poetry?”
“Anything to drink, guys..?” she frowned, knowing the answer.
Her pinched lips aping, ‘Water, please..’ she swept the menus from our hands as spun around, heading toward the Kitchen.
“Poe, Plath, Milton –– ” was sent on waves behind her..
“the occasional Bukowski,” as her voice and wake trailed off.
All at once my friend’s left eyebrow appeared raised an aberrant few inches from its usual mise–en–scène...
..joined anon by his right, when..
“Wilde, of course –– ” managed sneak out from behind the still–swinging Kitchen door.
––
Poring over a small laminate placard far from its home wedged between Sugar and Sweet’N Low, my lunchmate exclaimed with flourished release...
more resentful pitch toward me than gentle return of billet to harbor ––––
“LOOK! Meatloaf was On Special today.
Free Fucking Baked Potato..!!”
––
Johnny Francis Wolf is an Autist –– an autistic Artist. Designer, Model, Actor, Writer, and Hustler –– Yes. That.
Worth a mention –– his Acting obelisk –– starring in the ill–famed and fated, 2006 indie film, TWO FRONT TEETH. The fact that it is free to watch on YouTube might say an awful lot about its standing with the Academy.
Homeless for the better part of these past 8 years, he surfs friends’ couches, shares the offered bed, relies on the kindness of strangers –– paying when can, doing what will, performing odd jobs. (Of late.. Ranch Hand his favorite.)
From New York to LA, Taos and Santa Fe, Mojave Desert, Coast of North Carolina, points South and South East –– considers himself blessed.
Johnny’s love of animals, boundless. Current position working on a hacienda in Florida as laborer and horse whisperer has recently come to its seasonal conclusion. Greyhound and the Jersey Shore are drawing him North.
Some of all this Bio is true –– most of Wolf’s tales as well. Those illusory are hung on stories told him by dear friends or his own brush with similar, if not exactly the same.
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