chapter 5: elvis was a cop

I’m waking up. There is a guy making coffee in my kitchen. He’s turned on the fan in my kitchen, and is wearing a big white cowboy hat. He looks like a real eccentric. I hope he isn’t. I don’t have the energy to deal with that. “Do you like Elvis?” he asks me, “Did you know he was a cop? Nixon gave him some badge, buddy. He made him an agent for the Federal Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. The king of rock n’ roll declared a war on drugs! To say it’s ironic would be an understatement. By the end of his life he couldn’t play guitar. He couldn’t sing. He tried to bust people for drugs, and was too fat to have sex. That’s probably why he died! Nobody had any use for him anymore. The king of rock n’ roll died on his throne! His bathroom throne! His whole life was ironic! Just a stupid big joke.”

I don’t say anything back to the man. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m also getting exponentially more nervous with each passing second. Who is this guy? What happened last night? Why did I invite him back to my home? I look out my window. The man in the brown hat isn’t there. I’m feeling extremely sober, so I decide to just ask some questions and see what kind of story I can get.

I ask the man when we got back home. “Just a few hours ago, buddy. You were hammered, man. I don’t drink but you said you would go to the casino with me, and I hate going places alone. You won big, buddy! Hundreds of dollars! I wish I could say the same for myself, but my bad luck is a curse. Everyone has always said so. I went bald in the 6th grade. I’m not kidding. Got hit by a bus in high school, and got all my teeth knocked out. These are all fake right here. Now I’m just a bald, toothless nobody, who likes to lose some money on the boat. Thanks again for the meal last night,” the man lets out this loud, joyful laugh, which makes me feel better, “I definitely didn’t have any money to get anything to eat. I’m glad you hate breakfast too. Those four burritos at Taco Bell were just what I needed….”

I let the guy keep talking. He could really go once he started. It was soothing to me. As he talked we sipped and finished cup after cup of coffee. Whenever we would run out, he’d start brewing more. People who don’t drink alcohol always love coffee. I guess you either need help getting nervous, or getting calm. It’s really nice there are drinks out there that can do those things for you. I wish I needed help getting nervous. Imagine being so calm, you needed something to jumpstart your nerves. That would be quite a life. I think I could live like that.

It has never made sense to me how everyone in America is so anti-drug, yet they are all coffee speed freaks. Coffee is a truly powerful drug. At least alcoholics and heroin addicts get a little pleasure from time to time. Eventually they come to a crossroads where they have to make a decision: get clean and rejoin society, or continue to live on the fringes of existence pursuing pleasure for the rest of their lives. Coffee people are never viewed as addicts. They drink it all day at work. They do everything in their power to deny themselves pleasure. They often go to a job they hate, they talk about the weather with people they don’t like, then walk to a cubicle and stare at a wall or computer screen for the rest of their day. If it wasn’t for coffee they would never go through with that. They’d get so depressed they would do something they actually liked doing, they might even wake up on a park bench at five in the morning from time to time. They might become homeless. Who knows. Coffee also makes stiff people shit, which they secretly enjoy. That is the only pleasure that they get: a few moments of quiet solitude in a bathroom stall. If you ask me coffee is the most dangerous drug a person could do.

“Yeah you kept talking about some girl, man,” the guy is still going, “you must be real hard up for this girl. Asexual, you said. You told me that means she doesn’t like to have sex with anybody! That’s crazy man. Sex is one of the few good things in the world, and this girl decided she’s not interested! I can’t even imagine. Personally I don’t get why you went to the brewery and got drunk if you weren’t trying to have sex. Sex is awkward for most people. They need to get a little dumber to have it. Get back to their primal side. Let their desires take over. It’s never been a problem for me, but I guess I’m just some horny dog. There aren’t a lot of women who want to get in bed with a toothless bald guy, but I guess I do alright. Guess it’s my gift of gab that does it for me. Women like a man who can talk, and most men can’t talk without a little help from something. How about that, huh? The only time I’m actually lucky is when I’m getting lucky. Thanks again for playing blackjack with me, buddy. Thanks for that loan as well. And like I said, I’ll pay ya back by the end of next week. But yeah, like I was saying: Elvis invented rock n’ roll, but he was a cop. Can you believe that?”

As the guy keeps talking I check my wallet. There are twelve brand new 100 dollar bills in there. I guess I did pretty well. I check my online banking account. There is a $200 charge at the brewery, and a $100 withdrawal from a casino ATM. I really am lucky. I wonder how much I loaned this guy.

“Well I better get going, buddy. Thanks for lettin’ me crash here. I was too tired to make it back out to the country last night. The name is Jack. Jack Roberts the Third. You have my number, so don’t be a stranger. Nice to meet you.” With that Jack shakes hands with me and walks out to his truck. Nice guy. I like how much he talks. It takes all the pressure off of me, and allows me to think and get my head straight. I check my phone, and delete all of the messages I sent to the red haired girl. They all just said “we should hang out.” How embarrassing. I guess I blew it with her, but that was bound to happen eventually. I saw one message I had sent to “Jack R,” it said: “I’m downstairs, let’s get out of here, while we still can.” I feel tired, but strangely happy. I check outside. The man in the brown hat still isn’t there. I lock my doors, pull the curtains together, and go back to sleep.