I was officially in for the night when my cellie went off. My friend, let's call her My Pal P, had pinged me all night long by text and ignored cellphones, so when he rang me up, I took the call. She and her cousin were leaving the all night diner, right on Front Street and the Boardman River, and wanted to meet me for a last call toast. I know what you're thinking. At that time of night, one should go to the all-night diner and drink coffee, not the bar again. My Pal has an unusual pull upon my soul and it frightens me. Let's put it this way. Never let down your guard when driving west on Apple by Your Bar in Egelston Township, just outside of the Muskegon metroplex. People who have no right to be driving are making left hand turns into that bar's lot. One 1:00 AM, a westbound SUV impacted the passenger's side compartment of a late model sedan, sending a sixty-seven year old to her heavenly reward, we hope. A forty-seven year old woman had been driving. Sometimes, I wonder if he had rode along, the final night with his My Pal P. The comparison breaks down when My Pal P. talks about this cool woman who has become a mentor to her or works long hours trying to establish herself as virtual assistant with high billings or turns out with you for a play and she's dressed to the nines in vintage and the producer knows her from her work on soon to be released movie. She drove up to Traverse City to leap into the icy cold of East Bay in honor of her father's 54th birthday, raising funds for the Special Olympics, and I drove up to see my sister. Often, I let the texts pile up or phone calls go to voice mail, but night at theater and vintage attire had taken place on Thursday. Wear vintage attire and accompany me to the theater and hold the comments until intermission, and I am your bitch.
So I set out for the Union Street Station, one of my favorite places for closing time in the world, one of my favorite places for opening time in the world too. And to prepare for closing time, the coolest man in Traverse City and another guy on the My Pal P plan had set up three Guinnesses and three shots of Jamesons. Yes, I don't ride dirty but I also don't look a drink horse in the mouth. The shot wasn't the problem. Take it down like a man. The Guinness was the problem. Any other beer in the world, I can leave a half-glass for the closing time guys to pick up and dump out. To leave half-a-Guinness to go down the sewer is a travesty. So WanderingWilbo had to shift to late night alcohol rules. Two drinks means at least two hours before even thinking about the wheel. You start wondering why one books a hotel room at all. It also makes one den mother, also known as the fallen designated driver (F.D.D or Fuddie), the one who calls the cab and makes certain no one in the party takes the wheel.
So we took a cab ride back to the house of the coolest man in the Traverse City, and all his roommates were still up. Let's just say that the coolest man had a stash of salvia and they were waiting. Even the daughters of country western stars with their own shows will hit a bong of salvia. I had gotten everyone home safely and so my work was done here. I remember attending a concert at Pine Knob, and the hill side concert hall had a cloud of salvia smoke above the crowd from first song to encore, and the smoke and aroma really freaks me out. So handshakes all around, I was hoofing it home through the old town section of Traverse City. Don't worry, those of my readers who are experts in bar room etiquette. I gave cool man his propers Saturday night, with a pint and a shot and a cab ride home.
The falling snow told me I had chosen well. Many sidewalks in that section of Traverse City are still paved with brick, so an inch of fresh snow doesn't blanket; it reveals the shapes of the brick. I walked by tudors with carriage houses and humble two story balloon houses and similar to homes in Amsterdam, people had left lights on to reveal well-appointed parlors to walkers on the street. I didn't stare, dear reader, just glanced. I came to a street that ran along with the river, the Boardman River, the last lengths before reaching a concrete canal for flood control, called channelization. Perhaps the civilization that had tamed that river had tamed me over three decades. I had reached this point on a walk in 1983, walking along a path I had walked twenty-seven years ago, as a twenty-year old man. I was making my way to J & S Hamburgs, a holy place for the late night denizen. Plenty of my brethren were there, taking a communion of perfect eggs and transcendental ham steaks. Our ham steak who art in ham steak, ham steak be thy name, thy ham steak come, thy ham steak be done on ham steak as it is in ham steak. Hemingway had it wrong. And J & S Hamburgs has better hours than Jesperson's of Petoskey. To take the rhythym of the Lord's Prayer so, have I done wrong? I was delivered by that all night dinner and preserved until the sun rise. I can see the hand of the maker in that.
Salvia can make you see visions and talk to Jesus, but so can regular church attendance.
It's a beautiful church in the wee hours of the morning, roof white with fresh snow, the Traverse City Christ Community Church. People talk to Jesus here every Sunday at 10 AM.
Sue's J & S Hamburg has Ham Steaks that would make Bukowski write poetry. Who needs Salvia when you can get a good ham steak at 4:30 AM?
Tom Petty is pretty good in my book and no salvia is required to enjoy his live performances.
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