by the Butterfly
Coast MotionFest, '01, and time for dinner. I jump in with Hilby, Butterfly,
Peter Gross, Brian from Cowguys, and at some point an axe murderer from Eugene,
Oregon, who slips in, thinking he belongs with us, as he spent a season in
Spain performing 3 Card Monte for short money. We don't mind; everyone has
We dine at a good veggie slop shop, and regale each other with tales of woe
and strife from the road. Peter trots out a nice lost luggage bit, Hilby recalls
the time a toothless crone shellacked herself to him at a state fair, Eugene
Man offers a "find the missing body part" episode from a recent job,
and Robert puts forth a vignette on losing wallet, plane ticket, sense of humor
and bearings from back in the college tour days.
Walking back to the car, we light the proverbial cigars and other flammables
and meander the two blocks in a peaceful way, lazily vying for attention. Candy
cane lights call to us, and a well-lit barbershop storefront window inserts
itself into our night. Look inside, they're still open. We so want to be with
each other and trade love with each other: agreement moves us as one, a bass
line orchestrating dancer's motions.
Entranced, we approach the window, and wow. There is a barber performing a
clip job on a man sporting an afro the size of a rolling globe. We pause and,
not unlike the twelve-year old gems we all continue to be, gawk unapologetically,
hypnotized. Entranced. One-liners on hedge clippers and weedeaters becon us.
Full on wonder the consensus, we take in the marvel quipless. The man in the
chair is good-natured, obviously used to the attention. We create a welcome
smile on his face. For a second.
Some moments take up all of our attention. We are swept up in event tides.
We dally too long; you know the flavor. It is that moment when she looked at
you and smiled, and you smiled back, uncomprehending, geekish, and realized
only as she rode off on her red bike that that had been the moment she was
ready for you to kiss her. This is what happens. We dumbhappily stay through
the moment. It isn't funny anymore. Half a dozen clowns press their psychic
noses up against the mentalcandyshop window, unwelcome. We are a whimsy-riddled,
inchoate six-armed demigod of mirth. Somewhere, the universe smiles. We are
kids caught greedy, hands deep in the candy jar of spontaneous life theater.
We draw breath, preparing perhaps to exit hastily on tiptoe.
This is the moment.
Robert steps forward, further into the storefront picture window that has become
unwitting stage to this troupe of clown lifethirsters. Not a trace of apology,
he is at home. He reaches up to his own head and gathers between thumb and
forefinger the very foreheadkissing front of his well-made toupee. With practiced
hand he flips it up. Like the open lid on the can of his mind it stands, a
curtain rising on and framing the butterfly forever tattooed on his clean pristine
Barber and patron howl. We are encircled in love. Life is good.
Taxi Trix is originally from
Queens, NY but now lives in western Connecticut. He has a really cool home
and enjoys hosting guests from New Zealand.