...
"I am writing this letter to apologize for my disgraceful actions and to pay for some of the items that I stole a few years back. Please accept this apology and the money that is included..."
chapter
by mike daily
I get off work and go to work. I park behind the coffee house. Anthony is standing two doors to the east, checking his reflection in the back window of the closed sub shop. Big Anthony. He is shaving his head with a disposable razor and some cream.
"O’Grady!" he calls out. "O’Grady!"
I get to my feet.
"We got a new coffee machine! And a new CD player! Unplug the old ones and hook ‘em up! Put the old ones back in the office!"
I wave. "Is there water?" I say.
"There’s sodas, water, everything! You’ll see it all in there on the counter! I"ll be in the pub!"
"Okay."
"Cut to a commercial!"
I unlock the back door. The lights inside are already on. The incense is burning. The phone is ringing. I pick it up.
—Hello, Rowboat Coffee House.
—Hey what’s up, this is James. I’m in a band called Mang.
—Hey James.
—Is the owner there?
—Shane is not here.
—Uh, do you know where he is?
—Are you calling to book a show?
—I’ve been calling him. I left two messages at that 346 number and he hasn’t called me back in like two weeks.
—Well I know his machine was full, it may not have recorded. Call him again and leave another message. He’ll get back to you.
—I don’t want him to get mad or anything.
—He won’t.
—And is it true you guys have Metal Nights?
—Yes.
—Thanks.
I dim the lights, do the chores and break down the cardboard. We have music, we have coffee. I open a bottled water and brush my teeth with a piece of taffy. At seven o’clock I unlock the front door and pick up the day’s mail. One of the envelopes is addressed, "To Whom It May Concern." I un-do the Scotch tape on the back flap and open it. A ten dollar bill is taped to the top of the letter. It’s a manually typewritten letter. It says,
To Whom It May Concern,
A few years ago I foolishly shoplifted from your place of business. Since then I have learned that shoplifting is wrong and that it is very dishonest. I am writing this letter to apologize for my disgraceful actions and to pay for some of the items that I stole a few years back. Please accept this apology and the money that is included. Please realize that this occurred several years ago and I have forgotten many of the items that I have shoplifted, but I am truly sorry and I wish to repay something. Once again I apologize.
Sincerely,
It is signed, in cut and paste lettering, "Raymond."
I tape Raymond’s letter above the register for Shane to see, ring in the ten and a guy with a mustache and long hair comes in.
"Hello," I say. "Welcome to Rowboat."
"Hey," he says. "Hey, where’s Shane?"
"Shane is probably at his bar up in Topanga Canyon tonight."
"His bar? Does he still got that goin’? That crazy guy."
"He is."
"How’s this place been doin’?"
"Good," I say. "Especially on the weekends."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"So he’s actually making money with it now. Both of ‘em actually."
"He said last year was better for the bar."
The guy laughs. "I guess commercial jets getting flown into buildings two months ago doesn’t, uh—"
"Doesn’t much for the bar business, no," I say. "Although, you know, maybe it’s driven people to drink more. You never know."
"You never know," he says. "What kind of Snapple you got?"
"Cranberry Raspberry, Pink Lemonade, Mango Madness, Peach Iced Tea—"
"Peach Iced Tea."
I get one from the fridge. "One-fifty."
"And give me one of these Rice Krispie Treats."
"Okay. Two dollars. Out of two?"
"How’s Monday nights here? Busy?"
He drops a dollar in the TIPS ROCK jar.
"It depends. Thanks. On what, I don’t know. It fluctuates."
"Unknown," he says. "Unknown. I haven’t been here in a while."
"How long?"
"At least three years. This is back when Reed used to play on a Monday night basis. Does he still come around?"
"Who is it?"
"Reed."
"Reed," I say. "I don’t know."
"Yeah, he’d always be the first one up to play. When he used to sing he’d have veins popping out of his forehead, out of his neck, and he just, like, shook through it. He was great."
"Did he go on to fortune and fame?"
"I don’t know what he went on to. He would do the coffee house circuit. He would do all the open mikes here in the Valley."
"On the same night?"
"Oh yeah, the guy was a maniac. He would come here, do three songs, go somewhere else, do three songs, go somewhere else, do three songs. Just insane. And there was some other guy from New York, I forget what his name was, he was pretty good. Figure I’d come down tonight and check it out again."
"Are you gonna play?"
"Probably not. I didn’t bring my guitar."
"You’re welcome to sign up. They get three songs."
"Still the same old thing then, three songs."
"Yep," I say, "three songs."
"Three songs. A lot of comedians lately?"
"Actually, the last two Monday nights we had pre-booked shows, like punk rock bands."
"Oh, right."
"But when it’s open mike regularly, comedians do show up."
"Yeah," he says. " I saw some really funny people come through here sometimes. And then, you know, other times you’re like, ‘Don’t even try! You think that was funny?’ No, I haven’t played out in a long time. Can’t make room with the job, you know. The job. I just don’t have time to do it anymore. I got some new tunes I’m working on now though. Different music styles, like this guy—" He names a guy. "If you’re into that kind of stuff."
"I never heard of him."
He opens the iced tea and takes a swig. "He died in ‘97 in a car crash. This guy played like four, five, six, seven parts of a song at one time. Everything from fret harmonics to slap harmonics. It’s insane, his playing style. He played flute, harmonica, all the wind instruments, all the guitar instruments, all the bass instruments, all the drum instruments. He went to The School of Music for like 15 years. My style of music is kind of like his. A couple parts of the song going at one time combined with all the fret and slap harmonic stuff that I do. I got three songs that I’ve been working on, with alternate tuning."
"Do you, uh, do you play harmonica with that, or not?"
"Just guitar," he says. "Just guitar. It’s all acoustic guitar. But there’s another guy—" He names another guy. "If you get a chance to check him out, he’s pretty good. He lives in San Diego. He plays up here around Los Angeles pretty often. He plays the highlights at guitar stores. Good guitar player. But yeah, I do mostly acoustic and strum guitar stuff. No vocals."
"No?"
"No vocals," he says. "I don’t believe in ‘em."
"Oh yeah? Well what do you think of this?"
"What do you got?"
"I base everything on lyrics."
"Okay," he says. "Okay."
"What do you think of that?"
"Well, that’s good. Everybody has their own style. You know, but see, it’s like the stuff I do, I never really developed a very good playing rhythm. So you’re 4/4, you’re 4/8, you’re 4/5...it’s like, ‘I can’t do it!’" He laughs. "Maybe next Monday night, I’ll come down here with my guitar and I’ll show you what I mean, because my stuff is just from one extreme to the next. It’ll be movin’ this way and then the next thing I’ll change it and throw a harmonica in—I mean, a harmonic—and then do a slap harmonic and maybe a fret harmonic over the top of that, and then throw in another different rhythm on it. You know, like, ‘What the hell’s goin’ on here?’"
I laugh. "What if you had somebody singing with that though?"
"That’d be interesting. I never really thought about it but, you know...I never really thought about it."
"As a listener I say that: ‘I base everything on lyrics.’"
"Right, right, right."
"The poetry of it."
"Right," he says. "Poetry’s fun. You still do Poetry Night here on Tuesdays?"
"Yeah."
"A couple people have been askin’ me to come to that. Does Rex still come around?"
"Rexroth?"
"Great guy," he says.
"No, he hasn’t been here in a while."
"Great guy," he says. "It was a funny thing where I was datin’ this girl and Rex was stayin’ at the house for a short time, just after the earthquake, and he got into this conversation with this lady who said that she had Elvis’ kid and no one knew about it but her."
"That sounds like a conversation he’d have."
He goes on: "The world didn’t know that she got knocked up by Elvis and she said Elvis used to send her money and drugs and alcohol and try to take care of her and no one knew about it, that she had Elvis’ kid! It was this whole philosophy. The conversation went on for hours. But Rex...Rex has got some great poetry. From what I remember. I can just imagine what it’s like now. It was like two, three years ago that I saw him here."
"What can I say?" I say. "Jello Biafra lives."
"Great guy," he says, "great poetry. You still get the girls that write the love poetry? The stuff that’s all mushy?"
"Guys too."
He laughs. "It’s like, ‘Do you have to read that stuff?’ You know what I mean?"
I nod. A guy behind him nods at me. I nod back to him.
"Okay," the first guy says. "I’ll talk to you later."
"Okay."
The second guy has a guitar on his back. He steps up. "Hey, how you been bro?" he says. "It’s been a long time!"
"It has?"
"Yeah! You don’t remember me?" He’s wearing a glove on his left hand.
"Maybe you’re mistaking me for somebody else."
"You play guitar?" he says. "You’re from Montana?"
"No."
He takes off the glove and points at me. "I know where I know you from, man! Poetry night! I really enjoyed your stuff. Great expression."
"Thanks."
"Tea with lemon."
"No lemon," I say.
"Tea."
I fill a mug with water and put it in the microwave. "One-fifty. Out of one-fifty? Just a few minutes for the tea. Here’s the sign-up sheet and a pen."
He puts the glove back on, picks up the pen, signs his name. A girl comes around the corner from the back door. "Guy behind the counter!" she says. "I have a question for you!"
I wait for the question.
"Is it okay if my band plays tonight? Please?"
"Usually bands book in advance with Shane, the owner, to play on the weekends," I say. "Tonight’s open mike."
"I know but please? We have our own amps and everything. We’re really good."
"You would have to load everything in now and set up immediately because it starts at eight."
"Okay," she says. "We can do that."
"You get three songs or 15 minutes maximum."
"Okay."
"This would be a special one-time-only offer."
"Okay."
"And you would have to go first."
"First?"
"Yes."
"At eight?"
"Yes."
Her eyes roll before she answers. "Okay! What’s your name?"
"Mick."
"Thanks Mick!"
"Eight o’clock," I say.
"Okay!"
The microwave beeps. I take out the mug, tea bag it behind the counter and serve to the guy with the guitar and the glove.
"Thanks Mick," he says.
Two girls come in.
"Is the dog here?" one calls out.
"What?" I say.
"The guy with the dog."
I look around. "What guy with the dog?"
"The big guy with the shaved head," the other one says. "I think he’s the bouncer."
"Oh, Anthony. He’s here."
"Blackjack?" the first one says. "Is Blackjack here?"
"What?"
"His dog. He has a dog."
"He has a dog? I didn’t know he had a dog."
"He has a dog because my friend had a dog last year and that guy Anthony bought it and we wanted to see him," the other one says. "So he’s not here?"
"He’s here. Anthony’s here. He’s either in the back alley somewhere or over in the pub."
"Can we go through the back door?"
"Sure."
Two boys in black hooded sweatshirts step up to the counter. Their hoods are still up. "Are you guys supposed to have a band play tonight?" one says.
"News travels fast," I say.
"That’s just what we heard at school today."
"Really," I say. "Yeah, they’re gonna set up. It’s just three songs. I mean, tonight’s just open mike."
"Right."
"But yeah, they’re gonna play."
"What time?"
"Eight."
"How much are the drinks?" he says. "The sodas."
"Buck each."
"Give me a Mountain Dew. No, a Dr. Pepper."
"And I’ll take a Pepsi," the other one says.
"We don’t have Pepsi. Is Coke okay?"
"Yeah. No. I’ll have a 7-Up."
I get the cans and serve. "Two bucks."
Each gives me a twenty.
"Are these the smallest bills you have?"
The hoods nod.
"How about if—?"
"Okay," one says. "Take it out of mine."
I ring in the twenty, take out three fives and three ones, close the register drawer and flip the bills in my hand. "Eighteen dollars is your change. That’s five, ten, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Thank you."
"Thanks."
"Thanks."
A guy I know comes in through the back. "Mick, your dome light is on."
"Thanks."
A boy and a girl are standing by the snack jars. I hear the boy say to the girl, "I had a dream I got the Metallica box set. Of all the things to have a dream about."
"My friend works there and can get a discount if you still want it," the girl says.
"I never said I wanted it! It was a dream."
"I’ll be right back," I say to them.
I go out back, open my car door, turn off the light.
"Thanks Josh!" I call out.
He waves on his way to the pub.
I go back to the counter.
"What can I get for you?"
"Coke," the girl says. "Two Cokes."
I get them.
"Frank Black is playing at The Pelican tonight," the boy says.
"I saw that," the girl says.
"Two dollars," I say.
The boy gives me a five.
"Out of five? Three dollars is your change. That’s one, two, three. Thank you."
Two girls come up to the counter. I can’t tell how old they are. One opens the jar of cookies and takes out a package of oatmeal raisins.
"Are these any good?" she says.
"I never had those," I say. "They feel pretty fresh."
"Yeah, but I was looking and it doesn’t have enough fat in it to be any good."
They order Dr. Peppers.
I serve.
A voice calls out. "O’Grady!"
I turn. It’s Anthony.
"These kids are bringin’ equipment in! You lettin’ bands play?"
"Just the one band tonight, Anthony. They want to play and they have their gear so I said it was okay but just for tonight. Only one person signed up."
"I’ll walk around," he says. "There’s kids in the back who shouldn’t be back there. There’s dirty graffiti in the women’s bathroom. You see that?"
"No, I didn’t. Girls or boys wrote it?"
"Girls. These kids are high maintenance."
"Oh, did those girls find you?"
"Huh?" he says. "Oh, yeah."
"What’s wrong?"
"I’m alright," he says.
"You have a dog?"
"I’ll talk to you about it. I’ll be walkin’ around. Cut to a commercial."
There are somewhere between 50 and 75 people in the place already, mostly teens. I turn the low stage lights on for the band members setting up equipment. A member of the band walks over.
"So basically we’re first?" he says. "How come?"
"Generally we don’t have bands play on open mike night, so essentially it’s a free show for you tonight," I say. "There’s no five dollar cover charge like there is on Friday and Saturday nights. So yes, you’re first."
"Cool."
Fifteen minutes go by. Sales are brisk. The crowd swells. I notice that someone else has signed the sign-up sheet. I don’t recognize the name. It’s eight o’clock. I signal to one of the band members. He comes over to the counter.
"Yeah?" he says.
"Is everybody here?"
"Uh, no. The drummer’s brother went to go pick up more cymbals and I think the singer is next door at the bar."
"The bar? She’s not even 17."
"I can run and tell her but I don’t really want to leave all our shit here like this."
"I’ll watch it. Tell everyone else to get on stage a while then go over and tell her we’ve got to get started. It’s imperative."
"Okay."
A girl comes up. "Do you have a Sharpie?" she says.
"What do you need it for?"
"To write on the wall."
"Unbelievable. No. Sorry."
"Okay."
Another girl comes up. "Excuse me!" she says. "Do you have a Post-It or a piece of paper? Apparently a cocktail napkin isn’t elegant enough for my friend to use over there."
I give her the back of a flyer.
"Thank you very much."
The singer arrives. She is wearing a kind of headband and has taken off her shoes. "Can I use my own mike?" she says.
"Yes."
"I don’t have it with me, I’ll just use that one," she says. "I’ll just wipe the spit off."
She takes the stage and wipes the mike down. I bring the house lights down a touch, turn on the brights for the stage and fade the music.
"One," she says. "One, one, one, one. Can you hear me?"
Feedback.
"‘N Sync!" someone calls out.
"TRL! Where’s Carson Daly?"
"99-Cent Store!"
"Take it off!"
"Take it off?" the singer says. "Show me the money!"
"Here’s a quarter!" someone calls out.
She announces the band’s name and they start playing. Metal.
The singer comes in screaming.
The crowd seems to be into it.
Five, six, seven minutes goes by. Ten. Twelve, 13, 14. They’re still on the first song.
The crowd applauds at the end.
The singer is on her back. "How much time do we have left?" she calls out.
I feel the crowd’s attention turn to the guy behind the counter. "One more song," I finally say.
"Okay," she says.
They start playing. The singer comes in screaming. She keeps it up.
It seems to be another epic-length number.
It ends sometime around nine. The singer is in a fetal position.
The crowd is into it.
"Thank you," she says. "We’re—" She names the band. "Good night."
I cut the bright stage lights and resume the music. The band members break down equipment and take it off stage. Half the crowd is already gone. There is a line to get out the front.
I go up to the mike and announce that there are still two more performers this evening. I read off the names of the guy with the glove and the other person who signed up and say the show will continue momentarily. "Thank you," I say. I step off stage and start clearing tables.
A guy with a buzzed head comes up and hands me a tape.
"I’m—" He names himself as the third and final performer of the evening. "When it’s my turn to go, push play on side one of that tape."
"Got it," I say.
He’s already walking away.
He’s got four stripes shaved in the back of his head, like the Black Flag logo.
The crowd is down to about a dozen.
The second performer brings up a stool, sits down and adjusts the mike. He swings the guitar around from his back but doesn’t plug in. The glove comes off. I fade the music and hit the spotlight. He introduces himself and says he plays not only from coast to coast but all over the world, and that he used to be a student at a well-known guitar institute. That he plays only his own songs.
He plays his three songs.
"Thanks," he says. "Thank you."
The crowd is down to five.
The third performer gets up from the corner table, cracks his neck and does a set of deep knee bends. He appears to be angry. I press PLAY. He takes off his shirt and throws it against the wall. The music starts and he takes the stage, taking the mike off the stand and wrapping the cord around his arm.
It’s a Henry Rollins song, without the vocals.
He sings it.
The second song is an early hit by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Without the vocals.
He sings.
We wait for the third song. "This is a fuckin’ original," he says.
The music starts. He sings.
It ends and I raise the house lights.
The guy comes over for his tape. "That was pretty ballsy," I say.
"Thanks," he says. "What part was ballsy?"
"That was the first time I ever saw anybody take their shirt off before taking the stage at open mike here." I give him the tape.
"That’s what Henry Rollins does," he says. "It’s a punk rock thing."
"Right."
"Do you have any diet sodas?"
"Diet Coke."
"Okay."
I get one. "One dollar. Out of one?"
He takes the can.
"You should come here on poetry night," I say.
"Yeah."
"Every Tuesday night," I say.
"I know. Thanks."
I lock the front door after him.
A fat guy with a neatly trimmed beard comes in through the back and seems to busy himself with free literature near the newspaper rack. He’s wearing a Yankees cap. The lights are low, I’m closing. I’m rinsing a mug.
"Hey there, guy," he says.
"How’s it going?" I say.
"Pretty good."
"Can I get you anything?"
"Movies."
"Pardon?" I say.
"Adult movies."
"Where do you think you are?"
"A guy told me they rent adult movies here."
"Here? Not here. This is a coffee house."
"Oh. Do you know where I can rent some adult movies?"
"Try across from the strip joint."
"I was already down there and some guy told me to come here. Should I keep heading west?"
"If anything, head east."
"East?"
"For adult movies."
He leaves.
I wipe down the tables and turn off the lights.
I hear a voice from the back. "Good job, O’Grady."
It’s Anthony. Big Anthony.
"Just make sure you lock the back door when you leave," he says. "I’m in bed for the evening."
"In bed before ten? Rough weekend?"
"I have to get up early tomorrow morning to lay tile. Six a.m."
"Alright then," I say. "I’ll see you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow. Cut to a commercial."
