studio journal, part 1

A crazy crackhead walked into Baby Blue and told me for twenty minutes about a prostitute who stole 400 of his dollars by shoving it "up there." So he told me about his plans to cut her apart with a box cutter, put her in a garbage bag, and bleach the carpet of the hotel room so nobody would ever know. After telling me this, the man asked me for a beer or food. I said no beer, but you can have an apple. Man, fuck that, he said. I don't want no fucking apple. Buy me some chips. I need nutrition. At least chips got potato in it.

I still said no, so he told me about a murderer wandering the neighborhood who looks "exactly like me." The cops been lookin, man, but they can't find nothing. They think is me, but I said I ain't killed those people. But maybe, I don't know. It's hard to remember. I guess he meant that he might be the murderer? Then he pulled up his shirt and showed me his murder weapon, a large screwdriver. Just drive that shit in somebody's skull, he said. They gone, they dead.

He lamented the fact that the free clinic was closed. I was supposed to see my brain doctor, he said. I ain't right in the head. I feelin weird, man. Fuck. I a crazy man, I ain't right. Can I have a beer? Come on man, I give you fifty cents for a beer. I need me a goddamn beer. One fucking beer, man. I starting to get angry. We getting off on the wrong foot. When I get mad, I start hurting people. But I can get you some quarters for a beer, man.

He fished 2 damp quarters from his jeans pocket. I gave him the beer but didn't take the money. His scare tactics worked, I guess.

All along, he kept apologizing for his bad language, often while cursing. Fuck man, I know I'm being improper talking this way, saying all these bad words and shit, but it's just me, you know? I stay true to myself.

I later saw him walking through the yard holding half an apple pie. I'm trying to eat right and get healthy, he said. Well dude, I said, you're gonna wanna stop eating half an apple pie for lunch then, probably. Doesn't seem too healthy.

He told me he's an angel and sprinkles good luck on people. I an angel, man, he said. I used to go by that place, the Mohawk. You know that music place, The Mohawk? I sprinkled the good luck on that place like fucking fairy dust, man. Now they pretend like they don't even know me.

He paused.

God comes in all forms, man. He takes all forms. I could be God, you know? What if God be asking you for somethin? What if God needs a fucking beer, man?

I had always assumed that if I met God, he wouldn't be asking me for a beer, but who knows?