Salt and Pepper

Billy Joel

Salt and Pepper

   Having given up on life, humanity, because of its precipitous disdain for lost souls, he found himself once again stranded. Hitching was not what it once was, but then, what was. Nothing remains the same for a reason, he argued with himself, a means of distraction, as he continued his lonely existence on the outskirts of someplace along the route known as, the Coast Highway.

    Billy Joel believed there was opportunity everywhere he had not looked, and was convinced he would find if only he persevered. Determination, not being one of his most recognizable attributes was the first thing to crumble as disillusionment rose on the horizon, accompanied by the morning sun. Having spent the evening under a grumpy salt bush, he lacked the perception necessary to emit the essence of someone a passing stranger might attempt to befriend, or minimally pity.

    Billy was not convinced he would give someone that resembled him the sanctuary of his time machine, his peace and quiet, perception of beauty, and his essential reminder to those who see that other people have better lives than themselves, and yes, they did.

     He was not disparaged so much by the loss of his job at the bowling alley, as by the theft of his dog Rubin by the neighbor kid he suspected of trafficking in dogs he delivered to the research center, to facilitate his eating disorder. The fast-food wrappers and bags that roamed the streets of his neighborhood on windy days, were evidence of his suspicions. That, and the fact the boy of twelve weighed well over two hundred pounds and was short for his age in Billy’s opinion.

    Had Billy not been asked to leave his meager apartment due to difficulty with the landlord, failure to pay rent, he had planned to return to school despite his age. He’d been interested in taxidermy as a child. He found mortality, even if manufactured, would be necessary in his attempt to enhance the beauty in the world, a long-held need of his.

   But now, faced with the necessity of surviving until that time, he reached into his pocket and found the last remaining remnant of his previous prosperity, a silver dollar. He felt its uniqueness, it brought back memories of his coming into its possession, Abe Finkelstein, one-time barber, home schooled Rabi. 

Billy had helped Abe on many an occasion to find his home. Abe suffered from dissociative cognizance, or regional dyslexia, as he referred to his condition. Misinterpreting street signs, house numbers, all manner of directional devices left him on many occasions, standing before vast expanses of buildings lining the streets of commerce, and having no idea where he was or how he got there. He remembered Abe placing the coin in his hand and telling him to treasure it as if it were the last dollar he would ever have; prophetic. 

    Billy, having the freedom allotted a part-time employee of Sea Lions Bay bowling establishment, was often called upon by local authorities to retrieve Abe from the disillusionment of a world he did not recognize. That was of course before Billy’s car was repossessed. He’d had other things repossessed over his years of attempting to find himself; a wife, a son, his golf clubs; gone, but not forgotten. He pushed the remembrances from his mind when they intruded, as he found them depressing. 

   Standing by the roads edge as cars flew by, he wondered what happened to Abe. He’d heard stories that he had been absconded by Aliens, but then that was said about most of the missing people from his neighborhood. 

     Remembering the coin and his recollection of having not eaten sometime in the past, caused an anxiousness he knew could only be remedied by food. He attempted to eat the produce provided by nature and recommended by, “Edible Plants of the World,” but got sick. Standing across the road from the food truck he decided to invest in opportunity. He remembered his luck was often associated with things he’d eaten. He recalled a particularly good run after an episode with an avocado and sardines packed in presumption. 

   He made his way cautiously across the road. He pulled his feet from the sands grip and found himself before a sign, indicating a fare he was unfamiliar with, but within his price range. The Beelzebub looked enticing, but then the Iconic Icon came with a pickle. He remembered a birthday party his mother had thrown for him before she had been arrested. A pickle cake: he’d never seen anything so beautiful.

    “You buying, or just lookin?” the unseen voice jumping from the confines of the black interior.

    Billy shaken by the sudden intrusion, remembering his grandmother’s last words, “Always be polite, no matter the stupidity or idiocy of the utterer.” He pulled the dollar from his pocket and placed it on the counter before the window. 

     “I’ll have the Tibetan Marshmallow Taco, please.”

     A flurry of activity arose in the darkness. Noises of all description found their way to Billy Joel who mentally swatted them away, but with little success. He turned towards the roaring ocean for calm, only to be interrupted by the abusive nature of the man in the recesses of the van, “Here you go, Mack. Sorry, out of pickles.”

    Billy took the floppy excuse for a flour tortilla wrapped in a paper towel adorned with trumpeting angels, and walked despondently towards the ocean. He seated himself on the sand just out of the reach of the invading water. He unwrapped the tortilla. Its contents looked like they belonged somewhere else. He bit into the edifice of hope. The pain that accompanied his hope enveloped his nostalgia for euphoria rendering it obsolete. He reached into his mouth and pulled from the conglomerate of unknown ingredients, a metal band.

  He set his package of hope on the sand and walked to the encroaching water. He washed the band in the salty water and examined his find. The band, silver, engraved with what appeared at first sight to be his name. A sign he thought. The God he refused to believe in unless he needed something, had smiled upon him. He marveled at his newfound luck. This fortuitous intervention which did as he’d hoped, changed his outlook on life and the possibilities it offered. 

   He turned to see another sign appear in the now closing window of the truck, as a gull violently disassembled his tortilla. It then left with a sharp rebuke of disappointment and what Billy believed to be a wink. 

    With a renewed blast of faith from the depths of a universe dedicated to abolishment of fate, Billy returned to the highway, a man with restored hope of better days. He looked at the ring as a converted milk truck pulled beside him. A voice of an old woman asking him if he was going her way. A joke he assumed, but then he’d been mistaken before. 

    She said her name was Gladys and she could take him as far as the, “Gourmet Groupie, a new alternative life style café that catered to heavy cream and sugar,” she explained. Billy put the ring in his pocket and stepped into the open door of the van being careful not to disturb a parrot perched on the handle of a machete protruding from the metal divider behind the driver’s seat. 

    They drove in silence to the café where Gladys invited him to follow her. Once inside the kitchen, she pulled a box from a shelf. She opened it, displaying hundreds of posters. 

  “You want a job?” her question confused Billy, but he remained quiet, appreciating the ambiance of the kitchen. 

    “What kind of job?” he asked meekly, having been disappointed before and suspiciously remembering the job Abe’s friend Bertrand gave him that had resulted in his arrest for indecent exposure and an attempt to subvert conformity.

   Gladys just smiled and handed Billy a roll of papers she’d pulled from under the table. “Posters,” she said, unrolling one. The majesty of the Gourmet Groupie displayed on its face. She handed him the roll along with five dollars. “Just have to put these up along the highway. You’re going that way anyway. Save me from having to get Dilbert up. He gets nervous like when he don’t get enough sleep. Got a deal?” 

   “OK,” the only words he could recover from his newly inherited good fortune.  Billy could see no reason not to take advantage of the luck that had befallen him, and all because of a tortilla and a discriminating gull. 

    Billy, his newly acquired luck in tow, walked from the kitchen with a bounce in his step, and a glint in his eye. He noticed the bus depot across the road, “Diner,” spiritually emblazoned, as only florescent tubing can. He remembered he’d not eaten and knew the destiny of the posters would have to wait. Five dollars, he could buy something real to eat. French fries, donuts, maybe pie; his thoughts tripping over one another as he skipped across the road towards the beginning of a new life.

   “Booth or Stool,” the receptionist ushering him towards a booth, having prejudged his inclination towards having a view of those who lounged about the waiting room of the bus arena. “Coffee?”

    Billy sat in anticipation of coffee. It had been a while. He could hardly control his excitement. He remembered the ring, the source of his new found luck. He thought how negativity distorted the positive aspects of life, seemed to levitate just out of sight, waiting to be discovered, or fall from a wayward tortilla. 

    He looked at the ring again, the arrogant B, the indecision displayed by the i, the tenacity of the y. He felt a sudden sadness befall him remembering the upset gull. He had meant to tell him he was sorry, but it left in such a hurry, and its mood was anything but… but then it might have been having a day like he’d had up until then. It was the little things in life that made it worth tolerating, as there was, really no alternative.

   Billy Joel lay his head on the table, looking at the salt shaker, thinking, what a vast number of stories it could tell.  He closed his eyes and wondered what the gull was doing while he sat in the remnant of a dying mode of transportation, waiting for coffee.