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Kombucha... on Tap!
by Patrick A. Howell “You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known- and even that is an understatement” F. Scott Fitzgerald Yes, it was one of the worst storms in recent history. It had been forecast since meteorologist identified it swelling in the Caribbean Sea in October. I remember one of my neighbors telling me about it and thinking, 'So fucking what? Who pays attention to the weather forecast that far in advance?' But this storm was worthy- worthy of prophecies. News reports flashed headlines: 'Wild Weather - El Papi Grande is on a rampage along Pacific Coastline' a byline reads somewhere that El Papi was looking for his baby El Nino. The comedian in me appreciated that deft touch. The flash flood warnings we were all given, however, were only moments before La Jolla, Downtown, El Cajon and National City were flooded so severely that California was officially taken off the drought lists. Floods, snow and sub-50 degree temperatures in Southern California - only two weeks ago, the sun was baking us at 80 degrees in the dead of winter. I thought we might have a Hawaiian or Trinidadian summer. From the vantage point of cliffs, surfers looked like a body of sea lions migrating onto San Diego beaches – now the shoreline is a hazard zone, spotless with crashing white water shores and gray coastlines. But after the storm, double rainbows were everywhere galore. We could look up and all want to grace, fall or fly endlessly into an ocean clear blue sky - clear air renewed us all triumphant for a new year. People walking around with their smart phones, looking with abandon at the sky above, snapping photos and posting endlessly on Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat and Facebook so that what we are dealing with is refracted reality. Now, it feels like the way you would imagine the earth after Noah and the flood - clean, fresh and crispy. Anyhow, it is a new year and I am happy - happier than in a long while and happy with good reason. My positive impressions are based upon my overall impressions and a review of all my Facebook and Instagram postings- rest, peaceful scenic walks on the beach and in the parks, catch with the dog, catching up with my reading, good quality organic soul food like cooked greens seasoned to perfection, really thoughtful presents and cards- at least everyone I gave a gift to and a Christmas card with some authentic joy... but I think I already said that. And this, to me anyhow, was worthy of saying I was 'blessed'. So, blessed holiday season. But then, suddenly, like the denouement of some galactic symphony, the skies cast clouds over the clear blue skies, and the cold air becomes bitter, dank and stark. I close my eyes, smile and walk though the library doors almost bowing my 6 foot 4 inch frame. It's a children's library and I feel gangly pulling a seat up to the little kids table with their round tops and red, green, yellow, and orange chairs. So it's just me and this electric vibe filled with promising New Years platitudes, joyous fuchsia, true triumph and zero melancholy. Well, maybe just a hint of melancholy. Anxiety keeps creeping into my euphoria but I know better than to give it voice and am determined to have the ultimate affirmative attitude. So I just let go and open up a book by Shel Silverstein, my stepdaughter's favorite author. When Joy finds me sitting folded on top of myself reading Falling Up, she cracks the most radiant and brilliant smile and I know- I am completely confident that the sun has broken the milieu of those mundane clouds above. Children shouldn't have such powers but Joy was born to special purpose and children, magical, have always had and exercised these powers. Adults are dashed dumb and dipshit, made flat by so-called reality, unwise and unhip to the incredible work of these little magical beings. My wife and I would always marvel and talk about Joy and how she is a special child – how she brought the spiritual world into connection with the material, if even just for moments at a time. Today, she looks perfectly cute- ball of psychedelic angel energy in the plaid skirt, white shirt, navy blue cable knit of her girl ' uniform and I ask her, almost without thought "Do you want to go on a date young lady?" I put on my trench coat, affix my tie, grab my umbrella and grab Joy by the hand gingerly. We skip out the school gates. Shel Silverstein had been saying: “ Birds are flyin' south for the winter. Here's the Weird - Bird headin' north, Wings a-flappin', beak a-chatterin, Cold head bobbin ' back n'forth. He says, "It's not that I like ice Or freezin' winds and snowy ground. It's just sometimes it's kind of nice To be the only bird in town. " *** When Joy's mother passed away two Christmas' ago I wasn't sure how to respond. I loved her truly. Part of me wanted to lie in the ground with her and eventually travel in the direction ancestors and spirits go. But Joy remained real – I think intent, focused with purpose and determined to live - and if I loved my wife, I loved her too. Joy's father didn't even bother coming to the funeral. So even though Joy was only 7 at the time I basically explained the difference between a sperm donor and father to this little precocious spirit with even larger amber eyes. "I've always got a father even when my biological doesn't bother" pint sized chimed without the slightest hint of resentment tickling her tone. "That something you wrote Joy? Take away The Pain?" She laughed, "Noooooooooo! That's Dr. Shaquille O'Neal! He dunks the ball with authority but just can’t seem to make a free throw!" And, of course I laughed and we got a meal at Eat 4 Now! So it's been a tradition for a bit now. Ever since the accident in 2013. I found the car redacted to half of its size on the 5 freeway- crushed and smoking- on the way to our home in Del Mar. What I saw didn’t sit well with me for a long time, still doesn’t – it was as if my spirit had been redacted from it’s body. I think they call the experience as spiritual “dissonance” – without getting into too much theology, it’s when one’s spiritual world is completely unrelated to reality. Joy, of course, she would, grabs a coconut and oatmeal cookie almost as large as her head, red deviled cake and wants to order a natural root beer at Eat for Now. She has wrapped her cable knit sweater on her head like a turban. To me, in my current state of glee, she looks like a pint sized Carmen Miranda. The cashier is a young light wave dancer made of cocoa, molasses, coconut oil, brown sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg spices- some vanilla for variance, mahogany and onyx for fiber. Her face is bursting with tropical fruit- cherries, pineapple and mangoes. Her core fashioned with gold, maybe copper. Some silver in the spine- a variety of other gems and stones. She says, I’m not too sure why, lost in thought, ‘Aww, that's so nice…’ Ecstatic I smiled a face full of cherries and said, "You too! There's something lonesome about you too. Wholesome too though. I see that a beneath all the fun and sun, you are a gentle soul who is looking for authentic connection. “What?” She says seemingly confused, “What would you like to drink? We have beer but also natural Root Beer, Blueberry, Ginger Ale and Kombucha… on tap.” "What's that lady? Shhheeeeeeeaaaash! You have Kombucha on tap? Is it alcohol like beer?" "It's fermented, non-alcohol... sir" Maybe I've seen her eyes before - this lifetime or another but I sense the chemistry is right, alignment too. Also, I have a tendency to fall in love more often than not. Dangerous addiction from the Russian gypsy part of my bloodline. “Kombucha… on Tap! That's fantastic!” She says again, carefully and slowly, looking me in the eyes this time" it's like beer, fermented, but without the alcohol. A bubbling beverage of live probiotics. Yummy for your tummy!" She sounds like a celebrity. She sounds like some sort of euphoric zany infomercial. Pretentious, sure, but also, somehow, authentic. There is an awkward silence for a few moments, so I offer, "...I see that a patented black woman side eye comes quite easy to you. So, I’m wondering if you have several unclaimed lawsuits for copyright infringement that you’re not telling me about. I see, also… that many men sit outside your door waiting anxiously for her majesty..." "...Are you a prophet, a clairvoyant or... asylum escapee?" She retorts gleefully, the reflection of me in her eyes. I just smile. No point in affirming or denying what could or could not be. But then I say, "No no No! I've just been reading people for awhile and I got a.... whiff of your entire vibe, your whole universe inside." *** Joy and I pick a seat outside by the stone hearth which is lit bright and warm with an intense heat and crystal-like blue stones and she is sulking, has taken the turban off her head and is not interested in her meal, macaroni with green beans, soda or dessert. She is visibly upset. Her face though still glows. The clouds begin to crowd, floating from the ocean, inland. Hovering over our little beachside city like judgment day. I know better than to ask but do so anyway. I see her mother's face in Joy, speaking to me. "You seemed mad at me pint size. Did I do something wrong?” “Why were you flirting with that lady at the check out when you are married to my mommy? Don’t you love us anymore?” The whole time she is... explaining, I am doodling. Writing a capsule for this pill- pint size telling a 35 year-old man what to do - and he's fucking listening! She ceases her rant, the smile ever peeled on her gorgeous face, "why are you writing Daddy while I'm talking?" "Nothing baby" I say quietly and gently, "just taking some notes on you while you talk”. She says nothing and grabs the napkin. After staring at it quixotically for a moment or two, she basically throws it back at me crumpled. "Yes?" "I can't read it Daddy. Can you read it to me? And don't make it up - I know you like to improv– which is another way to say, make things up. But I want to hear what you wrote, exactly the way you wrote it." "Kay." I say all resigned. Pint sized packs a wallop and never pulls her punches. She can be all fire and brimstone, scorched earth kind of shit. I know if I do any of my routine with her, she'll see it in my eyes, hear it in my voice, call me on it and we'll lose our connection. I'll become a liar dastardly instead of "joker papa smurf" as she likes to call me. I breath deeply, and read: "Joy is that sweet quality of forgetting and simple being. Joy! Oh Joy, radiance. Joy brilliant. Joy is releasing. Joy is change. Joy is fun! Joy is exercising. Joy is the exercise of dimple bearing... a ton. Joy is quiet, quieter than the sun. Joy is moreso forgetting than remembering. Joe flies - free spirits soar. So she is loud too, chile'! Joy is exercising demons. Joy is a magic of the spirit. Joy is connection. Joy is conscious. Joy is so, so sweet. Joy in unconscious all the same. What a treat- Joy is towering but she can also be miniscule, a bedazzling jewel. Joy is momentary ascension - no need to excuse yourself. Ha! Joy is raucous laughter with the period of peace. Joy is the elation of spirit -spirit over mind. Joy is the transmission of Love Almighty. Joy is all light energy. She is energy red, yellow and good. Bursting with color and energy, yes, she is a sweet cousin to depression… and exasperation and desperation. Joy's mother is Brevity. Her step-father is Humor. Her creator is Love. She knows something of Hope. - now witness- Joy. Joy, joy, joy. " Tears are streaming my face. This was cathartic. Really must do it again soon – like the next lifetime or, even, never. "That's silly Mr. Man." Joy giggles guff and gruff, not in the least impressed. " It's like that song by Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock" her mother, god bless her eternal soul was a huge hip hop head. "That’s not improv! That’s plagiarizing! Joy and Pain... like sunshine and rain." Her giggling, this time, intensifies my anger. Why would I cry right? Joy is a precious morsel of terrorist in the galactic order of things. But I will say this, in all seriousness - the world seems to me today, to be ethereal, part and parcel, a portion of heavenly cathedral, the spirit world – a cross sectional of effects, vibes, planes and realms. Perception has everything to do with real effect. Joy's just a baby - why on God's earth should I take this sweet child seriously? God bless her. "Joy" I say with sudden authority and sternness, "bus your tray and throw it away in the trash. Let's go". She does as she is told, comes back and throws her arms gingerly around my neck, "Daddy, I just don't like to see you so sad. I don’t want you to be mad. Just glad Papa Smurf Joker. But I feel The Pain too. I know The Pain. You know that, right?" 'Mother fucker.' I am thinking, “The Pain is a Mother Fucker.” I flash a mental image of Al Pacino's Scarface laying waste to an army of Columbian assassins sent to murder him at his Miami mansion for betraying a drug crime lord. Riddled with bullets but undeterred, animated only by a course spirit and vengeance, Tony Montana spits, "Come on! I take your fucking bullet! You think you kill me with bullets? I take your fucking bullets! Go ahead!" "It's ok Daddy. Don't cry. I miss mommy a bunch too. Wish she had stayed longer. She wouldn't want you to cry. What's done is gone- remember she used to always say that? She wants us to go on. I have to go Daddy." I know. I'm so sad I called Joy a terrorist in my inner mind, also for all the profanity. But the regret is short lived. Ms. Cashier who is now bussing tables gives me her number as Joy is leading me out the door. Light dancer cashier wrote the number on the back of a card of Eat for Now! It says, “HOPE” and then her cell phone number and email ([email protected]) – She whispers in my ear, “You’re so fucking satirical – I loved it! Call me and let’s see if we can hang.” The dissonance is no more. It’s dissipating. She closes her eyes. I connect with reality and Joy’s spirit flies off into the heavens effortlessly – I believe because I am connected, even by a smattering, or at least a desire for the future, to Hope. Prophesies. Shamen. Lovers. Clairvoyants. Futurists. Heavenly bodies. Good feelings. Acerbic beginnings. Shitty endings. Dissension, the spirit of War. Fucked up beginnings. Apocalyptic dissension. Visionaries. Healers. Futurists. All the New Age Dreamers. Me. Joy. Her Mother. Hope. Now. I pull out of the street side parking of the ocean-side village. Palm trees, clear blue skies, winter crisp, and the Pacific Ocean.' I feel fresh material for my next comedy routines at the Sunset Blvd and Irvine Spectrum Improvs this weekend. It'll end with the dead-paned line of, "it's all so fucking halarious. Laughing my ass off. FUCKING JOKER" If I do my work well, the audience will be roaring. Or, I can just drop the mike and disappear into the night. Ghost. |
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