The Trickster Diaries/Chapter 39
David’s new dress code policy didn’t stop the ladies from unbuttoning the top two or three buttons of their tuxedo shirts. But he was good with that. What he hadn’t foreseen was that when they’d turn from the counter to work the espresso machine their gorgeous young butts, protruding out from under those rayon mix, floral patterned skirts swayed in sensual time to the jazz, frequently slowing down the customer flow. So it was requested that AJ—DJ as well as roastmaster—adjust the music yet again.
David also hadn’t foreseen the rise in popularity AJ and I were receiving, most notably from two Hare Krishna girls whose temple was just around the corner on Venice Blvd..
The one—Hindu name completely unpronouncable—was surely the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen: perfect complexion, sculptured blonde hair, a posture that suggested yoga mastery. And her only interest was AJ.
Then all that changed.
I became her focus because AJ, such a sweet and honest man, the father or three, a born again Christian, had politely told her one day: “Sorry, but I’m weird.”
Then I, suspecting recruitment tactics, said the same.
She exploded. “So you’re both fucking weird?! Fuck you! Let’s go,” she said to her lovely subordinate.
We never saw them again.
It was much tougher shaking Lorraine, whose flight of happiness crashed upon witnessing my conversation with Danelle, an indie film producer and new “regular” at the coffeehouse. It was all about the Van Gogh exhibit she’d seen over the weekend in downtown L.A.. Same exhibit I’d seen in N.Y.C. in the late ’80’s.
Molecularization and movement.
She got it.
Danelle was the only person I’d met who, like me, refused to behave like a willingly tranquilized sheep and wear the headphones that guided you through the tour, got you out in a hurry and straight in to the gallery gift shop.