A friend suddenly spoke up on his behalf, “Hey Peter, the guy’s okay. He’s with me.”
Peter spun around to see who would dare to enter the circle of rage that he was currently surrounding his adversary with.
In the corner of the room stood a wiry young Brit- tall, and lean, with flaxen hair flowing down over his shoulders. He had a gentle face accented with a small goatee and two small soft blue eyes, positioned close together.
Alex Willcot, the man who peter was currently beating at pool, had an almost Jesus like presence as he once again silently stood in the corner. He waved his small, soft, white hand in a friendly wave, something you would expect to see from Princess Di and gave a nervous smile.
Peter didn’t appreciate the intrusion. “Stay out of this Alex!” Peter growled, as he turned back around to his current opponent.
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Max realizing the severity of the situation, extended his big Swedish hand, and in his best American accent, said, “Hello, I’m max. I’m a friend of Alex. I’m a student at school with Alex.”
Seeing that his friend Alex already had some sort of report with the seething madman, Max figured using that relationship as common ground would be a safe place to begin.
“ Can I buy you a beer?” Max offered and smiled his biggest smile.
As Peter listened to the big blonde man speak in his singsong manner his anger subsided. The rhythm in which max’s Swedish affected the English he spoke had a soothing effect on peter’s mood. He spoke in an upbeat, almost bouncy fashion. It reminded peter of the Swedish baker, from the Muppets, one of his favorite characters.
“What’s with the picture, bud?” Peter asked again, his tone less hostile, his volume lower.
“ It’s Max, like I had said and I only took the picture because I thought it was a great shot and figured you might like one.”
There it was — whenever max got caught “voyering out of bounds” or taking pictures of unassuming women in the streets, beaches, or wherever the urge may hit, his one successful excuse had been the, ‘it’s as much for you as it is for me’ excuse.
So, Max promised Peter a copy of the photo in exchange for his life and the beer that he offered earlier. One beer led to another, then to a pool game, then a shot of something soothing elixir, probably another beer, some more pool, many more shots, some more beer to wash down the shots. A friendship was in bloom.
Max quickly caught up to Peter, he was stuffing his hat into his pocket.
“You’d think you would be used to the cold, being from Sweden and all.” Peter said without turning to see if Max was there. Max was always there.
“It’s not cold tonight, pretty warm considering its November and all.” Max retorted as he closed his pace with Peter.
The two friends walked in step in the greatest city in the world. On any given night you could see these two at almost any part of New York City — uptown, downtown, eastside or west: gallery openings, cigar bars, techno raves, Irish beer joints, rock-n-roll biker bars [biker babes included], book stores, all night bodegas, anywhere anytime, anyhow.
They had a special relationship, always finding it hard to part company.
“Your place or mine, big boy.” Peter said jokingly, as he searched his pockets for an empty packet of cigarettes he used to carry around the drug of choice for the evenings festivities.
Tonight it was marijuana and coffee. They started the night smoking a couple of joints at Peter’s place and drinking some really strong espresso.
This was one of their “things”, pot and coffee. THC and caffeine — what a rush! The THC making all of your sense receptors more alert, the caffeine speeding up the blood flow, along with the broncodialation which creates a more oxygen rich atmosphere for the brain. Your blood is flowing faster, your brain is thinking deeper, there’s more of everything.
The first stop on a usual pot and coffee night was an all night magazine store. There was row upon row of magazine print. Titles ablaze in bright yellow, or rich orange, thousands of names, titles too numerous to count in such a state.
The mix of bright neon lights glowing kaleidoscopic colors and the radiant florescent lights shining down from the ceiling created an aura like effect, allowing the shiny covers of the multitude of magazines to take on an almost holy appearance.
Each magazine losing its own identity — blending, miraculously melting into each other. Elle, and Cosmo, Modern Mechanic and Better Homes & Gardens, Busty Babes, and Foot Fetish vol., 2. all creating this one, huge, pulsating wall of visual input.
Talk about eye candy, this was a veritable smorgasbord of ocular confection.
After standing in the store for what seemed like hours, probably minutes. (Another one of those freaky time things.) They would suddenly have to rush out of the store. Obviously suffering from a severe case of T.M.I., To much input. There on the bustling city street they stood staring at each other. Wow! What a mind blower.
After that it would be the usual, or rather an unusual walk around the city. This would last until either the climate or need of a change of pace would lead them into a bar.
On “pot and coffee nights” it was discovered that too much alcohol was not a good thing.
“Wastes the head.” Peter would say.” Get too damn drunk to appreciate to high, after a while you’re just drunk.”
That happened to be something Peter hated, just drunk. He liked to blend his highs, a little pot, a little coke, maybe a few pills. But please, not just drunk.
Tonight “pot and coffee night” landed them in the Grassroots Tavern. They believed that many famous writers had sat and pondered their literary masterpieces over a pint of ale, in this their favorite watering hole. They didn’t know for sure of course, the place just had that kinda feel to it. Plus it was better than believing that it was just another dive with a dart board. That was one of the reasons that Peter and Max loved the old place.
The other reasons being, it had a great backroom for throwing darts and the fact that the very small crowd of regulars seldom looked up from their drinks, they liked people who respected their privacy. It was their place to relax and escape from the pressures of life. A place to work out many of life’s questions over a game of darts and a pint of ale with the only person who you felt understood you.
“Where the f*%k is that joint?” Peter continued to rummage through his many layers of clothes.
