Chapter 4

4

     Musket was a man who knew absolutely that he hardly knew anything at all. With intense beady eyes, his gaze could hold the average person enraptured. They wanted to speak out simply for something to be said. He was of average height with a strong build, due largely from his willingness to work and not an obsession to work out. He kept his hair short, and his ears had a rather vulcan look to them. Clover would explain, "Oh, well. It's just my head. I don't have to look at it."

Most would have considered him attractive, if for nothing other than the quirky, wry spontaneity that had drawn many thus far. Musket affirmed that since a lilac smelled nicer than a tic tac, the flower must be better for him. He kept his clothes clean, but not necessarily new. He washed, yet felt no need to adorn himself with added fragrances or applications. He simply didn't care about the norms, wielding only an uncommonly found common sense. Clover Muscatel's greatest asset was his ability to listen.

     At this moment he sat in an exotic booth, listening to jazz from the 1960's. This was The Wincing Moon cafe, temporary rejuvenating zone for the constant tide of moody artists and downright outsiders ebbing and flowing. Musket believed the cafe to be quite a quixotic place. Having seen its day of odd popularity, it had waxed twenty years before Musket was born. The Wincing Moon was waning still, almost a new phase in the lunar cycle of this dive.

The cafe was quaint, old, musky, and cheap, but beyond anything else, Clover admired its character. There was jazz blaring, the good jazz before they smoothed it out, and every weekend the place was crowded with young hipsters who didn't know why they were there. It was a place that, throughout all of the crowded chaos, one could be flauntingly creative, or introspectively intense. Musket usually found, if he waited patiently, an out of the way, cushioned booth, to recline his shoes and incline his muse.

     Commotion ensued at the cafe's entrance, leading Musket to deduce that his rummy chum Otto had strolled in. Hearing joyous, nasal banter with the staff confirmed the fact, and as Clover sat up gazing out of the booth, he saw his friend dancing, hands in a praying posture above his head, neck wriggling back and forth like an Egyptian. The man entertaining the cooks was Otto Von Clumpson, or at least that's what he said. The aging waitress smiled broadly as he tipped his cap to her, bowed Shogun style, and spotted Musket chuckling from the booth.

Otto was a large man whose 150 quotient of intelligence was six times greater than his age. With a wit as sharp as a paring knife, he often lacked the discernment to avoid embarrassment. Von Clumpson's mental spigot ran relentlessly, creatively charismatic and free of blocks. Musket suspected Otto contained manic depressive tendencies, but in the few years' friendship he'd only ever seen the mania. Tousled hair sprung out from under his cap as Otto approached the booth. His socks didn't match, and his bushy eyebrows hinted at weariness from being elevated in inquiry all night long.

     He grinned at Musket warmly and filled the opposite cushion with his amplified volume. Food was the first order of business, and as the waitress knew their usual victuals, it was already on its way. "I was just thinking," Otto spoke with captivating ferocity, "Was that old King Solomon really the first person to say, 'There's nothing new under the sun.'?  Chew on it Musket." Otto Von Clumpson had a reputation of asking profound questions in the most idiotic ways. He went on, "By his own admittance, he must have been recycling or regurgitating some wise proverb. Or else he'd be saying the first new thing under the sun! I smell a contradiction here."

     "I think you're missing the point, my friend." Musket volunteered, as their breakfast arrived and the waitress clung to the periphery to insure the food was satisfactory. She clasped her hands in front, playing with  overworn apron strings, hungry for the discourse between these two very interesting young men who always seemed to come back. She liked them, and hoped they would eventually find whatever it was they were looking for. Words dribbled out of Otto's mouth between bits of egg and toast, "I'm probably not seeing it the proper shopper way, but when you get to thinking about it, it's a mind bender! You know I see the abstract better than the literal. I'd rather peer through the fish eye lens in the door than open it, sometimes."

     "Hey, Otto," Musket wondered, "who was at your door earlier? It's not like you to hang up on people." Von Clumpson's pale hue shifted to a primrosy pink, "I'm sorry, man. It was no one special. Hey! I've been thinking over what you said about Universal Truth." At this point the waitress removed Otto's swiftly emptied plate and glided off to the kitchen. Otto grabbed his fork and began waving it in the air and pointing it like a professor in a lecture hall.

"It's like, all these elements are out there, Musket. These religions, the paradigms and pop culture dogmas, they can't all be all true. If they were they would conflict and contradict, and in extreme cases kill each other. Problem is, they can't be all lies either, or folks would call them a bunch of crap and the creeds and teachings would cease to affect anybody. I mean..." The ice cubes in his glass clinked as he paused to sip. "It all seems to be a big web. Each strand is a piece of truth. But I don't know whether I'm the spider or the fly."

     Musket's eyes grew wide as he grasped the table, remembering last night's dream for the first time since he had sat down. "What did you say?!" Otto's train of thought derailed and crashed. "Uh..." He was silent. "Otto, you said something about a web. It floors me how we're on the same frequency all the time! I had this dream last night." Otto interrupted, "You have a dream every night, almost. But I want to hear all about it, as long as you weren't doing naked handstands on national television." Musket pushed his plate aside, "Ah, you build my character with your inane vocal patterns, Otto." He told the tale of his slumbering vision to his companion, each detail building on the next. By the time the final climactic impotency was relayed, Otto was thoroughly engrossed and tremendously thoughtful.

     "Wow, man. That was heavy." Von Clumpson sounded as if he was waiting for his intellectual processor to catch up with his mouth, "Your dream really could've been us! For awhile at least. I mean, that's what I was saying about the web. Well, sort of. Like how we are always finding new strands, the truth pieces, and weaving them into a path towards the light! Wow!" Otto sighed and unfolded a crispy bill from a dehydrated wad that had been inside of his pocket during laundering, "But that part about getting tangled, I don't know... Maybe we should just focus on the climb and keep our chins free of stubble."

     Musket signaled for the waitress, a quick, respectful wave of his hand, though she'd been in the business long enough that she was already on her way over. As he cleared his throat, even the waitress hardly anticipated his next inquiry, "Hey, I was curious what you think of this big question of life. We're at a crossroads, ma'am. Would you mind sharing any wisdom or such that you've learned during your venerable years on this orb of a planet?" The seasoned server seemed flattered as she addressed them, appearing beautiful even through her weary worn uniform, "Let me tell you, Sugar, my husband died five years ago, and I keep thinking there's somethin' I gotta do before I go. Somethin' I gotta give, somethin' I gotta get. We're always striving for something, like a big hole inside of us that ain't never gonna be full. Seems to me people are all just a bit defective the moment they are born. Oh, the baby's cute when it pops out, but just you wait, Sugar. The same selfish envy and need to exploit one another is primal. Always had it, always will. It's deeper in our nature than wearin' clothes, and that's deep unless you's in some village in the bush somewhere. Heh, heh, heh..."

     Musket felt the conversation slipping away, and made an attempt to excavate further, "But what about how people see you, or how you see yourself?" His eyes reached out and arrested her attention, the electricity polarizing the three intensely. "Sugar, don't be conned by this mask I wear, my surface persona. You got one, he's got one, we all do. To you I look secure, cool, and confident. Don't believe it for a second, cuz' it ain't really me, Sugar. Underneath lies the real me, confused, alone, abandoned, afraid. Me, myself, and I. That's the only jail could ever contain my soul. So I hide inside, cowering to protect me from that painful glance, acceptance or rejection, even Love, which is sometimes pretty scary, Sugar. But if I gave it a chance, let it in, it could free me. That's a whole lotta work, Sonny. Do people wanna be vulnerable like that? Hell no! It's easier to look the other way, or make idle chatter instead of telling you I need help, that my ship is sinking. Not just me, everyone. We all wanna think we're genuine, Sugar, but we're not willing to help each other. Just Me, Me, Me, in my little prison. And when you do reach out, I get scared and bite your hand. Not literally, Otto. I don't mean to, Sugar. I wish it could be different but at least I can buck up enough to tell you all that much. I gotta go clean up them tables. Be seein' ya'. Thanks a lot for the tip." She looked down with a sheepish sigh of relief and retreated to the opposite corner.  For the aging widow, the Wincing Moon cafe was the safest place in the world.