Monday, January 25, 2010

Sebastian tells me he will be playing at Smith's next weekend. I imagine that he would like for me to go see him. I'd always suspected that he'd be in a horrible metal band for some reason, and I have to admit that I was more than a little surprised when he said he would be doing a Sinatra cover. But now that I think about it, Sinatra makes a lot of sense.

Naturally, the invitation was implied. He did not exactly come out and ask me but he's talked about it enough that I should have gotten the hint by now. The last time he mentioned the show was at the Porter this past Friday. We never plan to see eachother, I don't even have his #, but somehow these things always work out. He had on a brown leather jacket and a watch he said his father had left him. He talks a lot about that too, how his father died, and I suppose it's because he is still sad about it. My father is alive and I don't even have a watch for my troubles I want to say, but I worry this might be misconstrued as insensitive.

Sebastian is twenty-five, maybe twenty-six, and bakes bread for the local bars and restaurants when he isn't doing Sinatra covers. He makes the croutons for the Porter and gets to drink all the beer and bourbon he wants in return.

In May, he says, he will move to Maine and learn how to be a proper chef. These are his words, not mine. I am not even sure what the difference is between a proper chef and an improper one.

I've been thinking about Lisbon, I tell him. What was that line I read the other day? If I had the world in my hand, I am quite sure I would trade it for a ticket to Rua dos Douradores...

Or maybe Cape Verde. Something in the Lusosphere within my frequent flyer miles limit.

Once, Sebastian and I were sitting across each other at the bar having some beers, when his roommate showed up, rather unexpectedly, and joined us for another couple of drinks. It was the first time I had had rabbit terrine, and I remember squirming just a little in my seat as I dragged the gelatinous spread over my breadstick.

Samson, the roommate, well, ex-roommate by now, as he has since moved to New York, is also a chef with musical inclinations. He had at one time fronted a rap group, which in its hey day could have been compared to the likes of ATCQ. This is all according to Sam. I would have to believe him as they never made it past negotiations with their record company and were forced to disband before they released anything. There is a certain earnestness to Sam that makes it impossible to not believe him, and this story is not at all outside the realms of possibility, so I really have no reason to be skeptical.

We stayed at the bar very late that night and I spent the rest of the time drinking coke after coke until I was sober enough to drive but when Sam and Sebastian asked me if I needed to crash on their couch, I only paused for a second before I accepted the invitation. I was mostly just bored, and interested to see what their house looked like. You see, one of my flaws is that I am a romantic - in the literal sense, where I expect that we wear our interiors on our sleeves, which is to say that I often make inferences about people's innermost selves by obsessively overanalyzing visible ciphers. All it takes is the mere sight of a coffee mug or a padded footstool to set me off on one of my delusions. I was eager to see what treasures I would uncover.

In any case, we were soon back at their house and I wish there was more I could say about the experience but my other flaw is to lose myself in abstract cogitation and that's what must have happened that night because I neither took notice of my surroundings nor of the way in which the boys lived in them. Not even a floorboard managed to impress itself upon my memory and it's almost as if I was never there.

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