Dude Goes What

Freezing rain drummed on my car roof. The steam from Buddy’s coffee fogged my windshield. With gas almost $4 a gallon, I turned off the engine, leaving my music playing through tinny speakers. The coffee and I grew cold together. Of course Buddy was late, waiting out the rain somewhere warm.

Buddy’s real name was Jim Lee. He was a graphic designer who wanted to be a comic artist. When we were kids sketching out comics, he drew and I wrote the copy. Neither of us was good at creating a story. Our friend Rob did that. A different Jim Lee became a famous comic artist, depriving Buddy of his rightful identity - Jim Lee, Comic Artist. This theft occurred about the time Buddy started calling everybody “Dude.”

I hated “Dude.” Thomas Byron Reeves suited me. I ignored him when he addressed me that way. For Buddy, it became sport.

“Dude? Hey, Dude? Dude? Come on! Hey, Dude.”

“What?!”

“Dude goes what.”

“Stop.”

“Hey. Dude. Buy me a beer.”

“Sure, Buddy,” I said.

Each time he demanded beer, I answered, “Sure Buddy.” Soon, others called him, “Buddy.”

Freezing rain started to change to sleet, and pinging to pelting. My iPhone thought it funny, so it played In This Home On Ice by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, a band that sounded like Talking Heads. My iPhone filled my head with instructions:

Shake your rattlesnake skin

Lyrics by a juvenile poet sacrificing clarity for cute wordplay - ‘shake,’ ‘snake,’ and ‘skin’ with a ‘rattle’ thrown in for effect. If a beautiful woman asked Buddy about the lyrics, he would offer some elaborate deconstruction. I, however, was interested in asking him what he had been doing since Christmas.

Buddy rounded the corner carrying beer. Clap Your Hands sang:

And now that we fattened the cow
And set out to plow unknown enemies

I hopped out of the car. The sleet stung my bald spot. I scurried across the street to the entrance of his apartment building. I wanted to stay dry, and I wanted to keep my clothes clean.

“Dude,” Buddy said. “You’re ugly and your fuckin’ feet stink.” I jostled my once-hot coffee on my gloved hand and down my pants leg. The coffee would stain my pants then freeze. Would freezing set the stain so the pains were ruined? I shoved the coffee at Buddy, took off my dirty glove and brushed the coffee and sleet off my leg. I looked at his filthy crocs covered with wet road grime.

“Checking me out?” he asked. Hot breath steamed from his mouth.

“It wasn’t cold enough for shorts?”

“Nah, not snowing yet,” he said. “I’ve been wearing the same pair of jeans for a week.”

“They have a patina,” I said. The wind and sleet stung my face. I breathed in the damp February chill before wiping the back of my chilled hand on my slimy nose. The scent was bitter, like cold coffee.

“Sepia,” Buddy said. “It goes with the jacket.”

“Is that what I smell?”

“I didn’t know sepia smelled.”

“Maybe it’s the leather jacket,” I said. “You aren’t supposed to let it get wet.”

“You suffer from olfactory paranoia. You need to see somebody about that.”

“Like who?” I asked.

Buddy put two fingers against the side of his nose and blew snot into the bluster.

“You,” I said, “are gross.”

“Want a beer?” he asked.

“No. I brought coffee.”