Last night I joined Buckets and a motley crew of his people at the map room, late in the evening, and fed him more than one birthday shot of Makers. You could see it suffuse his brain, slow him down, sink him into his own thoughts.
Buckets has this thing where he likes to stare at you while you're talking to him as if you were speaking some alien clicks and pops language. Not only that, but maybe you were spouting clicks and pops obscenity at him, and maybe spitting a little through your teeth while you were doing it.
You ask him a question and the blank, slightly shocked stare goes on for several moments before he answers you.
Usually with something non sequiter, obscene, or profound.
His darling friend Carla was on hand, she is a cheerful, short, sweet and lovely black woman who could possibly not be any more opposite from the drunken, hipster, tortured B. She said, "How do you know Luc?"
I said, "Indiana University. You?"
"Oh," she explained, between ladylike sips of beer, "I know him from the cult."
Awesome. "Right! The cult! I don't know much about that!"
"Right, well, I got out of there in high school, when my parents left, but if I had stayed I'd be married and have, like, six kids by now!" She began laughing in completely endearing bubbly chirps. "I don't want to be married! But, when you're in the cult, what else do you do after high school?"
Good point. Apparently, for a bit during high school, buckets lived in a cult on the north side of Chicago. Carla explained to me that Luc was the fun, badass cult member who would slip out for cigarettes all the time. Every cult has to have the bad boy, I guess.
We moved on to discuss other important topics, including how Carla likes to go to white trixie girl bars and start fights by accusing the blondes of being racist and yelling, "I AM A STRONG BLACK WOMAN! BLACK WOMEN DO NOT STAND IN LINE!"
"Do black people really not wait in line?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know!" She was giggling, all round cheeks and sweet twinkly eyes and everything cherubic. "Would you be intimidated by me?"
"I don't think so. You're awfully sweet."
"They're always saying, 'oh, you're so CUTE!' and I'm all, 'Shut UP, bitch!'"
She was just so cute.
Luc told me about how he coerced Apple, once into reading Henry Miller to him in her southern drawl, such a literary boy sexual fantasy.
Carla bummed cigs from me, drank many beers, and started many conversations with, "When I left the cult," and, "When we were in the cult," which made me laugh until I snorted.
Then some weirdly cross-eyed blonde blonde blonde spiky woman came over to our table and said, "I'm from San Francisco! People are so nice here!" She explained to us that, "They call me flighty, so I wear airline apparel!" She bought Luc a drink and he followed the call of free liquor to the bar, his eyes unfocused.
Carla and I left, because, we got work to do, people.