Brian recommends “You Say He’s Just a Psychic Friend” by Vernon Reid, ft. Chubb Rock (rhymes) and Don Byron (clarinet)
We weren’t good friends or anything. Thought he kinda hated me by the time we got there actually. I annoyed him at least, that’s for sure. Like, when I clocked a neo-Nazi watching us suspiciously at the train station and tried to warn Jay he was being too loud with the clerk, he cussed me out. a what!? the fuck dude, back me up here! i’m trying to get our money back. Bar hopping that night, we found some American exchange students interested in talking with us. They were cute. Feminist studies majors, or something. that’s cool, i’m an anthro major. One asked me about cultures, I asked her about feminisms, etc. After they left, Jay said dude, when you’re trying to pick up a girl at a bar, don’t ask about feminism. I mean, maybe he was right and Warsaw coulda been a lot more fun for all of us.
It was a cool city in 1997. Maybe it’s still cool now, I don’t know. Likely is. Lots of old buildings. Like the next bar we found. One of those 1,000 year old monastery cellar situations. There was a Vernon Reid tour poster nailed up outside the door. I stood marveling at it for a few minutes. they must be touring Europe. I’d caught their show in The Hague a couple of weeks prior. Vernon Reid’s work at that time was an odd layering of rock guitar, jazz, and hip-hop. Innovative, though not cutting edge. Cerebral, but not holy shit that’s genius. Not to me anyway. But I was into it. Still am on the right day. He was my guitar idol. I named my pet newt after him.
Anyway, the Warsaw concert date had passed. ah well. And the poster was in Polish. how cool is that? I said. yeah cool can we go inside now? I only remember leaving the place. Made eye contact with someone. She seemed to want us to join her table of friends. Jay noticed, and urgently attempted to make it happen. It didn’t; I pulled us out the door. Severe shyness and anxiety. Like I said, coulda been more fun. If I were Jay, I’d hate me.
We found a place to rent for the night. An imposing Soviet-style apartment building. Barely habitable, but affordable. The landlady was nice. Not many amenities. There had to have been bedbugs. When I woke up, Jay was not there. The balcony overlooked a courtyard littered with unwanted things, dead plants, blanketed in snow. Peaceful. An unreal place, out of time. Jay returned with a grocery bag of supplies: dish soap, paper towels, toothpaste, etc. Things the next guests would need. People we don't know. And rolled up under his arm was the Vernon Reid poster from the night before. He didn’t need to be psychic to know I wanted it; just a good friend. He was Chubb Rock freestyling with my Don Byron clarinet solo, because Vernon Reid said so. And I kinda wish I’d listened to him.
Brian A. Salmons lives in Orlando, Florida. He writes essays, poems, and plays, which can be found in Qu, Marchxness, The Ekphrastic Review, Autofocus Lit, Stereo Stories, Arkansas International, and some other places. He's on Insta @teacup_should_be. He tries.
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