Jan 15, 2012
“What? I can’t… What?”
I just kept shouting, a finger jammed in one ear a phone pressed to the other.
We met up at a Puerto Rican diner.
“How did you even find this place?”
“It had great Yelp reviews, man… plus, it’s Zagat rated…”
“You’re still drunk, too, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I’ve definitely had a few.”
“So, tell me about this conference?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you on the phone, man. This guy is the real deal.” <Pregnant Pause> “He’s legit, bro.”
“What does that even mean?”
“He’s fully legit. He’s not just some stoned out tweaker. He does this thing where he plays two flutes at the same time – harmonies with one another, bro! Pan-style! He’s legit.”
I’ve known Preston for about 15 years, or something crazy, but I was still like, what the fuck is this dude talking about? Sitting there, slack jawed kind of half-staring into my revoltillo, I started thinking I might actually go with him.
“Yeah, he’s only in town for like six days or something. He doesn’t travel very far from his home too often.” <No response> “I’m telling you, bro. He uses sound to elevate your consciousness, and dude is LEGIT.”
Brakes screeched in the street just before the truck plowed through the plate glass window sending a booth spiraling into Preston’s leg shattering his shin and ankle. He spent the next two weeks in the hospital.