GBB at the Get Down

He stops to say hi. During his rambling conversation, he’s bent over at the middle of the back, an awkward height to talk with me sitting. He kneels. “Is this better?” he asks me. I mean, it’s up to you, I try to convey.

“Do you have a long story? Because you might as well get comfortable,” I advise him. He thinks I’m hilarious.

It’s his wife’s 51st birthday. I give him a Fucking Sticker to give to her. He’s too wasted; doesn’t look at it, but tucks it away in his inner breast coat pocket, assuring me he will give it to her. He assures me twice.

“I’ve gotta Be honest with you, and you gotta be honest with me,” he gives me an ultimatum, like he’s about to ask an enlightening yes or no question. I expect him to ask my preference: “Do you… like… _____?”

But then he pulls up, full stop.

Oh, he meant in general.

“Word,” I confirm.

We jam out to the Grateful Dead. Garcia Birthday Band ripping it onstage.

“Anyways I just wanted to say hi…

I love you, man. I really do. I can see it in your eyes. You’re a good dude.”