Sometimes the 4 Corners Café is not where it’s supposed to be. Sometimes it’s across the highway from its normal location. Sometimes it’s not there at all. Many times I have chased down back roads searching for it, my mind twitching for my country oasis. I’ve never been able to figure out these oddities. Betty Jo the waitress is no help. And as for Mac, the grizzled owner, we’ll, he’s barely around.
I have often wondered if the other patrons have the same problems I have. I’m not talking about the anonymous truck drivers who pull off Highway 5 for a quick coffee and pie. (What’s with the bow ties and caps? I’ve never seen them anywhere else.) I’m talking about the regulars, the farmers and storekeepers from over in Thornton taking a break, eating BLT’s at the counter, or talking quietly in one of the booths. Do they notice that the place is not quite right? But like the café itself, sometimes they’re there, and sometimes they’re not.
Why am I always so desperate to find it? The answer is simple: I do my best thinking there. Sometimes when the world is feeling especially oppressive it is my shelter; my place to let my imagination go. It was there that I wonder why I write at all. No one reads my stuff. If you have stumbled upon this blog you’re in an exclusive club.
One day I put a quarter in the jukebox and pressed D4. “Dazed and Confused” by Led Zeppelin came blasting out the speakers like a song on a mission, and I was transported back to 1969. I was 19 and had just purchased “Led Zeppelin”, their first album. It was the greatest rock and roll score of my life. I Iocked myself in my room in the house on Lark Street for two days listening nonstop and “Dazed and Confused” became my anthem.
“Been dazed and confused for so long it's not true,
Wanted a woman, never bargained for you.
Lots of people talk and few of them know,
Soul of a woman was created below. yeah!”
The greatest rock song of all time in my opinion.
It’s winter. My friends Larry Ulrich, Patrick Lynch and I are cruising down Palomares Canyon Road on a cold and drizzly night in Patrick’s ‘66 Datsun. Robert Plant wailing my favorite song on the 8 track. I am in the back seat, and we are playing cardboard. Cardboard works this: you rip off the top half a book of matches, and roll in your hands forming a “crutch”. A crutch was used to hold the diminishing end of a joint in order to make it smokeable to the very last. (No roach clips for us. That was for wusses.) You keep smoking in the dark, passing it back and forth, the roach getting smaller and smaller, until someone finally hits pay dirt and starts coughing. “Cardboard!” you yell between gasps. You just won. Let’s go get something to eat!
“You hurt and abused tellin' all of your lies,
Run around sweet baby, lord how they hypnotize.
Sweet little baby, I don't know where you've been,
Gonna love you baby, here I come again.”
I’m alone in the café. Betty Jo is in the back doing what I don’t know. I look out the window, and it’s dark. Funny, it was daytime when I came in a few minutes ago. The truth is that time doesn’t pass right inside the 4 Corners. The old clock on the wall just doesn’t travel in its orbit around the dial in a normal manner. You come in at eleven in the morning for a quick cup of joe, and when you leave it might still be eleven or maybe ten thirty, a half hour before you got there, or four in the afternoon.
“Every day I work so hard
Bringin' home my hard earned pay
Try to love you baby, but you push me away.
Don't know where you're goin'
Only know just where you've been,
Sweet little baby, I want you again.”
Then there’s that killer guitar solo, a soaring blast of kinetic energy. The one that even after forty plus years gets my pulse racing. How many times have I played air guitar to it? How many times did I embarrass my kids when they were growing up? Pure ecstasy complements of Jimmy Page.
I don’t smoke dope anymore. Those days are long behind me. Today I get high by writing. There’s nothing better than a well turned sentence or a piece that makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something. But I’ve taken a page of my writing down to the ATM and have never been able to get any cash out. Tragic but true.
“Been dazed and confused for so long, it's not true,
Wanted a woman, never bargained for you.
Take it easy baby, let them say what they will.
Will your tongue wag so much when I send you the bill?”
The song ends, and I’m no longer 19. I’m an old man of 60. Got two grandkids for Christ’s sake! I’m sitting at the counter at a café that I suspect might only exist in my mind. Am I crazy? I just might be. I’ve suspected it for years.
But that’s just life at the 4 Corners Café.
I have often wondered if the other patrons have the same problems I have. I’m not talking about the anonymous truck drivers who pull off Highway 5 for a quick coffee and pie. (What’s with the bow ties and caps? I’ve never seen them anywhere else.) I’m talking about the regulars, the farmers and storekeepers from over in Thornton taking a break, eating BLT’s at the counter, or talking quietly in one of the booths. Do they notice that the place is not quite right? But like the café itself, sometimes they’re there, and sometimes they’re not.
Why am I always so desperate to find it? The answer is simple: I do my best thinking there. Sometimes when the world is feeling especially oppressive it is my shelter; my place to let my imagination go. It was there that I wonder why I write at all. No one reads my stuff. If you have stumbled upon this blog you’re in an exclusive club.
One day I put a quarter in the jukebox and pressed D4. “Dazed and Confused” by Led Zeppelin came blasting out the speakers like a song on a mission, and I was transported back to 1969. I was 19 and had just purchased “Led Zeppelin”, their first album. It was the greatest rock and roll score of my life. I Iocked myself in my room in the house on Lark Street for two days listening nonstop and “Dazed and Confused” became my anthem.
“Been dazed and confused for so long it's not true,
Wanted a woman, never bargained for you.
Lots of people talk and few of them know,
Soul of a woman was created below. yeah!”
The greatest rock song of all time in my opinion.
It’s winter. My friends Larry Ulrich, Patrick Lynch and I are cruising down Palomares Canyon Road on a cold and drizzly night in Patrick’s ‘66 Datsun. Robert Plant wailing my favorite song on the 8 track. I am in the back seat, and we are playing cardboard. Cardboard works this: you rip off the top half a book of matches, and roll in your hands forming a “crutch”. A crutch was used to hold the diminishing end of a joint in order to make it smokeable to the very last. (No roach clips for us. That was for wusses.) You keep smoking in the dark, passing it back and forth, the roach getting smaller and smaller, until someone finally hits pay dirt and starts coughing. “Cardboard!” you yell between gasps. You just won. Let’s go get something to eat!
“You hurt and abused tellin' all of your lies,
Run around sweet baby, lord how they hypnotize.
Sweet little baby, I don't know where you've been,
Gonna love you baby, here I come again.”
I’m alone in the café. Betty Jo is in the back doing what I don’t know. I look out the window, and it’s dark. Funny, it was daytime when I came in a few minutes ago. The truth is that time doesn’t pass right inside the 4 Corners. The old clock on the wall just doesn’t travel in its orbit around the dial in a normal manner. You come in at eleven in the morning for a quick cup of joe, and when you leave it might still be eleven or maybe ten thirty, a half hour before you got there, or four in the afternoon.
“Every day I work so hard
Bringin' home my hard earned pay
Try to love you baby, but you push me away.
Don't know where you're goin'
Only know just where you've been,
Sweet little baby, I want you again.”
Then there’s that killer guitar solo, a soaring blast of kinetic energy. The one that even after forty plus years gets my pulse racing. How many times have I played air guitar to it? How many times did I embarrass my kids when they were growing up? Pure ecstasy complements of Jimmy Page.
I don’t smoke dope anymore. Those days are long behind me. Today I get high by writing. There’s nothing better than a well turned sentence or a piece that makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something. But I’ve taken a page of my writing down to the ATM and have never been able to get any cash out. Tragic but true.
“Been dazed and confused for so long, it's not true,
Wanted a woman, never bargained for you.
Take it easy baby, let them say what they will.
Will your tongue wag so much when I send you the bill?”
The song ends, and I’m no longer 19. I’m an old man of 60. Got two grandkids for Christ’s sake! I’m sitting at the counter at a café that I suspect might only exist in my mind. Am I crazy? I just might be. I’ve suspected it for years.
But that’s just life at the 4 Corners Café.
David- You keep taking us to new heights with your talent. While you can't get "cash out of the ATM" you get something a lot better - satisfaction and you're better than a Dinosaur- you've left a lasting mark upon this world and a smile on the faces of your many admiring readers.
ReplyDeleteSadly, many who are actually entertained here (by your) can't bother to throw you a bone of recognition or even a short 'thanks for that', but rest assured that you're making an impact, even if the feedback is nowhere near a Jimi Hendrix Experience.
David,
ReplyDeleteYou keep writing and I'll have the occasional smoke for both of us! How's that?Donna Cummings