“You know, I just want to be happy, and enjoy my life, and live as I choose–is that too much to ask?”

I pause; I roll my eyes.

“Here”, I tell the waiter as I hand him my taza, “hold my coffee.  Challenge accepted.”

I stand up from my chair; I walk over to the homeless man; I do what I do best; I cold sock him in the balls. He doubles over; he collapses on to the ground.

“Tell it like I see it”, I reply as I put the brass knuckles back in my pocket.

The waiter gasps; takes out his digitaltelephone; dials a number; moments later, the police are here; they handcuff me; I am taken to the station; I answer some questions; they run a test on my mental state; I am cleared; the homeless man decides not to press charges on the nut shot; I am released; I go back to the cafe; I ask the waiter for my coffee; he says it´s cold so he´ll make me a new one; I say thanks!; I sit back down at the cafe.

“Sorry about that”, I tell the writer, “you know–I just can´t resist a good challenge.  It´ll be the last time–I suspect–that he, the homeless man decides to bother us with his non-sense; like I always tell my dog when I feed him–dinner´s ready and there´s no competition so take your time, and enjoy yourself.

The writer pauses; he rolls his eyes.

“Do you really tell your dog that?”

“No”, I reply as the waiter hands me the taza with the freshly brewed coffee, “but it sounded hella af dramatic, right? I go for the shock-and-awwww approach–like punch someone in the lovemaker and then handing them a bouquet of flowers–I start off creating a commotion to get people coming around and then do something really nice to show how to behave–the ruckus gets the eyes, the amor gets the sighs… Know what I mean?”

“You”, the writer says as he turns his head to look out the window.

He catches a young lady riding the wave; it´s beautiful. He picks up a napkin from the table; turns his head back to me; dabs his eye.

“It´s beautiful”, he replies as he wipes his eyes with the napkin.

“Yup”, I reply as I take another sip and set my taza down, “surfing is harmony with the feeling of life. It´s cool–I guess or something?”

“You know how to surf?”, the writer asks as he picks up his coffee and takes a sip.

“You know how to stop asking quesitons?”, I say as I redirect the conversation back to him.

I continue as I take another sip.

“People love talking about themselves–always try to redirect the questions back to the person.  People are aware that you are dodging questions–but, if you make it about them, they will happily oblige you and talk about their life.  They will feel like the center of the discussion; the topic of conversation about their family or dreams; avoid getting wrapped up in the problems of others, instead that is like a kitchen sink draining and pulling everything down; try to redirect but not attach to the drama or the heartbreak; sell you; like what works for you personally? What helps you get through the day–when no one is watching? Keep that in mind–what have you already created, in your personal life, that you NEED.  I mostly go to the store to buy things that I want.”

“Yeah”, the writer replies as he sets his coffee down, “that makes sense–it´s like you are saying a lot but actually you don´t say anything.”

“So”, I reply as I turn my head out the window towards the small group of 13 surfers, “you, normally, accept or decline challenges–a gentleman´s wager? But, without money.”

“What are you talking about”, he asks as he lowers his eyebrows.

“I´m going to tell you that you can´t surf.”

“Yeah”, the writer replies as he picks up his coffee and takes a sip, “of course–what´s your point?”

I roll my eyes.

“Don´t say it that way”, I reply as I pick up my taza, “say you´re wrong, I´m the best. Watch me!”

He sighs; why must everything be a challenge?

I continue talking, “and your say something like challenge accepted: hold my coffee.”

I pause; is he even paying attention–I mean… this shit is like hella fucking brilliant.

“So”, I reply as I stick my hand out, “now this is when you hand my your coffee and you go down to the beach and you prove that yes, I can surf.”

“Well”, he replies as he hands me his coffee, “I don´t want to.”

“Well”, I reply as I sit his coffee down on my side of the table, “if fishes were wishes… sushi… you know–I don´t really know how it goes.  So now you are going to head down to the beach, rent a surfboard, put on a wetsuite, look around embarassed because the wetsuit is a little too small and revealing about your body… #awkward… and then you are going to take your surfboard, jump into the water, paddle out to the break, sit, feel the energy of the ocean, and when it´s your turn, and you feel it´s right, you´re going to catch a wave.”

“Can I just talk about it?”

“Words without action are empty like your wallet, right?”

Jamie Smith
therenegadeinc@gmail.com

It's all about the story, man.



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