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Fast Eddie's barbecue
Sunday, May 19 2002setting: Hogwaller, Charlottesville, VirginiaToday was much like yesterday in that I spent most of it in the University of Virginia's Cocke Hall computer lab. Despite the distraction of graduation (which was happening outside in multiple locations), I was able to accomplish more than I expected. It helped that I swallowed a handful of greenish dextromethorphan-free ephedrine gel caps about halfway through my time there. It focused my attention to the task at hand at least as well as coffee could have. Incidentally, I'd just as soon be drinking coffee as eating cough medicine and drinking vodka, but it's not particularly easy to smuggle an afternoon's supply of coffee into a computer lab. Tussin and vodka are considerably more concentrated. A document I found on a computer in the Cocke Hall computer lab when I arrived: I was such a waste the first two years U was a wasrw bbiw U wab t that yea r bacj
a wasrw a waste a waste now Its all goneand here I am a prodictive memenbre of siovety As a scientifically-trained free thinker, I don't think it's fair to generalize about the quality and/or sobriety of the UVA graduating class of 2002 based on a single item of data such as this. At five o'clock I returned to the Downtown Mall to rendezvous with Jessika, who was planning on us cooking ourselves dinner somewhere. By the time I'd arrived at the Jefferson Theatre, the plans had changed slightly and now a gentleman named Fast Eddie was going to be doing all the cooking and Jessika and I were just going to sit back and drink Yellow Tail Shiraz, Jessika's new favorite red wine. Fast Eddie has been in the Charlottesville scene for years, though I've never really had any dealings with him. As you might imagine from his name, most people regard Fast Eddie as a shady, suspect figure. Fast Eddie used to hang out at the Rising Sun Bakery back in the day and I remember Elizabeth including him in her list of regulars she had to actively discourage. Anyway, more recently Fast Eddie has successfully ingratiated himself with some at the Jefferson, particularly Jessika and my old Dynashack housemate Andrew. Recently Eddie and Andrew decided (on a whim) to launch a business of digging up trees from country roadsides and selling them to wealthy gardeners downtown. So far, though, the only notable result of their industry has been an outbreak of poison ivy rash for Andrew.
While walking back to Jessika's Subaru Brat, we came across one of Saras' friends who told us that Saras and the Dirty Fingers people were having a barbecue at their place in the 'hood (a block or so west of Cherry Avenue in Charlottesville's notorious low-rent district). This sewed the seeds of confusion. Though Jessika would have preferred to go to this barbecue, there was apparently enough animosity between Saras and Fast Eddie that she doubted he would be allowed to join us.
Later, back at Jessika's house, the fact that Saras didn't want Fast Eddie at her barbecue was confirmed by telephone. Fast Eddie took immediate offence to this news, attributing it to some seemingly trivial altercation over in Staunton. Evidently Fast Eddie hangs out in Staunton all the time, and one day he randomly came upon Jessika and Saras when they were strolling down Beverly Street there. Eddie attempted to give them the grand tour, but Saras rebelled, claiming she wanted to discover the town on her own. As he talked about Saras, Fast Eddie's vitriol built, not in the tone of his speech, but in the extremity of his words. He went from saying he didn't have "much use for Saras anyhow" to "tell Saras I hope she chokes on a chicken bone."
Mostly, though, Fast Eddie talked about other things: his early life in Manhattan, how "far back" he and Jessika went ("ten years" being a 30-40% exaggeration), and, above all else, horse racing. Eddie talked about horse racing in the same relentless manner as my mother talks about horses generally. What is it about horses that makes its various enthusiasts into such bores? Say what you will about Fast Eddie's conversational fixation, at least it was multimedia. Periodically he'd fish a folded-up newspaper page out of his pocket and show it to us. It featured a large grainy color photograph of several horses running down a track. "Have you ever seen anything so beautiful in your life?" he'd ask.[REDACTED]On the drive out to Foods of All Nations, Jessika told Fast Eddie that she'd decided she wanted to go to Sara's barbecue after all. Having been in the back of the Brat at the time, I didn't overhear the conversation, but this development didn't seem to be bothering Eddie all that much later as we shopped for Yellow Tail Shiraz (meanwhile, he was picking up a tube of calamine lotion for Andrew). Jessika dropped off Fast Eddie on the Downtown Mall on the way out to Saras' place.
Like many rental properties in the 'hood of Charlottesville, Saras' house sits on a large yard surrounded by big trees. Rent is low because of the proximity of impoverished African-American communities. After we'd parked, we were immediately joined by Josh Mustin1, who had also received late word of the barbecue. Strangely, though, there wasn't anyone else at the house. We came upon a barbecue grill with some hot ash-colored charcoal briquettes as well as at least one greasy paper plate, but there were no human beings. The back door was unlocked, however, so we went inside and made ourselves at home in the living room, soon drinking the Yellow Tail Shiraz in its entirety and moving on to a larger bottle of cheaper-tasting stuff not imported from Australia. Meanwhile Josh Mustin was arranging most of the entertainment, playing a Ramones video and an example of some audio production he did for a local punkabilly band (that band that opened for the Dirty Fingers on Friday, I forget their name). Josh claims he's been doing a lot of music production lately using some equipment he has access to. In the case of the song he was playing for us ("Psycho Taxi Driver" or something like that), he'd recorded sound samples of cars revving their engines and layered them in various places on top of the band. To my untrained ear it sounded very professional. After awhile we decided to bring out the house dog (some sort of Sharpie mix), because it was lonely and whimpering in somebody's bedroom. When I was petting it, I stuck my fingers well into its ear canals to where things get nasty with earwax. It's something that dogs (and even some cats) love, but I could tell I was grossing Jessika out.
We did make a few attempts to call places where Saras and the Dirty Fingers might be, particularly Millers. To make these calls, we were using a random cell phone we found on the floor. It must have been Saras' phone too, since it didn't have her number in its address book. We had no luck in tracking her down.
Once we'd had enough of the living room, we all took turns contributing to a sign left for the house's occupants taped to the television set. Most of the sign's content consisted of random phrases derived from Fast Eddie's angry remarks this evening and things Saras had said with drunken abandon on Friday night.
We drove down to the Downtown Mall to see what we could find on foot. Nothing much was happening in the new upstairs pool room at Millers, so we relocated to the steps behind the Jefferson Theatre, and there we continued drinking our wine. By now we were in possession of a "yellow bike" we'd found parked in front of the Jefferson. "Yellow bikes" are junky old bikes painted yellow that are available for public use as a sort of quasi-socialist experiment in public transportation. Some guy got a grant to build and maintain them, although their availability has fluctuated wildly as they keep being stolen and repurposed by the impoverished youth of the city. I was pretty drunk by this point, so while Josh was riding the yellow bike around in circles, its seat flopping like a broken car antenna, I was telling Jessika how great I thought it was that my old housemate Andrew had decided against becoming cog in the corporate machine, being content instead with his Jefferson Theatre job. There's a lot of renaissance potential in Charlottesville simply because so many of its creative minds have undemanding day jobs. In New York City, by contrast, most people have to work their asses off just to pay the rent.
Tonight the Tokyo Rose was having an employees-only party, and since Josh Mustin runs the sound board there, he said we could come with him if we wanted to go. Never ones to turn down free events anywhere, least of all at the Tokyo Rose, that was our next destination.
What a spread they had laid out for us at the Tokyo Rose! All sorts of sushi rolls, wines, and even liquor. What with the phantom barbecue, I hadn't really eaten anything this evening, so I dug in. I hadn't scarfed sushi like this since back in the days when I lived with Bathtubgirl. I was talking to a couple of women at the bar, one of whom was Freedom the Blond Wonder and the other of whom was this girl in a blue skirt named Katie, though I'd never met her before. The conversation with Katie had a strong Los Angeles-by-way-of-Charlottesville quality to it, with her wanting to know what I do, and me saying I'm unemployed but used to do work for Yahoo. When the topic of databases came up (and it did sooner than one would expect), she asked if I actually designed them or if I just entered data into them. I got the distinct feeling she didn't believe me when I said that no, I definitely designed them. Adding to this impression, she left shortly thereafter.[REDACTED]
Considering the fact that Jessika and I don't even work at the Tokyo Rose, we sure received the royal treatment from the owner of the place, a Japanese guy whose name happens to be Sushi. He kept plying us with wine and liquor, despite the fact that bottles and glasses of wine kept leaping suicidally from our table and smashing themselves upon the floor.[REDACTED]
Fast Eddie, well-known and slightly-suspect man-about-Charlottesville.
Jessika in front of the Jefferson Theatre this evening.
Jamie Dyer (left) and his buddy Crypsi. I think that's his name. According to Jessika, Crypsi used to write anonymous band show reviews for the C-ville. Apparently word got out about his identity and now he is widely regarded as a pariah.
1Josh Mustin was something of a bit player back in the days of Big Fun, finding himself on Sara Poiron's shit list unusually prematurely over an argument concerning his alleged consumption of a jar of olives belonging to the late Shira. Josh (who, it turns out, hadn't even eaten the olives) is reported to have made the argument, "it's just a jar of olives," and this did nothing to improve his status in Sara's rigid hierarchy of humanity. Indeed, Sara had a plan of actually protesting in front of one of Josh Mustin's birthday parties, perhaps holding aloft a picket sign reading, "It's just a jar of olives INDEED!" Understandably, then, Josh Mustin has few good memories from the days of Big Fun. Nowadays, however, Jessika seems rather fond of him and even admits to being embarrassed by recollections of the petty exclusivity of the Big Fun era.
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