Fu, The Man With Three Fingers

(excerpt)

“I used to hang out with Dylan,” Everest said. He waited for a response from the panhandler. When there was none, he continued. “They call that a brush with greatness. When us plebs have a passing relationship with the aristocracy of the world. That’s what famous people are, Fu. They are aristocrats. And we are fascinated by them. Their habits. Their loves. Their addictions. Their passions. Their tragedies. The Greeks started the whole thing. This preoccupation with the gossip of the days. All those gods. Like the folks on Coronation Street. You like soaps, Fu?”

Fu did not respond.

How'd he know that I wasn't famous. Maybe not to him. But what does this giant goof know about famous. Maybe he's gay. He think I'm going to do him?

“Human nature,” Everest continued. “That’s what soaps are about. Oh, how we love their tragedies. I’m talking about the rich and famous. We’re not too interested in each other’s tragedies. That my friend is a downer. No sir. You interested in your neighbours problems? That’s called being nosy. And you better not be interested in your neighbour’s passions. We call that, perversion. Both his passions and your interest. The common man is not interested in other common men. That’s why it took so long to have universal medical coverage. I’m not boring you, am I? I do tend to go on.”

Fu did not respond.

Everest cleared his throat.

Christ, he woke me up.

“But," Everest continued, "you were asking me about Dylan. I mean Bob and not Thomas. I used to handle their gear. Bob and his band. Called the Band. Talk about imagination, eh? My, those boys had a good time. Girls coming out of the woodwork. Covered in butter. Not too many smart ones. But girls nevertheless. Mostly high school drop outs. Girls who couldn’t pass math. Well, who passes math anyway? Beautiful girls. With liberal views on life if you take my meaning. You know what I’m saying?”

There was a certain sadness in Fu’s eyes. Resignation. Defeat.

He's going to go on like this forever. What did I ever do to him?

Everest smiled. “And I got some myself. Like the crumbs from the master’s table. There were a lot of crumbs. Girls would sleep with the hands that served the master, so to speak. You know what I’m saying. Of course you do. I guess I got arrogant. Forgot my place. Figured Bob and I were buds. I don’t know what got into me. I got it in my head to tell him to stop smoking. He was coughing a lot. I didn’t want the world to lose another voice to smoke. That’s what I said afterwards. But truth be told, it just got annoying. Coughing first thing in the morning. Right over your breakfast. Right over your corn flakes. Who's know what could have been fired out of his lungs. And I was eating blue berries with my flakes. And in the middle of your afternoon nap, Bob would start hacking. And there was phlegm. Disgusting. Horking and snorting. Spitting. Well, you get the image. So I told him to quit the fags. And Bob looks at me like I’m from Mars and tells me to fuck off. In front of everyone. Later one of his people told me I was fired. Bob couldn’t do it to my face. Royalty doesn’t do that sort of thing themselves. It’s beneath them. I got other work. Frank Zappa for a while. That was one crazy fucker. He loved motels. Wouldn’t stay in a hotel. Had to be a motel. With a pink Cadillac parked out front. Like he might have to make a getaway. Rented one if he had to. Just to park in front of his motel for the evening. Crazy. The world just ain't big enough for that dude's form of crazy. But, I quit. Couldn’t work for a guy named Zappa. What kind of name is that? Zappa. Like something from a science fiction movie. Flash Gordon. I love the evil guy in those flicks. What was his name? Merlin? Maurice? Mandrake?” Everest scratched his head. “It was Ming. Emperor Ming. A relative of yours?”

Everest looked down at the panhandler. Fu continued to ignore him. To read his book.

I couldn't believe that the guy wasn't picking up on my signals. What did Sun have to say about situations like this? Take off the head and the body would follow. I should cut his balls off.

“I guess the Dubliners must be about people in Dublin? I’d like to write a book about the people around here. In the Six Points. What the hell would you call it? Etobians? Etobicokians? Six Pointers? Just doesn’t have much of a ring to it. Who wrote the Dubliners?”

The panhandler turned his book up.

“James Joyce,” said Everest. “Sounds like a happy name. What is he? Jewish?”

The panhandler shrugged.

The guy was an idiot.

“No, not Jewish. Irish. Sounds Irish. Bob Dylan sounds Welsh. He’s Jewish. Did you know that?”

The panhandler nodded angrily.

“I think he changed his name,” Everest said. “Why do you figure he would do that? Sounds like a cliché in show business. Folks are always changing their name to make them sound more memorable. John Wayne changed his name. Marion Mitchell Morrison. Cary Grant was Archibald Alexander Leach. Bob Dylan. Wonder what Dylan’s name was before he changed it.”

The panhandler looked up at Everest.

“Zappa,” Fu replied and went back to reading his book.

That felt good. Finally I had upstaged him. Or so I thought.

Everest looked down at the panhandler as if his feelings had been hurt. Then he looked around to see if anyone was watching and when he surmised that no one was watching, he grabbed the smaller man, raised him to his feet, off the ground, and putting an arm around Fu, began to dance a Fox Trot.

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