Odd Redneck.

"I wanna black coffee, with chocolate, and room on top for two shots of espresso."
He strutted around the counter, waiting for his drink to be made. He noticed my companion, and greeted her enthusiastically. I gathered, from their conversation that he is a painter, on his way to the art studio located below the coffee shop.
"My mom has a photo of me next to Janice Joplin. She says she's gonna take it to a film store an' get it blown up real big. I can't hang it in here – it needs barb-wire, an' rope, an' alarms," he said, waving his arms.
"Maybe you should keep it downstairs, in the studio, and don't let anyone see it, or know it's there," my friend suggested.
"Nah, I'd hang it up, so people could see it. I'd put it right up there," he said, pointing just above the counter, "real high, so no one could reach it. But I'm layin' with my head in her lap, and she's runnin' her fingers through my hair. It was on my mom's front porch."
"Write your book, Bubba," my friend said, repeating a suggestion made many times before. He said he was working on it.
I marveled at his stories, wondering how much of what he said might be based on fact.
He rocked back and forth as he spoke, and wore a raggedy, black polyester coat riddled with tears and leaking stuffing, and an equally damaged knit stocking cap. His hands were calloused, rough, and stained. He wore a silver ring on his third finger of his right hand, and two, on with an oversized blue stone, on the third and fourth fingers of his left. His smile was jagged, and one of his teeth, rotted.
"I got one leanin' up on Jimi Hendrix too." I shook my head in awe. "Yup, right on my mom's front porch. The town I grew up in lots a' artist would stop in. Even Jerry Garcia, an' his Dead Heads came to the farm a few times. I remember, he showed up with two busses one time," he continued, even including the year, as he had for both Ms. Joplin, and Mr. Hendrix. "Jerry Garcia wrote one quarter of his songs on my mom's farm. Yup, on his banjo. He wrote everything on banjo. That's why all the Grateful Dead songs have that rhythmic, folky style. I remember one day, no one could find him, an' I said 'Oh! he's down by the crick with his banjo!' An' that's where he wrote Sugar Magnolia," citing the year, once again.
He walked away to pay for his drink, and we shared speculation as to the truth of his tales, and whether they were exaggerations, or delusions.
"Hey!" he said to my friend, "if I throw you a few buckies, would you edit my book? 'Cause my spellin' is shot!"
"Tell you what," she responded, "you get me your book, and I'll see what I can do. I know some people who are really good at that kind of thing, so I might get them to do it instead, because my spelling isn't any good either."
"Did you graduate highschool?" he asked, leaning in.
"Yes I did."
"Then you're better than me. I quit school at ten years old, 'cause I thought I was cool, sittin' on my John Deere tractor, watchin' my brothers an' sisters go to school. 'See ya!'" He laughed. "My brother told me I would regret it, an' he was right."
He proceeded to tell us about all the jobs he couldn't get because he didn't have a highschool level education.
Eventually, he came to telling us that he's a redneck.
"But I'm an odd redneck."
"That's what you should call your book."
"Maybe I will. 'Odd Redneck.'"

I walked down the hall to the sound of a piano, hearing a beautiful, unfamiliar tune. I turned the corner to see an old man in a cowboy hat, absentmindedly, flawlessly playing this cheerful melody with twisted, arthritis riddled fingers. He finished the tune, completely unaware of my presence at the end of his piano, and slowly, achingly forced his way to his feet and walked away.