These three guys sit in the corner of the room. No one sits next to them. I turn and stare. These are the three coolest motherfuckers in the room.
They sit, silver-haired, crossed legged, with untold stories you can see behind closed lips. The one that sits on the far left, let’s call him Mick, because he conjures images of two finger whiskey pours on the rocks and late-night-slip-away-from-the-party balcony smokes and kisses. Anyway, he’s rocking a a faded Dead Head tour shirt with a hole in the sleeve the shape of crescent moon. This legend of a guy probably fixed Frank Zappa’s car somewhere in America’s mid west and got invited to the show, only to decline. He’s leaning back on the uncomfortable blue plastic foldable chair nonchalantly. He makes it look like leather. His dark denim jean pockets are weathered from the contours of an iPhone 6 and curved notebook. The two items are an effortless nod to practical nostalgia and an acceptance of modern technology. He sits with his thumb and forefinger cradling the outline of his chiseled jaw and rubbing a salt and pepper scruffy beard. Wrinkles are apparent around his eyes – most likely from winking at women too much. I’m certain, now more than ever, his name must be Mick.
Centre stage between the two guys we have a bald beanie wearing bastard with a cheeky grin on his face. This guy is probably a retired member of the Lords of Dogtown and busted up his right knee cap hopping backyard fences. Cooper Goodman (that’s what we’ll call him) is known by his last name, in an ironic sort of way. He has no hair left, shaved it all off at the first signs of thinning with a straight blade and never looked back. Didn’t hesitate for a moment, didn’t pause over self-doubt or scrutinization, he just did it. He always just does it. He has a faded jean jacket on and form fitting black denim pants. He stuffs his hands in his pockets like a dignified delinquent, whose seen too much but still managed to smarten up and get his PhD in literature. He hated his Dad, but still visits his mother’s grave every Christmas, and on her birthday, pretending that he has quit smoking to make her feel better.
That leaves us with the fedora wearing fiend, Salvador, but call him Sal. He’s pulling off a Tom Selleck moustache easily and has a healthy glow from a holiday in the South of Spain. His wife is 15 years younger, she is witty and funny and of course gorgeous. He came into his wealth partially due to his economic insight and investor knowledge, and in part because he’s just one of those guys that gets lucky. He’s modest enough and won’t bring up the fact both his kids go to ivy league schools or he has a garage full of vintage cars, but his well tailored suit jacket and form fitting boat khakis subtly evoke envy. His fedora is reminiscent of Sinatra, not tacky like Pitbull. It takes everything in me to not yell, “Will someone please get this man a cuban cigar?!” He laughs at a joke Mick makes under his breath and ever so gingerly tilts his hat off and runs his hands through his silver hair. I would give anything to be that hat.
The three of them settle into their chairs and wait for the presentation to start. Goodman clears his throat and slouches a bit forward to listen. Sal smoothes his suit jackets collar. Mick tucks his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans and purses his lips in a devilish fashion.
These are the three coolest motherfucking guys in the room.