"I'm from Seattle," said the guy from Seattle. Everyone was immediately interested. You could have heard a pin drop in the joint. Finally, Miriam broke the silence.
"What's it like?" she asked breathlessly.
The guy from Seattle was wearing a raincoat. We initially thought he was some sort of goddam fruitcake. It just goes to show -- there's always an explanation. You just have to know where to look for it.
"It really doesn't rain as much as people say," he informed us. "It's all been exaggerated. Other cities have just as much precipitation. Rochester, N.Y. for instance."
We mulled over this information for a while. It was a lot to chew on. Not only was our whole rain-preconception thing called into question, but Rochester, NY was dragged in for good measure. We tried to think of any preconceptions we might have previously entertained about Rochester, but came up empty. To be perfectly honest, I couldn't have even found it on a map if you paid me. I have that problem with most East Coast cities. But not, apparently, these guys from Seattle. No wonder the place has developed such mystique.
We sat on the edge of our seats and waited for him to say something about the coffee. "Geez, you call this coffee?" he said, putting his cup down in distaste. There seemed nothing to say to this. I mean, no one was going to be foolish enough to try to defend our coffee to a Seattle guy. And anyhow, what the hell did he expect? After all, this was Norm's for Christ's sake.
It was the typical 1:40 am crowd. Lonely insomniacs. Inebriated punks just out of the Day-Glo Abortions show. Mumbling derelicts. Freaks. Hairy-necked losers trying to convince waitresses to go home with them. Sex and dope salespeople on their lunch hour. A couple of neo-beat poets furiously capturing the ambiance of it all on soggy napkins. And our little improv group. We always came here after the Comedy Store open mike to figure out where we went wrong. In fact, that's where we first saw the Seattle guy, at the club. He had tried to sign up, but he was too late. Of course, that was when we thought he was just a fruitcake, as opposed to a guy from Seattle who we might be able to learn something from.
"Sorry we missed your act tonight," said John. That was John all over, taking the bull by the horns. Trying to draw the Seattle guy out. It was no wonder that John was the leader of our group.
"You have to get there real early. Like six-thirty," added Emily, cleverly picking up on John's lead. We all looked at the Seattle guy expectantly.
"I'll try to remember that next week," he said. We were dumbfounded. He was going to be here next week? And stay away from Seattle for that long? Was he insane? "Anyhow, I'm not primarily a comedian," he explained. "I just had some observations and insights I thought it might be amusing to share."
Needless to say, we had already taken that for granted. I mean, how often do you get to have a guy from Seattle in your midst? We knew he must have something to tell us. Something that could very well supply an important key to help unravel the tangled morass of our blighted lives.
"So, if you're not a comedian, what exactly are you?" Jill asked in an aggressive tone that had us all aghast. Jill was so horribly pushy -- the Seattle guy was sure to think that we were just a bunch of yahoos with no manners or sensitivity at all. We should have thrown Jill out of the group long ago in spite of her father paying for all our publicity photos. We all just wanted to sink through the floor and disappear. If I were a guy from Seattle, I thought (and what a ridiculous notion that seemed even as I thought it, like I could ever know what it was like to walk in those Doc Martens), well, I would just go away from this place and find people more worthy.
To our astonishment, the guy from Seattle appeared to take it in stride. In fact, he gave every evidence of giving serious consideration to Jill's rude and obnoxious outburst. Maybe it was one of those Zen things, what with being up there in the Pacific Rim and all that, knowing that it was all an illusion and not getting sucked into other people's head trips and all that other mystic shit we couldn't begin to understand, being rats running frantically in the maze of our horrible city.
"I don't know -- I'm sort of a Jack of All Trades. Musician, writer, actor, playwright, spoken word performance artist, espresso stand employee. It's all the same thing, when you get right down to it. It all comes from thinking. I think a lot. In fact, if you had to call me one thing, I guess it would be a thinker. But then again, aren't we all?"
Well, that certainly put Jill in her place. After such a display of forthright modesty, none of us knew where to look, so we all furtively glanced under our seats as if suddenly interested in finding misplaced cigarette butts. Then I saw, tucked underneath the Seattle guy's raincoat, the neck of a guitar case. So it was true -- he really was a renaissance man. Like we would have ever expected otherwise.
At this point, we were interrupted by some punk rocker sitting in the booth across the aisle who had been sniffing amyl and drinking shots of boysenberry syrup all evening. Clearly, he had been eavesdropping. But, who could blame him? A visitation like this only happens once in a lifetime.
"Did you know Curt Cobain?" he asked. We were stunned at the crass obviousness of this question. Also, we were highly annoyed it hadn't occurred to us first.
"I don't think any of us can say we really knew him," replied the guy from Seattle. We sat in awe. I don't believe any of us had ever heard it expressed so well.
"Gee," said the kid, his blue lips quivering, "only someone who really knew him would know to say that." Generation X had spoken. The Seattle guy was legit.
After that, there seemed to be nothing more to say. We were all drained from the entire experience. The Seattle guy seemed to know this, too, as he took out his guitar and picked out a couple of brooding chords with his thumb and forefinger that perfectly captured the mood of the moment, imprinting it indelibly into our brainpans. I know that whenever I remember Norm's that night, even if I live to be 90, it will be in the key of E minor with the buzzing overtone on the third string that comes when the player hasn't clipped his fingernails.
Finally, Miriam could stand it no longer. "But, why in the hell would you ever want to come to L.A.?" she blurted. "Are you a guardian angel come to show us the way? Are you a sign? An omen? A beacon to lead us from darkness? Are you even human? Or a higher evolutionary being outside our species?"
"Oh, I came here to get a record contract," he said. "I don't really care what medium it's in -- I have no particular talent in any of them. But I don't need any -- after all, I am from Seattle. Say, who's your agent? Can I have his number?"
So we killed him.