Jake is from Pennsylvania, born and bred, and so if he says it, it is on good authority. He responds to most solicitations and queries with the inflection of someone who want to help, but also wants you to understand that he is, and not for nothing, skeptical and that there could be complications.
“You need a drink?”
“I mean, I could probably have one.”
“So what time is it?”
“Well, it has to be after 4.”
“Please pass the hot sauce.”
“I think I could probably do that.”
But he is absolutely helpful in reality, and cuts through any sense of obsequiousness with a quick logic that ends up rendering his helpfulness impossible to argue with. As such, he has gone to attain a piece of equipment, miles away, by himself, after ordering food, because it will be quicker with him alone, and there is no reason to put two people out, and everyone who has a driver’s license is already eating anyway. Bulletproof logic. I am at a point in my life where there are certain assumptions I make automatically—you could say that I “err on the side of…”—and others in which I have no confidence whatsoever. For an instance of the former, I assume everyone is queer, or at least that they ought to be, and this has so far paid off in spades, and makes me wonder if I am very late to that particular party. The “You’re Probably Queer or Figuring It Out party.” Needs a snappier name.
Of the latter, I would never hazard Jake’s level of delinquency. Would I expect him to jaywalk? Likely. Were he undercharged for a drink, would he make up the difference? Probably not, but who knows? Snag a 20 from an open cash register? This could be the border, or not. Spray paint anarchist slogans over pro-life billboards? I’d like this for Jake, but I just cannot say if this where his heart lies. You could say it is unclear to me, in the course of our very brief relationship, which hills, if any, he would die on, and which crosses he would consider bearing. But there is a distinct community in theft for a good cause, and our own denim Robin Hood delivered the gear in a theft-proof plastic case. I noticed this only as the manager of the pub in which we were eating attacked it with a sharp table placard, driving the point into the plastic with just enough of an impact each time to encourage renewing the effort, though not enough to threaten to actually penetrate its surface. It was impossible not to appreciate the balance of assisting one set of patrons while not overly disturbing the others. His means of achieving the balance were, rather brilliantly, to engage the other diners in the struggle, cheering him on with each next plan to overcome the obstacle. A combination of tools drawn from the kitchen, butter knives, fingernails, shot glass, and what another generation would have referred to as his only supply of “grit” eventually brings the plastic to its knees. Shoplifting is getting nearly to the point at which it isn’t worth it anymore. Nearly.
In any case, when Jake suggests that Pennsylvania has outlawed cups (“Not just plastic ones. All of ‘em.”) this seems simple enough (“Nope, none of them, anywhere. They’d come into your house and take them if they could, and you definitely don’t want to be seen with one at your yard party. You’ll get a ticket, for sure. That’s a lot of cup money coming in, and another stupid thing for cops to look after.”), though as with my becoming aware of many local customs, I am forced to reflect a bit on what this could mean for my own daily habits. I look around the van, at the backs and sides of the same seven heads that stalk my dreams for days after these affairs. It turns out there is a great deal of drinking done in this vehicle, so it makes for a fine test case. Moist is on the phone currently, clutching it between ear and shoulder, and using both hands to manipulate a box of wine, which, as it happens, really is a two-handed maneuver any way you slice it. Even if one had the hand and forearm strength to hoist it from the nozzle alone, the unsupported weight of the box would almost certainly tear the spigot from the reservoir. So ear, shoulder, and each hand are fully occupied, and the mouth doubly so—talking and imbibing—all in line with this new ordinance. So far, we are ahead of the curve. Jack drinks directly from the bottle, has some ideas about smaller vessels being too absorbent and effete, and so has no use for any material of cup, really. It is only social propriety or bar policy which ever brings a tumbler or stemware to his lips. Feli and Jeffrey use reusable vessels which cannot really be called cups, as they have lips, which to me seems to violate the basic and current definition thereof, emblazoned with the Batman logo and a Steve Reich ’97 tour sticker, respectively. Still, if this law is carried through to its furthest conclusion, and in this political moment, there is little reason to think it would not be, it is Poor Old Jeffrey Young who will suffer most, as his preferred means of eating is utilizing his ability to transform his left hand into a cup. He revealed years ago the origin of this practice, but I take it as no more than a theory so will not commit it to print again here. He suggests that, in this instance, the law will not apply because he uses the cup for solids only, but it’s hard to say if that is really the spirit of the restriction, or indeed if anyone gives a damn.
