Three A.M.

 

Three A.M.

This shot was taken with film. One night in Roanoke, Virginia, I took this photo at 3 a.m...

Downtown, outside of Mill Mountain Coffee Shop, I was sitting on the stoop with my friend J., when a random, white, strange van appeared on the scene; it wasn't a creepy, rusted number, but it wasn't a shiny, spanking new vehicle either. Kind of in between. The van, and the streetcleaner, were the only two vehicles on the road. So, the noise, and the approach, was startling.

This evening was like many others. J. and I often talked until the streetcleaner came and usually, by this time of night, but for some shadowy stragglers that we knew, we were usually alone. J. owned a magic shop and on and off, he worked at the coffee place. And truly, he was rather magical, because he always seemed to appear downtown at the right time, just when I was looking for him.

J. was tall, lanky, and his hair was incredibly long and thick; it trailed down his back in perfect waves. Often, he wore a long overcoat, as well as an ancient hat with a feather strapped to the side, just above the brim. He was a striking, dreamy fellow and sure, I crushed on him here and there, but my stunted attempts were futile; he was in love with a delicate, beautiful, pale, big-eyed redhead, a pianist who drifted in and out of town. Truly, she moved like a dancer, nearly floating when she walked. Later, she and I struck up a close, deep friendship as well, and we were pen pals for a while.

J.'s car trunk was chock full of books -- everything from photography books to novels to cookbooks. Man, with those long, reaching arms, when he hugged me, it was as if he swallowed my whole being, and he always smelled good -- a mix of incense, sweet musk, and pine. There was no mistaking his smell -- earthy and unique. And he could eat a pile of pancakes. "Bloody" pancakes, as we called them, because we liked the raspberry syrup. Whenever we had any kind of gray problem, after we went out for pancakes, everything seemed to heal, and the world turned to color again -- just so, all good, all right.

Well, the pictured fellow rolled out of the van, and he jerked his head from side to side, scanning the alleys, as if he was looking for someone. He seemed nervous, frantic, and confused, and I remember drilling him for info, but I got nowhere. As usual, beside me, J. remained quiet and calm, intrigued. I did get that the stranger was from out west, and I guess he was looking for something open as well, but nada. (Every time I write the word "nada," I think of Anthony Kiedis, because he used the word a gazillion times in his memoir, Scar Tissue). This connection is forever etched in my brain, whether I like it or not.

Anyway, back to the photo. Roanoke was a close-knit, small city; everyone pretty much knew everyone else. Or at the very least, the faces looked familiar. But this guy popped in out of nowhere. Quietly sitting, studying his moves, J. and I wondered about his story, and that's when I snapped the shot. 

"Is there some place open?" the guy asked.

Right after, I looked at J., and his huge blue eyes sparked and shone, and I knew that we shared the same thought about Texas Tavern. We didn't even have to speak it, because everyone in Roanoke knew about Texas Tavern (a diner down the street that was rough, dirty, and wholly endearing). Inside, there was always a mix -- homeless people, night workers, bartenders, late night partiers, businessmen, musicians, students. One never knew. Texas Tavern was the only diner in Roanoke that was always open, and I admit I ended up there a few times, but I always regretted the feast the next day. Anyway, before we had a chance to tell the stranger about the little gem, the guy was gone.

And then I looked back at J., and he shrugged and even still, he didn't speak, and neither did I, but I knew we again shared the same conclusion -- we were alone again, and the Texas Tavern suggestion left us. And anyway, it was time for a drive on the Parkway. That was how we rolled -- with the moment and the weather.

Years later, J. rather magically appeared at my friend's coffee shop outside of Charlottesville, and she informed me that he looked much the same. Also, he had married someone other than the redhead, and he had at least one child, maybe more. Not sure what happened to the redhead, but I'm sure she's doing something quite interesting. :) She was the stuff of magic, like him.

So, here's a photo I've always loved. Although I've never known anything about the featured guy, it's a shot that not only reminds me of J., Texas Tavern, pancakes, and the time, but it also conjures up feelings about friendship, curiosity, and the stories we all have buried inside our hearts.

Also, to this day, I still wonder if J.'s overcoat was, in fact, an invisible cloak.

C.A. MacConnell