Bradley Mason Hamlin
The Dirty Beatnik
Flip and Scooter hid in the Dirty Beatnik café, in the back corner of shadows, midday, summer sun shining hot outside in the Sacramento valley. One skinny and bearded, that would be Flip, and one fat with round glass. That would be Scooter. Regardless, they had nothing better to do. They had not been born rich or clever and Flip asked, “Like, do you think there’s a genius to the haiku, man? Blyth says there’s a genius to haiku.”
Scooter thought about it while eating a bagel.
“Don’t know. That’s like asking if there’s genius inside a peanut butter sandwich, ya know?”
“But Blyth said …”
“Fuck Blyth.”
A moment of silence later, Flip shrugged his shoulders, sipping his cold coffee with too much sugar. “Well, is there?” he asked.
“What?”
“Genius to the peanut butter sandwich?”
Scooter laughed with a mouthful. “That depends.” he said.
“On what?”
“If it tastes good.”
Flip’s hands shot out for Scooter’s shoulders. “Dude!”
Scooter looked scared. They looked into each other’s eyes. Scooter had to look real hard to find Flip’s eyes, but they were there, two green dots hiding behind the greasy strands of brown hair hanging in the mad poet’s face.
Flip swallowed and used his words carefully, “That was so Zen,” he said.