A man with a beanie on his head and a tattoo of Spider-Man on his neck can’t believe the line at the Post Office. But he also has trouble believing his eyes.
“Jerry Garcia!” he says to me. “You’re not dead! You’re just getting younger. Can you do something about Phish?”
“People still like Phish?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s really a problem, Jerry.”
He explains that he “got up way too early for this shit” and that he smoked way too much weed. And he keeps calling me Jerry, while he explains all the comic book remakes since my “alleged” passing. The main point is that Hollywood has “ruined” his life by “fucking up the Spider-Man timeline, which apparently “you cannot do without consequences.”
But back to this Jerry Garcia thing. On one hand, I can’t blame him for joking. These days, my fro is big, my beard is epic, and I’m getting that touch of grey. But the longer we talk, the more I suspect that he’s serious. So I change the subject.
“What do you do?” I ask.
“I’m a poet, just like you!”
I say something about how the poetry business is a tough racket.
“Tell me about it, Jerry. I drive trucks and write rap music to make ends meet.”
I consider a Truckin’ reference, but the poet doubles down.
“Can I get your autograph, Jerry?”
He presents me with pen and paper. I’m inclined to pass, but what would Jerry do?