23

Chapter 23

That evening, Bufford, Edgar, the Colonel and I all gathered around my kitchen table to discuss the immediate future and the implications of Bufford's actions. Over Budweisers and a bowl of Chili Lime potato chips, we reasoned together, looking somewhat like a loose postmodern parody of DiVinci's "The Last Supper". Ahmad had simmered down enough for Bufford to placate him by paying for the Snickers bar and promising to clean up the store and pay back the damage to his daily income. (You'll recall that Bufford is unemployed). Ahmad promised not to press charges, much to the satisfaction of the police chief, who had his hands full with a number of other miscreants, misdemeanors, and graffiti artists. An existential equilibrium was slowly returning to our little corner of the world, reversing the Einsteinian proposition of entropy and chaos...as far as we knew. But we don't usually see the Big Picture and, oftentimes, what looks like a relaxation of tension is actually just the momentary deep drawing of the breath of fate, readying itself to blow yet another big one.
"OK. I'll admit that I've ruined everyone's week," Bufford breathed, his hands on his forehead. "I feel much better now and I'm sorry. I should turn myself in, I suppose."
I wasn't sure he was serious, nor was I sure that was the best course of action for him.
"Well, Hold on, man. This is a little complicated. If you give yourself up, you'll definitely go to jail. Considering that, don't you think this deserves a little more thought before leaping upon the mercy of the LA County criminal court?"
To spare you the details, let me just say that there was much more discussion. So much so that we polished off the bag of potato chips and a 12-pack-plus-some. However,even after we'd achieved the sort of mental acuity such a binge provides, we were still at a loss for The Perfect Cure. Bufford slept over that night, too depressed and hazy to walk himself the 43 or so steps home. He slept on the couch with a flower-printed sheet pulled over his head. Sometimes, I told him as I clicked off the light, you can't push these Grand Ideas; they must design themselves, take form outside of our will. He mumbled something about expired canned goods. I took it as a good sign.