No. 185 - Vodka and Verse in Aspen

I was sitting on a park bench in downtown Aspen, trying to figure out if I was going to camp for the night or make the trek to Taos, New Mexico — seven hours south, and it was already two o’clock… the decisions that plague a drifter.

There’s a campsite ten miles outside of Aspen that a local told me about, but the lows were forecasted to dip into the twenties. And to be honest, I was looking forward to taking a shower. I hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the thought of warm water and a mattress was appealing.

If you’ve been to Aspen, you know Hyman Avenue: a tree-lined street with park benches and a certain understated charm. It’s the kind of place where you can spend an afternoon behind a pair of sunglasses, people-watching—an indulgence somehow more decadent than a raucous night on Bourbon Street.

But I was in a pragmatic state of mind: camping in the Rockies or a motel in the desert? As time wore on, I leaned toward making the drive, even though most of it would be in pitch black.

As I was searching for a place in Taos, a drunken gent in blue jeans and combat boots made his acquaintance.

  “Hey there, I’m Caymus — the town drunk.”

  “OK, pleasure to meet you, Caymus… what’s up?”

  “Well, in addition to being a drunk, I’m the town poet.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I have seven hundred poems memorized, and if you’ll allow me, I’d like to read one to you.”

  “All right, I’m game.”

  “And if you enjoy my work, I’m always looking for donations to get another bottle of vodka.”

  “OK, shoot… whatcha got?”

  “Well, I got four categories: philosophy, romance, death, or artist’s choice.”

  “Artist’s choice.”

  “Good choice. How about one about daisies?”

  “It’s your world, Caymus — let’s hear it.”

Caymus went on to quote a hundred-line poem with all the theatrics of a Roman orator. The inflections in his voice were poignant, his body moved with rhythm, and his facial expressions were priceless.

I found myself lost in his spell. He was a damn good poet — and a spectacular orator.

As he wrapped up, I took out my wallet — a needlepoint number with Grateful Dead bears on it. Once he noticed, he asked if I was a Deadhead. I said I was, and he asked if he could read a poem he’d written the day Jerry died. Of course, I said yes — and it was marvelous.

I gave him a ten-dollar bill, the last of my cash, and asked if he’d be open to exchanging phone numbers. I wanted to publish some of his original work in my soon-to-be-released literary journal. It’s called Evans & Evans — my daughter is a fellow publisher and editor.

So we gave each other our numbers, and Caymus asked a lady standing nearby to take our photo before I embarked on my evening drive to New Mexico.

Later that night, I got a text from Caymus — a photo, actually — of him and one of his fellow homeless buddies drinking vodka from a plastic bottle.

I texted him back to be safe.

He replied with a smiley face.

Gotta love Aspen.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA