Fog has leaned its thick slow hooves over the city the past couple nights. Sullen, dampening, shroud fog that made it feel like time to consult the mystic man by the Sound again. He's a King of the city. A soothsayer. Alaskan Way, near Pier 59 is usually where he is. Sitting with a chessboard and a tape player, layered in ponchos and down. There to talk to anyone, to dole advisory chatter, with his hidden hooded light blue eyes. Everything he says is cryptic. Preformed. Thoughts made before he thinks them, like light from the Proxima Centauri star that’s traveled millions of miles to be here. It was freezing, so I layered heavily. The fog made it hard to locate his “Mother Where” sign. But there he was, alone, in self-dialogue, playing solitaire. Mutt asleep at his side.

Next to his chessboard crate was a birdcage with a fake yellow bird inside named Tritium, after the radioactive isotope of hydrogen. A Harry Belafonte cassette played on his player. Visible through his top poncho was an Army fatigue with the name Doubloon on it. Usually, he plays me music, and then talks about it like he’s a prophet. This time, I had something for him. Something he could “review.” I wanted to try to out cryptic him. He recognized me, and before I could say a word, he announced that he’d been shot in the head at the Battle of Cu Nghi during the Vietnam War. January 29th, 1966. 140 Americans dead, 200 wounded.

Is your name Doubloon? I have music for you. How is your head now?

Doubloon: It hurts once in a while. But I have help. I am Doubloon, yes. My life as an arrow tip. Play me your song.

[The 35 minutes of Shigeto’s Streets of Beige Mix played via my phone’s speaker. Shigeto is a Michigan native beat maven signed to Ghostly International Records. Doubloon and I sat mostly in silence. At 13:30 he said the words, “Funk. Bone. Screed.” And something about being "below the bellowing." He had four blue balloons on a string attached to his lawn chair. Four directions. Four aortas. They moved to the wind and acted out the beats. When the Shigeto finished, I asked him what he thought. He continued playing solitaire the entire time I was there.]

Streets of Beige Shigeto Mix 021 by SHIGETO

Doubloon: Well it’s got some bones. It’s not a fossil. Won’t fossilize. It’s got some screed in Pangea. Some Pallor. It’s no Jimi. But it might steal the biggest jewel off the crown if no one’s lookin. I see two suns. Cross sections of the cow. We inside insides.

I agree. Some cut up Pangea. Shavings of the day. The ribcage. Flintlock razors. Conveyer belt horns for the digestive stomach. An animal that’s turned itself inside out. Trinket chainbird stories. I’ll see your two suns and raise you a sun. Three suns, Doubloon. Sections of the holy cow. And holy mongoose, victorious over the cobra because of their speed, agility, and timing. And because of their thick coat.

Doubloon: Look at you. We aren’t arguing though, we’re foraging for lung work. Seeing why we breathe.

[The moon had broken through its drowsy eye, signifying my consultation time was over. I stood, and shook his hand to leave.]

What the fuck is that? Contact? Physical form? You don’t do that. You’re not supposed to be here.

Doubloon: I’m just here for you. The Blue Plate Titanium Special. Damn, you got the mongoose out.