My Wookie Blues

Christ, could the Gypsy talk. Especially after that first shot of Irish Rose to shake off the psychic funk of a long ride up 85 after an even longer day at work. Once this happened she became the conversational equivalent of a strong Jack and Coke mixed with a fistful of Mentos. From the simple anecdotical thread of a coworker's misadventure, she wove a cross county narrative spanning years of broken hearts, comical misunderstandings, close calls with the police and the sex lives of Rennies. She wasn't stream of consciousness - she was Niagara Falls of consciousness. Throughout the course of these monologues she would march back and forth from the living room to the kitchen - her ankle bracelets jingling a wind chime song to her steps - to pour herself a glass or wine or stir some exotic dish from the 'home country' (Brooklyn) simmering on the stove. The only time I could get a word in beyond an affirming grunt was when she had to hit the head. Now normally, as a creature of solitude, I wouldn't stand for this shit. No, normally I would have marched my ass off to my room, packed a bowl and vanished happily into comic book land.

But the Gypsy was a woman of tremendous beauty, one who would drunkenly quote the poetry of William Blake with the same whimsical ease she did the lyrics of an old Tom Waits lullaby. If it was just the beauty or the Blake, I could've walked with my pride intact. But both. Both was too much for me and I was bound under her charm. So I'd listen to her -this refugee from a Tom Robbins novel, this vagabond cocktail bubbling with oblivious mirth and dire confessions, this drop-dead gorgeous Medusa.

She was perfect for me with only the one tiny flaw that neither of us could stand each other for long.

But she needed an audience and I needed the ambient comfort of her whirlwind grace, so we put up with each other long enough for her to consider me a friend and for me to wish she would consider me as much more. As shy, young men who fancy themselves poets and artists are wont to do.

One night, with a theatrical wave of her Henna laced hand, the Gypsy said something that's been stuck with me since: "My friend Bunny had this saying about how there are basically only two types of men out there in the world: Luke Skywalker's and Han Solo's."

"Heh." I smirked, "What about me? I'm a Chewbacca."

"Tch, Jack." She rolled her eyes in exhaustion, I never knew what annoyed her more - my self-effacing wit or being interrupted. "No you're not. Besides - Chewbacca's not even a man."

"Yes he is. He's just not human."

"You know what I meant. But anyway, Bunny told me this right after bailing Antoine out of jail. Now this wasn't the Antoine we met after the Pogues show, that was Crazy Antoine who tried picking a fight with Shane McGowan. No, this Philadelphia Antoine, who was much crazier than Crazy Antoine..."

But I was already drifting out. I couldn't shake the revelation the Gypsy unintentionally laid down on me. I was a Wookie in a world of Solo's and Skywalker's. It all made sense. A big, hairy guy whose growls no one could understand except a handful of Rebels. Instead of fixing spaceships I fixed stories, I was a mechanic of words. I wasn't charming but I was strong. Sure, he wasn't the star of the wars, he didn't even get a medal at the end when the day was saved... but without him where would the Rebels be? So the metaphor stuck and integrated into the self-referential language suit I wore with both quiet imagination and an impeccably earnest clumsiness.

Years later and while I don't talk to the Gypsy anymore, I still struggle with my inherent Wookiness. All the princesses in Alderaan find me cute enough but incompatible biologically. My buddy the Scoundrel is frozen distant in California Carbonite, while my Jedi Knight from another mother has hung up his lightsaber to raise a family of his own in the Jacksonville System. So here I am, lost in the limbo between Empire and Return.

But on the other hand, I've finally learned to pilot a spaceship solo (no pun intended). A prospect that no less than a year ago frightened me. I might not be winning the Kessel Run anytime soon but I can get to where I need to go when I have to. Some nights I go out drinking with the remaining Rebel Alliance, some nights its holo-D&D with the robots, but most nights I just hole up in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon - chain smoking cigarettes and logging the adventures no thought to ask about. I'm not alone though. The ghost of Obi Wan keeps me company, he reminds me gently that my adventure isn't over yet and that there is much work to do.

And in the dark, I can only growl my agreement.