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Further Phoenix
at Rio's Attic:

Mike Waters

Scott Favor

Warner Brothers
Rio's Attic: Celebrating the Life and Times of a Dearly Missed River Phoenix

  God Damn a Potato E.C. Kasalivich  

        Mike's two unknown friends approached him: Johnny though shorter by several inches was obviously the elder. Mike felt a rush as he noticed how like Scott he looked. He didn't move with the same, easy, pigeon-toed lope of Scott's - the one that Mike could never tell was an affectation or for real. But in most other respects, he was Scott. Same black hair, cut in the same collar-length style; the open, confident look; the wide crooked-toothed smile under cheek bones a little higher and more broad than Scott's - Scott with a deep tan, that summed up his looks. He was dressed in denim pants and a sand colored drill shirt over which he wore a brown leather flying jacket - probably an original from the Second World War by it's condition. Like the car, it had seen better days.
        The younger of the two was tall and lean, and dressed entirely in black. His black, shoulder length hair tied back at the neck and his full-faced appearance spoke far more of his ancestry than did his attire. And the round lensed, wire-rimmed glasses gave a heavy clue as to the style of music he preferred. Black shirt, black jacket, black jeans, black socks - only the trainers differed, and they were white.
        'You looking good Mike! How you feeling?' said Johnny as if Mike was an old friend. 'Medicine Dove - Hettie, she told me you had this condition.'
        'Ahm. Er, I'm doing okay. You know. You kinda get used to it. It's no big deal. Like... I mean, thanks. For taking the trouble and all.' Mike felt exposed and ill at ease. Just how much did these guys know about him? Did Johnny catch Mike's look? Had he given himself away?
        'Hey Mike. This here's Jay Seven Elks. You know his pa - the cop!'
        'Cut it out Johnny!' said Jay, rankled by Johnny's choice of introduction.
        'Take no notice of him, Mike. He's pissed with his old man right now.'
        'Sorry Mike,' said Jay offering his hand. 'You know how it is. They just wont get off your case.'
        'He's pissed with his old lady too.'
        'Your father. He's a nice guy - for a cop,' said Mike.
        'You live with him for a while. He'd soon drive you crazy.'
        Mike shrugged and the three of them gravitated towards the porch steps where they all sat.
        'You going to be here for a while?' asked Johnny. Mike had been on the verge of moving on, but the timely appearance of Johnny with his uncanny resemblance of Scott had caused him to think again.
        'If the Wilbur's let me.'
        'They'll let you stay 'til you hair turns gray. They never put no-one out,' said Johnny.
        'Not even little Stevie, and he burnt their barn down,' added Jay.
        'What are they? Mormons?' asked Mike.
        'Hell no! Hettie, she's a Quaker lady. And Dan, well he's just Dan, but I reckon he's more Quaker than he lets on.'
        'Don't they eh... supposed to dress in black and wear funny wide brimmed hats?'
        'When Quakers dressed like that, my people would have been in feathers and buckskin,' said Johnny.
        'Yeah! Regular whooping shooting scalping Warner Brother's Indians,' said Jay. 'Some people, like my dippy old man, think we should still go round like that every month or so, so we don't forget our roots!' Jay clearly did not share his father's sentiment.
        'So you should!' chided Johnny. 'Maybe not so often as every month, but hell Jay, where's the harm?'

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