An Impromptu Meeting with the Mushroom King



Friday night, C and I are dragging down the streets of Soulard. (For those who don’t know--Soulard is The Lou’s oldest community. Built by the French, destroyed by the flock to the suburbs, now rebuilt by hippies, yuppies and those who love brick homes, it is host to the second largest Mardi Gras in America and the best bars in town.) On a hunch, we go into The Shanty. The inside bar fits maybe thirty with seating for a hundred outside when the weather is nicer.

The average age of the bar is easily twenty years older than C and I. A shaggy dog walks around humping strangers’ legs as his owner dances with women who spin, dip and flay their arms the same as they did at a Dead concert in the sixties. But the vibe is cool, no pressure just drink and dig the lead signer playing base accompanied by an un-miced acoustic and man playing a violin with a cigarette permanently in his mouth.

On my second turn to buy, I walk up to the bar and stand next to a man who has been filling his dance cards with every lady in the place. He was dressed as a mid-management man on the town: Dockers, green long sleeve Polo shirt and a brown hat pulled down low over glassy eyes. Except he is also wearing, a teal-green vest with pink polka dots. He appears to be just another cubicle dweller trying to live out some unspeakable fantasy in the nighttime.

“I’m the Mushroom King.” He proclaims to me.

“Really?” Confused at what I just heard.

“I’m the Mushroom King. I was an eight foot tall Mushroom at Mardi Gras.”

“Good for you.”

“I’m the Mushroom King. But I only dose myself.” He laughs at his joke.

“Nothing for others?” Is this guy trying to offer me drugs?

“Nothing. I just dose myself. Did you see me at Mardi Gras. I was an eight foot tall Mushroom.”

“I was working.”

“You missed it. I’m the Mushroom King. But I only dose myself.”

By this time, I am having a hard time not laughing at the situation. Here is a guy who I would trust to be my investment banker telling me he is the mushroom king of St. Louis.

C walks up and he reintroduces himself.

“I’m the Mushroom King. I was an eight foot tall Mushroom at Mardi Gras.”

C smiles his grin, which causes the other person in the conversation to keep talking; though, he really needs no help.

“Rub my vest.” He invites.

C and I shrug and run our fingers across the piece of fabric he offers. C goes so far as to put his palm down the best.

“Wooo, man. I said rub the vest not the chest.” He giggles and turns to me. “He rubbed the chest and not the vest.”

C and I laugh at him, not with him.

“I’m the Mushroom King. I put stuff in the vest, but you rubbed the chest.”

C and I look down at our fingertips as he repeats the line and laughs at his joke. They aren’t oily nor with any film.

“He rubbed the chest.” He nudges me as C goes to the restroom.

“Yeah,” I say. “Good meeting you Mushroom King.”

“I was the eight foot tall Mushroom at Mardi Gras.” His eyes light up thinking I recognized him from the other day.

After our beers and on our way out the door, we receive a big wave from the Mushroom King. There were never any affects of rubbing the vest, because he only doses himself.