Image Description: Yung Lean staring intently.

 

By Mikey Issit

 

I walk into the café at 1am and clock David Foster Wallace with his goons all
decked out in fresh FILA threads sipping lattes. Solarflare by Yung Lean¹ blares on the
speakers competing with busy café ambience and you can barely hear Lean Doer’s dulcet
vocals over the clatter of plates and the taking of orders by the holy caterers. I somehow
suss out a table next to Dave’s booth and secretly listen in while scanning the menu
pretending I’ll order anything other than the large comfort pasta and glass of red². Dave’s
booth reeks of Lynx Africa.

“I love the Arctic Monkeys,” goes Bob one of DFW’s poet mates adjusting his
greasy yet delicate bouffant. A break in their chat follows. Metal knives and forks all
around tap against enamel plates and wooden chairs rumble and Yung Lean serenades
the whole joint with his beautiful thoughtful lyrics.

“Yes and but so,” bellows David the clear alpha presence at the booth, “I think that
that David Lynch film was a truly epiphantic experience.”

“Is that a word?” goes one of his writer mates.

“It is now, champ,” retorts Dave while scribbling furiously into his notepad with
brow-furrowed and salty sweat dripping from his iconic durag. I wonder how often he
washes that thing. He probably just sprays it with Lynx occasionally.

The angel arrives on a floating cloud with my order and her weightless creamy
white gown flowing and her faintly blueish feathered wings stretching out wide and curling
back into place while her halo softly glows, floating above her blonde hair.

Cheers I go, making sure my voice is deep enough and tucking into my late dinner/
dark lunch. The place where my bald spot will form starts to itch like mad but gee I love
scratching it. There’s gotta be some pill that prevents hair loss. Probs hell expendo. I
know I won’t introduce myself to Dave. Not tonight. What if I say something dumb and he
scoffs at me? You think you’d stop worrying about this kinda stuff in the afterlife but sadly
you’re wrong.

Mm that’s good pasta goes my inner monologue³ and I put the cutlery down and
smack my lips. Well worth the twelve clams I reckon. May as well try and get some writing
done while I’m here. An angel collects my plate using telekinesis and glides away and I
reach into my counterfeit FILA bum bag and whip out my dad’s dusty typewriter. Dave
keeps yapping on about David Lynch and things go bad again and my head begins
spinning and I get all queasy and pale and sweaty like I’m boutta yack up that creamy
pasta and the wooden table legs grow thick brown bristles and I feel as though I’m typing
away on a big angry spider with it’s beady black eyes staring as if the great beast will
strike at any moment filling me with poison webbing me up and saving the rest for later
like a kebab you’ve foolishly bought at 3am.

Yung Lean dressed in a tux holding a gold mic Swedish hair on point emerges from
the bathroom door wilin out stepping onto the black stage belting out one of his old hits
Gatorade⁴. His sidekick Bladee follows playing a harp. They both look very stoned.

Everyone’s kinda grooving to it. My table spider taps it’s bristly leg to the beat and
brushes against my own leg and I really feel like yelling in terror but I don’t wanna
interrupt the song/cause a commotion/make eye contact with anyone.

“Aw man… did Yung Lean die?” goes Bob who has an extremely receding hairline.

“The thing about Blue Velvet is it is entirely itself,” goes Dave huffing out a big cloud
of smoke as he talks, “it’s actually a very high IQ movie.”

“Must’ve OD’d, the poor bugger,” goes Dennis.

“It’s very… it’s Franco-philistically stylised. It might borrow heavily from Alfred
Hitchcock but it is entirely Lynch’s own work.”

“Can you OD on weed?”

“Surely not.”

“Is everything ok?” asks another literal angel gliding by with a face of serenity.

Uhh I stutter like a fool with pupils like black dinner plates looking not really at her
but more her general vicinity yeah all good thanks. Don’t wanna cause a fuss like what the
heck would I say anyway “oh yeah my table’s turned into a spider can you please chuck it
in the garden?” Leany finishes his banger to scattered applause.

“Okay,” she replies and she whooshes past leaving an aura of white mist that
flattens my quiff as my hazy mind attempts to astral project myself slowly manoeuvring
out of my chair going up to the counter paying the bill and getting outta here.

Keep the change I say to the cashier like Don Draper even though I used paypass and
I find myself using all my God-given strength to try and pull open the glass door trapping
me in this hellhole.

“It clearly says push, dude,” goes the cashier

 

¹ [explicit] Jonatan Leandoer Hastad aka Yung
Lean aka Lean Doer, Swedish SoundCloud rapper who changed the game.

² The Moon Cafe’s best meal. Such a basic dish but it goes so hard. It’s a pasta carbonara with two
bits of bacon and mushroom and chicken breast and a few bits of dark broccoli. You really do feel
comforted after eating aye. Maybe it’s the red wine. $12 for a large plate on Tuesdays. Big eets!

³My inner monologue’s voiced by Nicolas Cage.

⁴ [explicit]: another tune from Lean’s
astronomical first mixtape Unknown Death 2002.