is the subject of my Trade Tripper column in this Friday-Saturday issue of BusinessWorld:
In line with my continuing obsession to coax the Financial Times to invite me for an interview involving a meal or drink, here is another TT interview: The roadhouse was deserted, except for a truck driver here or there having his dinner of steak, fries, and coffee. The “Martha Special.” The band hasn’t played yet but country music isn’t really my thing so I’m relieved. Raylan Givens would’ve felt at home here. I was sitting at the counter, opting for my usual bourbon and a bourbon when in walks my guests.
They saunter over real casual like but you can tell they’ve already memorized the layout of the place. The taller one shakes hands with me, the older one sits beside me and says: “How the hell have you been?” The typical Sam and Dean welcome. Dean doesn’t wait for an answer and calls the waitress for a cheeseburger, extra bacon, and whiskey. I order my drink. Sam looks at me and I explain the interview. He shakes his head and mutters: “They’ll print anything these days.”
“You mean like the Supernatural books of Carver Edlund?” I shoot back. Sam grimaces, Dean sneers at me. But I know he’s happy with his burger and half-eyeing the waitress behind the counter. “Where is Mr. Chuck Shurley?” The prophet Chuck. Dean shrugs. He’s been missing for some time. They act unconcerned, which assures me Chuck is safe. Although, then again, in their world, one can’t be sure what “safe” means. We talk about wendigos, the Hook Man, Bloody Mary, croatoan viruses, djinns, and clowns. “Don’t forget the long pig!” Dean chuckles. I laugh.
Then just to screw around with his mind, I start to read a passage about them that I found in the Internet: “... and the demons who, even now, must be approaching, the warmth of their embrace comforted them. And then Sam caressed Dean’s clavicle. ‘This is wrong,’ said Dean. ‘Then I don’t want to be right,’ replied Sam, in a husky voice.” Sam groans, Dean glares and throws a french fry. “You do know we’re brothers right!?,” his voice rising. I chuckled, “Why are you defensive? Besides, I didn’t write this ‘Wincest’. Becky Rosen did.” Sam grabs my arm and turns to Dean, “Can I kill him?” Dean looks at me angrily and whispers, “Not in public.” This interview was getting out of hand.
A waiter arrives to take further orders and the brothers loosen up. I offered another round of drinks and they accept. I order three double bourbons. “Super fantastic!” the waiter said and left. Dean finds him strange. I shrug. I ask about Bobby Singer. He’s fine, still his cranky, paranoid research, whiskey-fueled self. And Castiel? The moment I said it I knew I made a mistake in bringing it up. Castiel got power mad after wiping out his enemy angels. Nevertheless, he did utter one of my favorite lines ever: “You know that liquor store down the road? Well, I drank it.” He’s currently a sore spot for the brothers, particularly Dean, who became close friends with the nerdy angel. We’ll find him, was all Dean would say.
I decide to ask about the Impala. Dean’s eyes light up. For me, the Impala is what I find the coolest about the brothers. A black 1967 Chevrolet Impala, with a radio constantly playing Öyster Cult, AC/DC, and Bad Company. The rumbling sound alone would make good company during hours of cross-country driving. The trunk full of mean weaponry ain’t too bad either. “It is,” Dean would say, “my life and sanctuary.” I can understand why.
I ask about how they feel that their parents named (or based their names) from characters in a Jack Kerouac novel. “You mean ‘On the Road?” says Dean. “What??” says Sam, suprised that Dean even knew who Kerouac was. “Hey I read,” shrugs Dean. “No connection really to Sal and Dean, except for the fact that we travel all over,” says Sam. Not really true, I replied. The self-knowledge, the spirituality (at least for Sal) that was acquired during the travels obviously got to you guys too. “Perhaps,” Sam admits. And what of that alternate reality they encountered, where Supernatural was just a TV show? Dean spluttered, “Yeah, that was weird. I mean Jared Padalecky, Jensen Ackles, Misha Collins, what the hell kind of names is that?!”
The roadhouse was getting noisier and the band was getting ready to play. It was time to wrap up the interview. Dean insisted on hitting on the waitress. I tell him to leave her alone. Dean testily declared me as stuffy as Sam. “And you,” I tell Dean, “can go to hell. Again.” Dean chuckles. I want to finish the interview with some pie. Sam rolls his eyes, Dean sighs contentedly. “Gotta have pie,” he says.
The Roadhouse
1 x cheeseburger (extra bacon)
9 x double whiskeys
3 x pies
