It stank. It smelled like cigarettes, marijuana, dirty clothes, and cat piss. The center of the room had a table littered with ash trays, matches, glass and plastic bottles, a grimy bong, and dirty magazines. To the right, down the darkened, trash-ridden hall, was the room in which they practiced sorcery. Scarily enough, it was the cleanest room in the apartment: spotless, sparse, a closet in the corner concealed their black hooded robes; a washing bowl sat on the other side of the room next a large, clean knife and a thick leather book of spells. Back in the living room, she moved the centerpiece table aside and folded out the couch into a bed for us all to sit. We watched some show about housewives, and another about cooking, on Netflix. We had just left a Mac DeMarco concert at the Electric Factory. It was getting really late. We were four hours from home. We all had work the next morning. At 2 AM, we went out to get cheesesteaks. Outside we appeared in the hazy moonlight that creeped around the corners and through the cracks of the huddled squat apartments. We walked the slim empty streets of Philadelphia with the promise of Springsteen’s whisper, Ain’t no angel gonna greet me. We walked past the fruit carts hosted by the somber-eyed Hispanics toward the two famous cheesesteak stands enwreathed in fluorescent lights, our beacon of the witching hour. Our Philly tour guide, my friend’s sister and sorceress, pipes up with, “Don’t go to that one, it’s notoriously racist.” So we went to the one across the street. In line, I explained how to properly order a Philly Cheesesteak, a skill which I learned from an online source: “It’s all about efficiency. You walk up to the window, and say, ‘Whiz to Go, WIT.’ Whiz means cheese whiz, which is how you’re supposed to order a proper Philly Cheesesteak. ‘Wit’ means you want onions.” The sign said to make sure you had money in hand when you came to the order window. Despite my facade as the alpha on this venture, I was nervous. The stony-faced attendant stared at me with cold indifference: “What’ll it be.” I managed to stutter over the information I had just conveyed to the group when I barked “WHIZ TO GO… WIT.” He pulled out an empty sub, loaded in a plethora of thinly-sliced beef, and turned to a great big vat into which he entered a ladle, scooping out gobs of cheese whiz from the steaming cauldron. He poured the ladle across the sub, dashed the cheese with slivers of onion, and handed the Philadelphian staple to me wrapped in flimsy paper quickly soaking with whiz. I paid the ten dollars or whatever it was and began to devour. Just as we all got our cheesesteaks, Mac DeMarco, with his dirty band of troubadours, appeared in a lax stride under the fluorescent light. “MAC!” we all cried, astonished to see our gap-toothed indie rock hero here for some cheesesteaks. He gave us hugs with a warm, amiable smile, and humbly asked how to (properly) order a cheesesteak. I smiled, now erudite in the ways of the Philly Cheesesteak, the incantation to bring it forth still hot on my tongue—I chin up, look sweet Mac in the eye, and chant, “Whiz to go, WIT.”
JR Rhine is a poet, musician, and educator living in St. Mary’s County, Maryland. His newest collection of poems, “Expired Damages” is now available online. He is married to Naomi and his cat is Lugosi. He tweets @jarjarrhine and is on Instagram @jrrhinepoetry.