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This is the True Story of How I Worked For a Fake Drug Company
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- Category: Story
- Written by Alex Vermits
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(Hey World Artist Network, Tom, Zach, everyone else. Anyway first two parts. Rest as I think them up. Good to be back)
Riverdale
By
Alex Garrido (awesome new pen name)
Part 1
Remember when you were an asshole and actually enjoyed reading High Times Magazine, a periodical about pot you would never smoke, yet, “probably would get you like twice as high as we are now”? And remember the adds in the back of High Times Magazine for that “Legal Herb” that didn’t even look real? Remember how you spent precious moments of an already fleeting existence wondering, “how the fuck they get away with that shit?”, but sort have knew because deep down you’re not fucking retarded. I was the guy who manned the midnight shift for not one, but every fake drug company in America (there might have been one called Wizard Smoke in California).
.
I got the job through a pretty girl I met the Cinema of Liberation or Gypsy Culture or some essential class that didn’t meet on Friday. To be completely honest with you I have very vague recollections of how it all happened. I think I was just likable and trustworthy and I knew most everyone that worked there through selling real drugs. All I remember was meeting her at he Riverdale Post Office so she could walk me up the stairs and through the always locked space on the second floor. I was then taken into a back room and seated in front of a cheap desk displaying nothing more than a broken lava lamp.
The gentleman behind that desk wanted it to be very clear he was not my boss, nor did he work for the company. Also, there would be no job interview, and my coworkers would carry out all necessary training. The only thing I had to know about my boss was that he was an avid surfer living in Southern California, and I would never see him or speak to him. He handed me a key, a manila folder with instructions on scheduling, sick leave, and basic procedures for safety. Any reasonable instinct I had to run from the arrangement was suppressed by a healthy twenty-seven dollar an hour starting wage and a complete lack of management. The courier shook my hand and told me that if I had any questions ask my coworkers, or come up with a solution befitting my B- in the Films of Woody Allen.
Orientation was conducted by the two employees who had been there the longest (6 months) the first, a Jewish kid we called Poker for reasons unknown, and the second a Puerto Rican we called Joe Donut because he liked donuts, most likely.
Joe gave me my orientation to the back room where we would mix the special formulas in industrial size shipping cans by combining the ingredients, capping the canister and simply rolling the combination across the length of the store. There was a huge instruction booklet that had about 50 pages of usable formulas, followed by scattered notes that would suggest combinations like Kava and catnip, or various exotic herbs and catnip, or catnip whatever was overstocked. I was waiting for Joe to be a dick and claim he had his way, but he mostly just kept reminding me to keep my mask on because the dust was making everyone sick.
I asked him what to do if he wasn’t there and he told me just to throw some shit together with catnip because it wasn’t going to work either way our concerns being mostly cosmetic.
The rest of our business was centered on selling Ephedrine (Mormon Tea) a now widely banned substance, to Meth-Labs across the United States. At the time on my employment only New York had laws against the drug, a minor setback considering crystal-meth had not caught on in northeast anyway. But now I’m getting way ahead of myself.
After the tour of the facility, Poker trained me on the business/shipping end of the process. Each competing, fake drug company had a color-coded phone with the name of the company on top, the thinking being we are dealing with people who are buying fake drugs and that kind of stupidity rarely learns from experience. In all honesty, we could’ve made a killing off your average “suckers born every minute” but it takes true evil genius to convince these valued customers to believe that it wasn’t the FAKE MARIJUANA that was the problem, but more so the green telephone’s lack of pride in their product that the red phone had made a priority.
And I’m being inaccurate by saying fake marijuana because we sold every single fake drug we could think to fake: fake mushrooms, ecstasy, opium (the shit that smelled like roses you and your dumb fuck-hippy friend put on top of your weed even though you cannot smoke real Opium that way), fake Viagra, fake speed (more ephedrine) and even fake Quaaludes (which is hilarious because I’m fairly certain Real Quaaludes didn’t exist when I was in college), along with various other make-believe potions we called hilarious things like Mellow Yellow or Kind Indica something or another.
And lastly the occasional drug themed pornography (thus Alice in Acid Land and Sally Smokes Weed and Turns Into a Gangbang Whore, etc) one awesome drug sci-fi called Ganjasaurus (look them all up if you don’t believe me) about a Godzilla type monster made of Marijuana that ate hippies (I’m not doing it justice) and finally lava lamps, the single most useless, ugly thing one could ever buy ever, period.
And we sold a shit-load of all of it. I mean, to unload a metric fuck-ton of a product that didn’t work was amazing in an of itself, but then became downright miraculous when you consider the fact that I told these shit-for-brains hillbillies that our product didn’t work within ten seconds of the initial phone call. Something to the tune of,
“Hey man, does this shit really work?”
“No sir/ma’am these are fake drugs. If I sold you a fake car, would you expect it to work? These weeds have no known value of any kind evidenced by the fact that starving 3rd world dirt farmers willing to sell whatever it is for a little less than a dollar a pound.”
“Oh I get it, ha ha. Roger that. Give me two pounds of that shit that doesn’t work.”
And this happened every 30 seconds, give or take. But how could the customer complain when we were selling them a pound of FAKE MARIJUANA for almost 15 percent off the price of real marijuana, the stuff that actually gets people high.
And before you get your special Canadian Calculators out to do the conversion, let me grossly round down for you, and say a pound could be gotten in Harlem for $600 for peat-moss covered in Raid. Now subtract 15% of that and compare that fortune to the honorable thievery of charging a still criminal two dollars a pound, thus doubling the store’s investment something that is almost unheard of in any legal business and you have a fake-drug ass fucking of Herculean proportions. Not to mention we did this three to four times per customer
Oh, and the horror-show of stupidity does not stop there, evidenced by the second most common question:
“Is this High Times Magazine?”
“Oh, is this Hiigh Times Magazine?”
“No, this is high times magazine, right?”
“Dude, so cool your work for High Times”
Which I have to admit some subterfuge in the interest of deflecting annoying complaints to the actual High Times Magazines, a surly bunch of skinny, white, mostly-vegans that hated our fucking guts. Sadly for them the publication lived on our advertising dollars, and was very limited with their demographic of self-righteous, lazy people.
Or the “I’ll never forget that call” involving a gentlemen who purchased our “Variety Sampler Pack “ and mixed the ingredients together to form a kind of tea which in his own blood-choked moans, was eating his organs just slow enough for him to contemplate all the reasons buying fake drugs meant this was inevitable if not today, then later today.
And I, feeling essentially the same, told him that he needed to call High Times Magazine and information would have the number if he had it in him.
And even the occasional curve ball, namely the John Dillinger that called up to inform me that he’d just stolen a credit card and, “what now?”
Didn’t need to purchase anything, just wanted some basic, criminal advice. I think I told him to buy everything in his Grandmother’s name because.
“Same name, unlikely suspect, and if she dies, case closed.”
So, I guess the obvious next question would be: how does one live with the guilt and shame of ruining countless lives?
(Later Today – Living With The Shame and Guilt of Ruining Countless Lives)
Brand X
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- Written by Jason Eaton
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They said they came from a planet humans couldn't pronounce, in the direction of Betelgeuse, but farther. The news programs called the place "X".
Instead of landing in D.C., they made first contact in Seattle, at the Moonbux Coffee Co. world headquarters.
"We've been expecting you," said CEO Jeremy Schmidt, allegedly.
Their leader said they liked Moonbux style. The press dubbed him Henry, in honor of Mr. Ford, and recognition of his progressive business sense.
By the time the government got wind, it was too late. All the men from X had a work visa, and a squadron of high priced lawyers on retainer. Moonbux ate the initial expense and became the official sponsor of what came to be known as the Brand X invasion. The number of their franchises doubled, then doubled again. Planet X Organic Dark Roast, Fair Trade certified, became the best selling coffee bean in the history of humanity.
The men from X used the media platform to announce the first of their gifts, "The Truth Ray", for use in law enforcement. We decided it would also be handy in the courtroom. Point it at someone, ask a question, watch the lightbulb. Green means true, red means false, simple concept. If your subject just wouldn't fess up, you could turn it up a notch, and automatically punish lies with an ever-increasing amount of pain.
We didn't know about the field effect, or worry much about conditioning.
A prime-time cartoon on Fox sealed the deal, and America fell in love with the men from X. They looked just like Roger from American Dad, so in a way, we were already waiting. The Truth Ray got licensed for home use, and men and women worldwide no longer had to wonder if their spouses were cheating.
When the excitement died down, sometime around autumn sweeps week, people stopped looking, Henry and the men from X became yesterday's news, nothing special. The Brand X ambassadors played their next card.
Brand X Total Mind Control (TMC) Bluetooth accessories hit the market like a drunk roofer sweet-talking his woman. Nothing more than a refinement of the Truth Ray technology, which only the Men from X possessed, the controller module sat in your ear and read your brainwaves. The module allowed you to control any Bluetooth compatible device, hands-free in a way we never imagined before.
Updates downloaded and installed automatically at any wifi hotspot, so your module was never out of date.
By Christmas the 2nd generation module could project a graphic display directly into your head. A virtual video screen overlaid your vision, becoming opaque or transparent as needed to select and control your devices.
To get on board the gravy train, everybody else started plugging Brand X API-ready Bluetooth receivers in everything from automobiles to water heaters. By the time Easter rolled around, everybody had a reason to want a Brand X TMC Bluetooth.
To accomodate demand, the men from X re-released a scaled-down version of the 1st gen module as TMC nano, available everywhere for twenty-nine ninety-five. Worldwide market penetratation approached ninety-nine percent in civilized countries.
A German scientist released a paper detailing his independant study of the device. He found that, in addition to reading our minds, the Brand X devices stimulated endorphin production. He warned us against the very real possibility of physical addiction to the technology. He produced reams of data detailing the horrible withdrawl symptoms experienced by hundreds of test subjects.
Nobody cared. He gave up and moved to Costa Rica.
Uncle Sam wanted a piece of the action, and in early spring representatives from the Pentagon approached Henry demanding they produce some sort of weapon.
"We thought you would never ask," Henry said.
He gave them the X-Ray. It looked like an electric razor, with a trigger and a seven position selector knob. The settings ranged from "annoy" to "Kill me now, please", plus knockout and kill. The high-end version had an extra setting. A further refinement of the TMC technology, it allowed the bearer to remotely control the mind of any target subject.
Several human rights organizations spoke out about the possible dangers of soldiers possessing the ability to control their enemies minds, but nobody ever listened to human rights groups. We figured our enemies didn't deserve free will if they were just going to use it to fight us. The president demanded a field test before investing too much in the project.
A single battalion of Marines landed in Afghanistan armed with the new weapons and the region knew peace for the first time in fifty generations. The president mailed a check.
Law enforcement got ahold of the device, and crime became extinct. The murder rate dropped to one per month, per city, which nobody seemed to think much about.
On July 4th, the world discovered the true face of Henry's master plan. Hidden in a critical security update, the remote mind control facility was installed in every piece of Brand X technology in active use on the planet.
Henry pushed the button. Brand X consumers became his willing puppets. Obedience was rewarded with endorphin spikes, insolence punished with withdrawl, and searing pain the prize for any attempt to remove the modules. The .5% of humanity that resisted the technology was subdued, and modules forcibly installed. Even the most adamant individualists became compliant tools of Henry's agenda.
Once he established total control, Henry addressed the people of earth en masse, to explain himself.
"People of Earth," he said through their bluetooth modules. "We thank you for choosing Brand X brand accessories to enrich your media experience. We know you have no choice in telepathic mind control technology providers, but still appreciate your loyal patronage. In order that we might better serve you, we require that you select, by any means of your choosing, one consumer per city, per month to attend the appetites of your Brand X ambassadors. We regret to inform you that consumers so honored will not survive the experience, as we intend to eat them.
"While this may seem extreme, perhaps horrible to your primative sense of morality, I would like to remind you how deeply our efforts have enriched your lives. I would like to point out that, left to your own devices, you killed far more of your own kind for no good reason. Petty theft, unrestrained passion, revenge. All we want is one per city, per month.
"Otherwise you are free to do as you please. Create your art, love your families, build your puny empires, and engage in your charming trades, Brand X brand technology will be here with you as we build a brighter tommorrow, free of predatory crime and senseless bloodshed.
"We hope this inspires a new era of human innovation and prosperity, and all we ask is one consumer per city, per month.
"You will be informed of the submission deadline via the usual channels, your Brand X Total Mind Control modules. Failure to choose will not save your fellow citizen, it will simply force us to make the choice ourselves, and I will have you know that making such a choice is very hungry work, and may cause us to increase your city's quota.
"Once again, thank you for choosing Brand X brand accessories and technology. We hope you have enjoyed the convenience our hard work has brought to your planet, and look forward to a long and mutually beneficial relationship.
"All hail overlord Henry."
Across the world, seven billion voices responded in unison, "Hail Henry," and the new age was born.
THC Eats A Reality Sandwich
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- Written by Jason Eaton
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"This is delicious" Mary said. Thick globs of cream cheese and grape jelly meandered down her wrists and forearms to match the purple and white smears on her face.
The short drab man Sensei called Roach bowed magnanimously.
"Thank you Seniorita. The sandwich, she is my passion."
I wanted to taste it but Sensei wouldn't let me. We crowded around a tiny round-top table in his modest dining room.
"You said you wanted tacos, so we got you tacos," Sensei said.
"You didn't tell me you were making...what are these?"
"Mary Cristo" Roach said. "Fry chicken, cream cheese, and grape jelly ona waffle breads."
"Yeah that. You didn't tell me you were making Mary Cristos."
"You didn't ask."
"Of course not. I didn't want to be rude."
"What happened to that impulse?"
Mary giggled at the way the old man indirectly managed me. My ears flushed.
He smiled.
"Don't be a baby. It’s not personal. That taco sauce you were choking down is too strong. It destroyed your pallate. Right now there's no way you could enjoy the subtleties of Roach's art."
"The five flavors overwhelm the tongue," Roach quoted from the Tao Te Ching.
"Wha? Look I'm just hungry, okay. Them tacos didn't do it for me."
"Does he always whine this much?" Sensei asked.
"Unfortunately," Mary said.
"Hmph." Sensei chewed his food.
"Roach, get the whiner a sanwich," he said through a white and purple gob of goodness.
Roach dissappeared and left me with an overpowering urge to explain myself.
"Look I just-"
Mary finished licking jelly off her fingers, the sandwich reduced to scattered crumbs and purple streaks on her paper plate, and cut me off, "what happened back there?"
"Bout time that came up," he said. Instead of answering he took another bite of his sandwich.
Roach emerged from the shadows to deposit a roast beef sandwich on dark rye bread, smothered with thick brown gravy on the table before me.
"That's not a Mary Cristo."
"Yes. Is Moka Mota. Is better you," Roach assured me.
I took a massive bite of the sandwich and started munching.
"Mhats fantwastic!" I said through a mouthful of meat and chocolate gravy.
Roach bowed. "Thank you, Senor."
"Now that the mouth is occupied, I can tell you about the Count," Sensei said, wiping crumbs from his flowing beard.
I grimaced but the sandwich occupied so much of my attention I couldn't be too offended.
"The Count?" Mary asked.
Sensei nodded, "Count Joogula." He took a sip of yerba mate. "You and Larry were falling into the clutches of an ancient and powerful evil when I found you in that trench. Another five minutes and you'd have been as lost as poor old Ted back there. May God have mercy on his soul."
"Muhwhaf?" I sprayed a mouthful of bread crumbs. "May God have mercy on who? The crackhead that chewed on my wife? I hope he burns in a hell of a thousand tiny tortures."
"You wouldn't be so quick to judge if I hadn't saved you."
My cheeks flushed at the memory of my helplesness in the trench.
"The creature you met was not my friend Ted," he continued. "Ted was as noble and generous a man as you'd ever hope to meet. That creature was nothing but an appetite wearing a Ted-shaped shell like a pile of filthy clothes."
He took a bite of sandwich and drifted off into thought.
"Crack will do that to you," I said.
"Shut your mouth, Larry. You have no idea what you're talking about. Crack didn't do that to Ted. The crack was just a symptom of the infection."
"Infection?"
"The same infection running through your veins, Larry. You'll find out soon enough unless we can destroy Joogula."
"Eh, what? I'm not a crackhead, pal, sorry."
"But you will be. My Golden Goddess will suppress the symptoms, but you have to destroy Joogula within a week or you'll be lost."
My head spun. "Wha?"
"Remember how tasty Ted's brains looked, splashed all over your truck?"
Even now, the memory stirred a twinge of hunger. I looked down.
"The infection ties you to Joogula. He's like a God, of sorts, the earthly avatar of addiction. Chip?"
"No, thank you. What do you mean, like a God? How do you destroy a God?"
"Joogula is fast, strong, sneaky, and has a couple neat magic tricks, but he's mortal, and we can beat him."
"This is all happening a bit fast."
"It has to. This weed here will get you off crack, speed, heroin, hell, I even had a girl bangin ten roxy's a day that gave it up after tasting the GG. I know the medicine is good, but Ted just couldn't beat it. He staved it off for two weeks before the hunger took him."
Sensei paused to look me up and down.
"I give you six days," he said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Ted was a noble man. You're..."
"Kind of a bitch?" Mary offered.
"I didn't want to say that."
"I'm not a bitch."
"Finish your sandwich, dear," Mary told me. She shivered.
"Thank you," Sensei said. "You're both infected. I can keep you smokin the Goddess, which'll take the edge off, and teach you what you need to know to help me beat him…"
I bit my finger and realized I was out of sandwich. "Ouch."
Sensei looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
"I can TRY to teach you what you need to know to help me beat him, but first we need to smoke more weed."
To be continued...
The Hydroponic Commando Versus A Crack Zombie
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- Written by Tao Joannes
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The Adventures of The HyrdroPonic Commando ~ Episode I ~
April 20th, 2010, I was attacked and bitten by a Crack Zombie, and my life changed forever.
I always took a dirt-road shortcut between US1 and Grissom called Carroll's Run on my way to drop my wife Mary off at work each morning. It was long and lonely and cut five minutes off the drive. We drifted alone down the rough dirt path at three AM, the headlights shining deep into the clear night. I saw nothing in the road ahead but dirt and gravel.
My favorite AM talk program, Bush Crenshaw's Red Rage, played on the radio. Mary applied mascara with a firm and steady hand above her pearl and jade orbs, reflected in the passenger vanity mirror.
"I wish you'd lighten up," she said, apropos of nothing.
"What do you mean?
Mary lifted her chin to better view her lips, and her jet black hair flared for a moment as she applied her favorite cherry gloss before deigning to answer me. She knows I hate that.
"Relax a little, you're too tense," she said.
"You're crazy. I'm the most laid-back guy I know." I was indignant.
"Yeah, but your friends are assholes. I think it's that AM radio you listen to."
She pouted.
"It stresses me out and I'm trying not to hear it. I can't imagine what the constant stream of hate you willingly ingest would do to my digestion," she said.
I rolled my eyes.
"Hey, baby, if you're not upset, you're not paying attention. Do you know what those pot-head liberals are trying to pull?"
"I don't care, Larry, and even if I did, you're just parroting what they tell you on the radio."
"Look, just because I happen to agree with Bush Crenshaw doesn't mean he does my thinking for-"
The pickup truck lurched to a halt and stalled. I flew against the airbags, and the world vanished with a deafening crunch of crumpling sheet metal.
When I woke up, Mary was still unconscious. I checked her breath and pulse before realizing a bone in my left forearm arm was broken.
I got out of the pickup and almost passed out again, hanging on the door to keep my balance. The headlights shone down the empty road.
As I edged my way around, leaning on the hood for support, I fell in a trench. The landing sent fresh waves of pain through my bruised body. The trench was fresh, about a foot deep, and covered with burlap and loose dirt. Sharpened rebar stuck out six inches from the earth at intervals along the trench, and two of them were lodged through the rims in my truck.
My mind reeled at the thought that someone planned this.
I crawled around to the passenger side door on my knees. It hung ajar, just barely, and I pulled with all my weight against the twisted sheet metal to get it open far enough to crawl inside.
"Baby, are you okay?" I gently shook Mary.
She stirred awake
"What happened?"
"Somebody booby trapped the road. We had an accident."
She let this sink in for a second before opening her mouth to speak. Before she could find her words, her face became a mask of terror.
"It was him!" She raised a bloody hand and finger to point at a ragged figure shuffling towards us in the glare of the headlights.
"That's a crackhead, baby, there's no way he could engineer a trench this sophisticated."
"He's creepy, and he's getting closer."
"Don't worry about him. He's harmless. Can I use your phone, mine is busted."
She dug her phone out of her purse while keeping a wary eye on the crackhead.
"He's getting closer, Larry."
"Relax, baby. Crap! Yours is smashed, too."
"What's Good?" The crackhead called from the front of the truck. He had a screechy, gravelly voice, my skin crawled.
"Unless you got a cell phone we can use, you need to kick rocks, buddy." I told him.
He cackled like a crazy maniac. "What's good?" he implored me.
"Get lost."
"Baby, I don't like this."
"I got this, Mary, just chill. Aren't you always telling me to relax?"
The crackhead came around the passenger side headlight and stepped smoothly across the trench with a grace not present in his regular shuffle step. The effect creeped me out.
"Look, Buddy, I don't know what you think you got here, but I know you do not want any of this."
I forced myself to stand without wincing and put the door between me and Mary, facing the crackhead.
"We got a problem?"
He opened his mouth and I stared into the ragged, eroded stumps of his teeth. His breath smelled like paint thinner and death.
"What's Good?" he croaked at me.
"Fuck. Off!" I swung my right fist at his head, but he turned and raised his hands, catching my haymaker in a fluid flash, and sank his teeth deep into the flesh of my forearm.
Fire shot through my body and I fell back into the trench, paralyzed in excruciating pain. From a thousand miles away I watched in horror as the crackhead ghoul pried open the truck door and began feeding on my wife. Her scream cut short, leaving nothing but the sound of his chewing, Bush Crenshaw's bombastic drone, and the repeating bell of the "key in, door open" alarm.
More powerful than the pain and horror, a growing hunger rose within me. I didn't know what I wanted, but I knew I needed it bad, and if I ever walked again, I was gonna make sure I got it.
A bright, clear, stoned-sounding voice broke the night. "Looks like I found you, Buddy. You done messed up tonight."
The voice was above and behind me. The crackhead snapped up at the sound and stared through the open window at the source. He snarled and bits of gore from my wife's wounds dripped from his deformed mouth.
"What's Good, Bud?"
"You are lookin rough, man. Time to put you out of your misery."
A green streak flashed above my head and the crackhead's skull exploded. Gooey brains sprayed the inside of my truck. Glistening, delicious, moist, succulent brains. I salivated at the thought of slurping them down.
An old man in green knelt beside me in the trench. He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it, taking a deep, slow draw off the end to get the cherry going. He cupped my nose with one hand and exhaled directly into my open mouth. Thick blue smoke billowed into my lungs, and a cool, tingly comfort spread to quench the fire and thirst in my body.
"Here, finish this." He put the blunt between my lips, and I sucked greedily at the richness of the smoke. The zombie's brains seemed less appetizing with each inhalation. The pain began to fade, and I felt strength returning to my limbs. The insatiable craving changed, from the ache for some unfamiliar fix into a simple hunger for something sweet and salty. A taco, maybe, with a milkshake on the side.
He disappeared into the truck and soon a thick cloud of smoke was streaming from the passenger seat.
The old man was gray, grizzled, and slightly hunchbacked, but he appeared to have a full, healthy build, and moved with an easy grace a college varsity star would be hard pressed to duplicate. His costume, too outlandish to be called an outfit, bordered on the ridiculous, yet managed to maintain a sort of theatric dignity. Burnt Orange, black, and frosty white speckles and highlights intricately wove through a long-sleeved, skin-tight lime green shirt and leggings. A forest green cape, boots, codpiece, belt, eye mask, and gloves, tipped with strategically placed sharpened plasticine points completed the ensemble. In the center of his chest, the letters SM formed into an embossed shield shape of orange and yellow plastic blazed in the moonlight. He stepped back from the vehicle and lit a third cigar while surveying the lonely road.
"Ya'll just smoke up and chill. Ha! Like you have a choice right now, that Juugulitis got you feelin pretty weak yet, I imagine. I'll get this mess cleaned up and get the two of you home. We'll fix ya right up."
I had strength enough to grasp the blunt between two fingers and pull it away from my mouth.
I exhaled and asked "who are you?"
He blew a cloud of his own and said, "I'm Sensei Millia, but you can just call me Sensei."
"Sensei?"
"Yeah, like it or not, you are now my students. Don't worry though, it's chill."
"What?"
"Hey man, all will be revealed to you in time. Just get that medicine in ya. We need to get out of here before his buddies show up."
"Buddies?"
"Shhh," he said. Then he got to work pulling me and the truck out and filling the trench with dirt and gravel.
Even in full health, I could never have kept up with the old man's furious pace, so I let him do it. I just laid back, smoked Sensei Millia's magic cigar, and relaxed for what felt like the first time, ever.
"Do you think we'll have time to hit the drive thru on the way?" I asked.
To be continued...
My 9 Year Old Bedroom
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- Written by Antony Plocido
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I stood on the dock trying to figure out the path I walked to get here. I zigged and zagged through old stories of childhood. Then I took a left at adolescence. I know I went to college and took a u-turn. All because I grew tired of long hair and alcoholic trips. I drove over the hills of my twenties and now I stand here, in Missouri, with strangers at my back.
The dock sways with the waves. Its, less than graceful, movement is more like an argument than a dance. The chain on the flag pole rattles as the various boards creek out their song to the water. The air is about the temperature of a March 15th in Minnesota. Which is cold enough to need a coat but not chilly enough to go and get one. There’s a mixed drink of flattened soda and spiced rum in my hand and I’m not sure why I’m not drinking it. The various lights on the far shore resemble the Lite Brite game as they display on the hillside. That’s pretty. It kind of looks like a taxi cab or a yellow fish.
Sitting down, as the waves finally calm, I kick my last leg on to the lounge chair. I wish I had a book to read. I guess it’s all right that I don’t because the nearest light is somewhere near my coat. It’s too bad, really. I came to this lake, in these hills, on this lake, trying to find some peace. Instead, I found pieces. Pieces of the stories that everyone is trying to write.
I want to not to be influenced or changed from my style. I find it to be a carefully crafted machine that only works in characters with ten minute lives. In my heart, I know there is probably more. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have listened. I would have just sat back in this chair and hoped the mole, that is inspiration, would just burrow itself into my mind. In my heart, I know that’s not how it works.
So as the darkness bends and creeps through the lighted ripples in the water, I start to remember innocence. I remember the many days that I came home without a single grass stain on my pants. I remember dancing around to “The Rhythm of the Night” at a 45 speed. The house was so small to me but my room always felt big.
I‘d intentionally let my room get messy for weeks. Then one day motivation would be served like breakfast in bed, and I would clean it. Top to bottom, I would clean it. I would dust the wood with furniture polish. I would vacuum exactly 15 minutes after I put the pungent powder on the carpet. Every toy would be matched up with its little plastic gun or trailer that carried a non-detachable boat. When I was done…when my 9 year old room looked like a chic motel room with bunk bed. I would stand in the doorway and think how absolutely huge my room was. It was the feeling of conquering a foe.
Now I am so jaded and alone. Happiness always comes at me sideways. It’s always late for an appointment and leaves on the same whim that blew it in. Some might find it good that happiness is so good to pop in on me as often as it does. However, I am a man of structure and of detail. I often like to know the road I am driving on; in this case, living on. I am like a fiend for this knowledge. I sit and tie the tourniquet with all the places I need to be and I slap arm with the times I need to be there. It’s a real addiction. So this whimsical delight is a little like cops coming to through the door.
Sadness isn’t a true definition of how I feel at the moment. It’s more of a perpetual annoyance at the slumber I seem to be jumping around in. This, at times, will squeeze a tear from eye. I guess I am feeling the feeling of sitting here, on this dock, waiting for a boat to arrive.
© 2008 Timely Disposition