Wednesday, November 13, 2024

Excerpts from the Pig and Whiskey

 Chapter 4: Criterion Channel Type Pussy

Gray clouds blow from the exhaust of the little orange vehicle.  Parked right beside the door to the A-frame home.  Well.  What I assume must be a home.  But for all I know.  These guys could be livin’ outta their cars.  Just need the land for a good parking spot.  Fuck paid parking just to sleep in the backseat.  Shit.  I wouldn’t even put it past these characters to sleep out in the fuckin’ field.

The door creaks on the rusty hinge.  Gremlins always look like the type of shit a little kid would draw if ya asked ‘em to draw a car.  The orange paint chippin’ and sunbleached on the hood.  Hood slightly ajar on the car.  Packaging tape coverin’ the gap between the frame and glass of the back window.  Scrap metal drilled in place over the back windshield.  “You ever get pulled over for that shit?”

“If ya drive fast enough.  Pigs won’t even see ya.  Faster you drive.  Less time on the road.  Less chance gettin’ pulled over.”  The woman extends her long legs from the car.  Flared yoga pants.  Elephants walkin’ around mandalas.  Paisley intermixed.  Gettin’ out with a smile.  Strawberry frames holdin’ the lenses of her sunglasses over her eyes.  Can make the tiny shape of a heart tattooed under her eye.  Like a teardrop prison tat.  Residue of varying colors from past makeup sticks to her face.  None of her teeth touch.  And you can tell a few of ‘em are still baby teeth.  She kisses me on the cheek.  “Jen Ehtalia.”  She adjusts the tube top around her emaciated lookin’ ribcage.  Daisy hangin’ from the metal in her navel.  “Esteemed to meet ya love.”  She holds her hand out for me.  Like a femme fatale in a noir waitin’ for ya to kiss the back of her hand.  It ain’t me babe.

I shake it delicately.  Startin’ to tell her my name.  But she turns away from me.  Tooth hangin’ from a gold chain in her ear swingin’ in the wind with her hair.  “Don’t you men believe in providin’ for a woman?  Ain’t anybody gonna offer this dame a joint.”

Jerry slides into the doorway.  Quickly emerging back out front.  Joint in hand.  He places the filter between her lips.  Rippin’ a match from the book.  Strikes it off his teeth.  Holdin’ the flame to the flower as Jen takes a drag.  “Pretty girl should never light her own joint…”  She shotguns the hit back to him.

Jen turns back to the car.  Bendin’ over behind the front seat to grab things from the back.  Jerry wolfwhistles at her.  Farfisa whimperin’ at her feet.  Her hand reaches back.  Rustlin’ the girl’s dirty hair.  Couldn’t make those knots worse if she tried.  “Put Your Head on My Shoulder” crackles outta the car stereo.  Mardi Gras beads dangle from the mirror.  Over a line of rubber duckies glued to the dash.  A hippie.  A sheep.  And a firefighter.  Can see the globs of excess adhesive stickin’ outta the base.

“I brought a buncha new records for you boys to play around with.”  She pulls a tote bag from the backseat.  Eight balls printed all over the sides.  Ziplock imagery across the top.  To look like a dime bag.  Settin’ it on the ground beside her.  Farfisa paws and sniffs through it.  “I also got you boys this.”  Leanin’ to the backseat again.  Pullin’ out an odd lookin’, almost teardrop shaped board.  Covered in buttons.  “It’s an Omnichord.  Bought it off one of the guys sellin’ junk from their trunks in the lot at the old abandoned Gibralatar’s Trade Center.  You can make all kinds of interesting sounds.”

“Wait Jerry man.  You guys make music?”

“I told ya.  Me and Mud started a band together.  Now it’s a good ol’ fashioned family band these days.”  He smiles.  Jen holds the joint to Farfisa’s nostril.  Takin’ a drag through the nose before passin’ it to Jerry.

“And you boys can play with the new toys and your new little friend here once you bring the groceries in.  Figured it’s probably been a while now since you three took a trip for groceries.”

“Mud’s been killin’ squirrels again Ma.  So haven’t had much need to go to town for food.  And Dr. Bob’s been synthesizin’ some artificial hunger killers.”

“Oh Jerry.”  Jen smiles as his arm wraps around her waist.  Handin’ the joint to Mud as the two walk inside.  “I’ve told you before honey.  Mini Thins and squirrel meat is not a diet…”

“Make yerself useful Cuz.  Listen to Ma and help with the groceries.”  Mud waves me over to the Gremlin.

“Well Jen’s got a lotta personality.”  Mud hands me a paper bag.  Handles already torn.

“What do ya mean?”  Mud spits.  Accidentally splattin’ the glob onto the side of the vehicle.

“Just captivating.  One of those people that captures the focus of the whole room.”

“Criterion Channel kinda pussy.  Jerry likes women like his cinema.”  Mud slams the door.  Leering over at me.  Brow narrowed under his white face paint.  “Visually unique and fairly unsettling.”  He walks into the house.  Laughin’ his ass off.  I trail behind.  Still vaguely confused.

First doorway takes you into an entrance room.  Small desk littered with ash.  M-80s.  A few bugs crawlin’ around.  Some burnt up pieces of foil next to a glass tube.  Empty box of Bazooka Joe.  One wall covered in coats.  Ponchos.  Even a ghillie suit.  The other lined with bows.  Crossbows.  Bundles of arrows.  Some fishin’ poles.  Tackle box wide open on the ground.  Off to the corner.  Contents spilled across the cement ground.

Mud opens the front door to the house.  Passin’ me the joint.  “Is this a rotini noodle as a filter?”

“Yeah.  It fuckin’ works too.  Everybody almost always has a box of rotini in the pantry.”

Bugs flutter around the lights inside the house.  Antlers and bone fashioned into chandeliers.  Spirals whittled all over the sides of the fixtures.  Line work creatin’ optical illusions.  More ornate than any crystal you could imagine.  Hall openin’ into a small kitchen.  Mud sets the bag down with a thud on the counter.  Grabbin’ a warm forty from beside the ashtray.  Rim made from glued together human teeth.  Three distinct smells hit your nostrils.  Jeżynówka.  Patchouli.  And cat piss.  There’s a used litter box under the shelves in the open pantry.  “Do you guys even have a cat?”

“Nah.  That’s Farfisa’s litter box.”  Dr. Bob Oakley the Third tells me.  Leavin’ the bathroom with a yellowed newspaper.  Edges flake off the sides.  Dated August 18, 1973.

“Oh shut it Bobert!”  Jen yells from the living room couch.  “Farfisa shits in the woods.  Like a bear.  Or the Pope!”

The whole family laughs.  Hear the Doc’s nostrils sniff aggressively over the rustlin’ of grocery bags.  Jerry yellin’ at the feral girl diggin’ through the bag I left on the ground.  Bogart the joint a bit.  Helpin’ Mud put the groceries away.  Oakley’s one pupil goes wide as he catches in his view.  Joint in my lip.  The man hoots and hollers like a gorilla.  Reachin’ out.  Fingers dance in the air.  Tappin’ my shoulder as I pass it to him.  Takes a long, aggressive pull.  Exhalin’ with an almost orgasmic sigh of relief.  “Sorry mate.  I saw the grass and went full on primal.”  He passes the stick back to me.  Tumblin’ as Jerry hits in the back of the knee with a rubber mallet.

“First rule of smokin’ dope is no fiending.  You know that Uncle.”

“So you guys gonna put some of these records on or what?”  Mud yells to Jerry.  Pullin’ the stack of musty cardboard sleeves from the tote.

“You got an ashtray somewhere?”  Ask.  Tryin’ to make out anything recognizable in the mess across the tables and counters.

“You can ash on the floor.  Ash is the cleanest thing on Earth.  All the parasites burned away.”  The tell tale sign you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.  Cigs inside.  Ash on the floor.

“Thank you doll.”  Jen says as I hand her the joint.  Pickin’ up a horse skull from the table beside the plastic wrapped couch.  The jaw opens from a metal bar shoved through the two pieces.  “Would you like a piece of candy?”  The mouth filled with Lifesavers.  Frooties.  And those little strawberry candies your grandma keeps in her purse.

Decline the offer as I hear the needle of the turntable meet the vinyl.  But the sound comes out in a jumbled mess.  The family sittin’ around the room.  Eyes closed as I look at the turntable spinnin’ backwards.  “Guys.  You know it’s playin’ backwards?”

“No shit sherlock.”  Dr. Bob yells.  Spread eagle on the floor.

“I tinkered with it to do that.”  Jerry says quietly.  Layin’ in Jen’s lap.

“See.  This one time.  Me and Jerry were robotrippin’ in high school.  So we started playin’ records backwards.  And we found the secret message backmasked into the Wall.”

“These messages gotta mean somethin’ Sid.  But we can’t unlock the secret gospel in the backwards world of rock n’ roll until we find all the messages.”  Jerry explains nonchalantly.  “Maybe it’s the Illuminati.  Maybe it’s the global elite.  Right Wing Pigeons from Outer Space.  Hell!  For all we know it could be the Scientol-”  The rotini noodle placed in his lips cuts off his buildin’ rant.  “But there are secrets out there Sid.  Hidden in the grooves of records.  You just gotta know how to look to uncover ‘em.”

“Like how Paul is dead?”  Jerry’s arm lowers off the side of the couch.  Holdin’ the joint to Farfisa’s nostril.

“Paul is dead?!  Why didn’t anybody tell me?”  Jen.  Somewhat alarmed by the truth I reveal to ‘em.  But eyes still closed.  Garbled mess of sound fillin’ everyone’s ears.  “Yoko was always my favorite Beatle anyways…”

Light chuckles fill throughout the room.  Even Farfisa seems to make some sort of sound of amusement.  She paces around the room.  Sniffin’ at the heads listenin’ to gobbledygook comin’ from their speakers.  The coffee table covered in a stack of Civil War books.  One on weapons.  One on flags and uniforms.  Battles.  Big coffee table books.  Lots of pictures.  Little text.  Mostly information about the Confederacy.  One book sits off to the side.  With a bookmark in it.  A biography of Stonewall Jackson.

The bookshelf stands beside the TV.  Why even bother buyin’ a smart TV if ya don’t believe in wifi?  Got the shit rigged with rabbit ear antennas in the back.  Jerry must tinker a lot.  There’s no shelves in the wooden frame of the bookshelf.  Taller than me.  Stuffed to the brim with all sorts of media.  Stacks of books.  VHS tapes.  DVDs.  Cassettes.  Shit.  They even got a stack of laserdiscs leanin’ against the damn thing.  Some spines so cracked ya can’t make out a title of the books.  A copy of the Quran.  In Arabic.  Sits next to a Crackup at the Raceriots.

Grab the copy of Abbie Hoffman’s Steal this Book.  A receipt tucked into the pages.  Paid with a credit card.  At a Barnes & Nobles in the suburbs of metro Detroit.  “Who actually paid for a copy of Steal this Book?”

“I did!”  Jerry raises his hand from the couch.  “Kept the proof of purchase too.  Just in case anybody questions it.”

“Why?”

Jerry stands up.  Comin’ outta the backward trance of rock n’ roll music.  “We’re free thinkers in this house Sid.”  He steps close to me.  “No dirty fuckin’ hippie is gonna pull my strings.  Use me like a puppet.  So I said.  ‘I’m buyin’ this book.  And I’m buyin’ it from a corporate chain too.  Use a credit card so the paper trail is there forever.’”

“Jerry Mahoney’s a real boy!”  Dr. Bob yells from the floor.  Before Jerry steps on his gut.

“What record did you put on anyways Jerry?”

Farfisa comes crawlin’ between us.  Holdin’ the empty sleeve to CCR’s 1970 masterpiece Cosmo’s Factory in her mouth.  Pawin’ at Jerry’s legs.  She spits the stained sleeve missin’ portions of the artwork on the floor.  “Bye-ball!”

“I thought you said she couldn’t speak?”

“Don’t talk much.  All she can say is bible.”  He scratches behind her ear.  Holdin’ the sleeve up to me.  With his big eerie grin.  “Looks like we’re one step closer to gettin’ yer car fixed here Sid.”

Chapter 6: The Unabomber’s Vacation Home

Wake up in the morning to the bang of clanging pans.  And someone cursin’ in the kitchen.  Pack of almost empty Marlboro Reds on the counter.  Fuckin’ bum one.  Old Yellow snorin’ on the floor.  Crinkle of plastic on the couch as Baby Bevins rolls over in her sleep.  Black rings of makeup still around her eyes.  Stains left on the pillow and blanket from that and her lipstick.

“Ya want coffee Cousin?”  Mud asks.  Boilin’ a pot of water.

“I’ll take some.”

He drops a spoonful of loose grounds into two mugs.  Pourin’ the bubblin’ liquid in the mug.  Steam escapes over his cup readin’ “don’t talk to me until I’ve had my morning kratom.”  He hands me the one that says “#1 Dad.”  “Mornin’ walk?”  He sips the mug.

“Sure.”  I take a sip.  Lookin’ at the thick sludge at the bottom.

He grabs a bottle of 153 proof.  Label reads “Diesel.”  Pours a shot in his mug.  “I just gotta brush my teeth.”

Standin’ outside the doorway to the bathroom waitin’ for him.  Uncle Dr. Bob Oakley the Third is asleep in the tub.  Like he said.  Dick in the shampoo bottle.  Bacon stuck to the pea colored tile.  Half eaten Baby Ruth in his chest pocket.  Gas mask over his nose hooked up to a nitrous tank.  “It helps with his snorin’.”  Mud explains.  Without question.  A half crushed up pill sits on the toilet seat.  Partially snorted line next to a silly straw.  “I don’t know why he’s always snortin’ his dilaudid off the toilet seat.  Says it reminds him of finals week freshman year at college.”  A copy of Mad magazine dated August 18, 1973 sits in the rack next to the toilet.  Next to a copy of the Anarchist Cookbook.

Mud opens the medicine cabinet.  Grabbin’ a cig from the pack of Newports on the bottom shelf.  He sparks it.  “Ready?”

“Don’t ya gotta brush your teeth?”

“What do ya think the Newport is for?  That just brushed.  Clean feelin’.”  He smiles as he turns around.  Slippin’ a pill bottle from the cabinet in his pocket.  Spillin’ some coffee on his t-shirt.  It says “I’m Finna be Stable Soon.”  Grabs an old Winchester rifle propped against the door.  Barrel sawed off.

Walk across the field.  One foot turnin’ inwards with every near limp of his step.  Headphones around his neck play just audible enough for me to hear what’s comin’ from the mixtape in his Walkman.  “Roam” by the B-52s.  He whistles along.  Which calls Farfisa over.  Runnin’ on all fours.  Mud scratches behind her ear as we stop in the tall grass and weeds.  “First we gotta feed the ducks in the swamp.”

Walkin’ up alongside a large garden.  Mud looks over the slope to a muddy bog.  Cattails growin’ tall.  A frog hops out.  Chasin’ after a dragonfly with oil slicked coloring.  “I didn’t know dragonflies could even come in that color…”  I watch amazed as the bugs land delicately on Mud’s shoulders.  Undisturbed by the movements of the man in caked and crackin’ white face paint.

“You a city boy for real ain’t ya?”

“Yeah.  I think it’d be nice to get away and live out here like this.  But I just think I’d get bored.”

“Ya look like ya had a strenuous childhood…”  Mud takes the pill bottle outta his pockets.  Openin’ it as he watches Farfisa lick from the sludge drowin’ out the dirt at the bottom of the crater we stand over.  The oversized “FRANKIE SAY RELAX” t-shirt saggin’ in the swamp.

“What makes ya say that?”

“Well.  Why else would ya join a stranger’s family reunion?  People with happy families don’t drift like that.”  Pours a handful of yellow rectangles into his hand.  Takin’ one out.  He chews it like a piece of candy.  The distinct shape of school busses.  As the kids used to call ‘em.  Yellow Xanax bars.  “It’s ok now though.  Ya don’t gotta roam or feel disposable anymore.  Unlike the chicks.  You can live up here once ya join the family.  No girls allowed in the boys club.”

He tosses the handful of pills towards the swamp below.  Farfisa takes one.  Spittin’ it out almost immediately.  I always fuckin’ hated the taste of those things too.  The ducks come swarmin’ to the water.  Scarin’ off the feral girl.  Mud tosses another handful.  The birds scarfin’ down the little yellow pills.  “Yeah.  About joinin’ the family…”

“Ducks are fed.  Come on.  I’ll show ya the Family Tree.”  Followin’ him to the other end of the garden.  “It’s just up the top of Tiger Mountain.”  Takes me up the small hill.  Lookin’ over the swamp and garden.  The ducks scarfin’ down the bars.  Farfisa watchin’ them curiously.  I think you can see the dick and balls Oakley mowed into the lawn in the distance from up here.

We stand beside a decrepit tree.  One branch cracked.  Still connected.  But touchin’ the ground.  Not a single leaf.  The numbers “212” spray painted on one side.  The words “the Hand” tagged on the other.  “This is your family tree?”  Twirl the noose hangin’ from another branch of the tree.  Just high enough from the ground to keep a grown man’s feet from reachin’.

“First thing Dr. Bob Oakley Senior planted on this here land.  He got the soil down there prepared for farmin’.  But he didn’t have much of a green thumb.  Probably why this tree is so dead too.”  Mud twirls a beehive hangin’ overhead.  “The tree decides who can hang with the family.  And who can’t.”

“What do ya mean?”  Look at bits of rope tied to the tree.  Ripped at the edge hangin’ down.

“That was Baby Bevins’ rope.  The irony is.  If yer rope don’t hang.  Ya get to live on as a part of the family.  Join the band.  All that jazz.”

He starts walkin’ down the hill.  Passin’ the garden.  Groundhog and skunk carcasses decompose in the field next to piles of rat poison.  And jugs of engine coolant.  Which is supposed to taste as pretty as it looks.  Top half cut off to form a drinkin’ bowl outta the bottom.  In the dirt grows weed plants.  Cacti.  Opium poppies.  Mushrooms growin’ in piles of shit.  And a handful of other plants, herbs, and roots that must serve as the raw material for psychoactive substances.

A shot from the rifle rings out.  “Damn Autumn Olives.”  Mud spits at the plant.  Riddled with bullet holes.  “Fuckin’ invasive species tryin’ to get into our garden.”

“I don’t think ya had to shoot it though.  It’s just a plant.”

“I’m doin’ the damn thing a favor.  Don’t ya know death is the highest level of consciousness Sid?”  He pulls a case of Zyn from his pocket.  Hands me one as he gums two.  The shit gives me the hiccups almost immediately.  “It’s in death that our energy leaves our tormented body to join the universal cosmos of bein’.  That’s why we get high.  Gettin’ high is bringin’ ya one step closer to death.  Which is why it’s such an enlightening state of mind.  A truly religious experience.  Jerry taught me while we were trippin’ on Dramamine one time.  An army of rats runnin’ through the lawn.  Meltin’ walls made of terracotta.”

Mud walks us from the grass.  Straight into the woods.  Casually mentions to watch out for poison ivy and oak.  The branches snaggin’ on my loose pajamas.  I was expectin’ a casual stroll along a trail.  Not shovin’ through overgrowth.  “That was the same day Jerry and I started the band.  We were kicked outta school as subculture dangers.  It was a way for us to harmonize our confusion into the void.  Preservin’ our existential dread permanently in this universe headin’ towards the dead end ocomin’ impendin’ doom.”  He spits in the dirt as we approach a pyramid of TVs outside an abandoned shack in the woods.  “And that sure beats throwin’ all yer money away on pull tabs at the bar.”

“So what’s the name of your band?”

“The Somebodys!”  He smiles excitedly.  As if I’m the first one to ever take him seriously.

Mud takes aim with his rifle.  Pointed at the stack of TVs.  All busted and scratched.  Some missin’ screens.  Shattered glass all over the ground.  He takes a shot at the stack.  Puttin’ a hole through a power button.  “I hate the TV man…”  He shoots again.  The echo of the explosion rings in the silence.  “If Dick Cheney shot ya in the woods and nobody was around to see…  Would it still make a sound?”  He laughs.  Watchin’ the plastic frames of the outdated machines split into pieces.

“Doesn’t the guy in that cabin get annoyed by you doin’ this so close?”

“Oh that?  That’s the Unabomber’s vacation home.  See.  That’s how Dr. Bob Oakley Senior first got into squattin’.  Saint Ted had just skipped a few grades and got into Harvard.  Right about the time Oakley first started playin’ house with his experiments.  The two dug each other pretty quick.  Saint Ted used to summer here sometimes.  Yer bound to go nuts eventually if ya never get a change of scene.  Livin’ alone in the woods for so long can really do somethin’ to a man’s mind.”

He takes another shot at the TVs.  Farfisa comes up behind us.  Growlin’ as she cowers behind Mud’s legs.  She looks at the porch of the buildin’ the family found her in.  Watchin’ a turkey pace slowly along it.  Catchin’ Mud’s eye too.  He drops the rifle to the ground.  Puts a finger to his lip.  Lookin’ back at me as he creeps forward.  But if this man shootin’ TV sets in the woods didn’t scare off the bird.  I’m sure the crackin’ of twigs and leaves isn’t gonna do much.

Faintly from the headphones I hear the girl’s voice “Three little birds sat on my window…”  Mud moves carefully forward.  Farfisa on guard behind him as they approach the porch.  The chorus drops.  “Girl put your records on…”  He lunges onto the porch.  Walkman falls to the ground.  Still playin’.  “Tell me your favorite song…”  The turkey flaps and charges into Mud’s stomach.  Grunts as the bird tries to get around the injured man.  Hand wraps the legs of the bird.  “You go ahead let your hair down…”  Other hand around the neck.  Farfisa howls and yelps with excitement.  Jumpin’ around me as I pick up the Walkman.  “Sapphire faded jeans…”  Mud kneels down with the bird in his hands.  Wings flap slower and slower.  “I hope you get your dreams…”

Mud stands triumphantly.  Holdin’ up the rather small turkey.  Now lifeless.  “Just go ahead let your hair down…”  “Jerry told me ya wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Does this look like a fuckin’ fly?”  Mud smiles.  “I didn’t shoot it.  Fair fight.”  Carryin’ the bird at his side.  “We’ll BBQ this up real good with ‘em piggies.”  He squeals.  Imitating the dead piglets hangin’ in the Meat Closet.

A bugle blows powerfully from the cabin.  Bein’ ran through a wah and delay pedal.  Farfisa takes off for the cabin.  Mud droppin’ his prize bird in the dirt.  Reclaimin’ his rifle enthusiastically.  “Happy Fourth Brother!  Ready for the Revolution?”

“I forgot it was the fourth.  I don’t really recognize the fourth.”

“What are ya?  Some sorta commie?”

“Anarchist…”

“Now you a leftist?  Or you just got daddy issues?”  He laughs and starts back towards the house.  Slowly.  “Hope ya believe in the Second Amendment at least Sid.  Cause we’re at war now.  Ya gonna celebrate the Fourth with us this year.”

“What’s goin’-”  Pellets whiz towards us.  Shatter and ricochet off the windows of the Unabomber’s vacation home.  “Fuck!  What was that?”

“Gel blaster.  Better take cover.  We the ones gettin’ screwed this year.”  Mud throws me on the ground.  Smashin’ a worm with the palm of my hand.  Back smears the mushrooms growin’ off the side of the log he has us take cover behind.  “To celebrate the Fourth every year.  We start the mornin’ with a gunfight.”  The gel beads whizz overhead.  Explodin’ as they make contact with the wood.  The sound of air bein’ compressed to fire the things from the plastic toys gets closer and closer.  “We better hope someone decides to play Benedict Arnold this year Sid.  Or we’re screwed.”

Chapter 11: Fucked Up Brady Bunch Laugh Track

Watch the steam cloud above Baby Bevins as the hot water flushes the dishes of soap bubbles.  Sit at the kitchen table.  Smokin’ a cig.  Old Yellow at my feet.  Someone in the other room puts some music on.  The disaster of noise fills the room.  Clubbin’ of double drums.  Mud grooves with the low end of the Butthole Surfers track.  “So we goin’ to Leroy’s Mama’s?”  Jen asks Jerry sweetly.  Wraps her arms around his shoulders lovingly.

“You been workin’ on your photography girlie?”

She winks.  Headin’ for the bedroom.  Knockin’ a grumble outta Dr. Bob Oakley the Third.  Bumpin’ shoulders as he leaves a flushin’ toilet.  He takes a seat across the table from me.  Stretchin’ the elastic of his eyepatch to relieve some pressure around his skull.  He takes a cig from the table.  “Should I start prepping this shit for us Jerry?”  The Doctor calls to the man over his shoulder.  Rattles a translucent orange bottle.  Label ripped off.

Jerry nods.  “May as well if we’re goin’ out tonight…”

Jen rushes back into the kitchen with a binder.  “Lots of Polaroids.”  She smiles to him.  Plastic photo sleeves crinkle as he flips page after page of photographs.  Held outta eyesight of everyone else in the room.

“Aye!  If we goin’ out.  I wanna change this piercin’ finally.”  Mud hollers from the other room.  Droppin’ the empty forty to the carpet.  Farfisa pullin’ her hand away before it gets crushed.  He lifts his tattered shirt.  Showin’ off the glowin’ red skin of his belly button around the metal shoved through his flesh.  “Think it’s been in long enough.”

Dr. Bob Oakley the Third pours the white ovals from the bottle.  Let’s ‘em scatter freely along the table.  The fine, black text reads “alza 36.”  “Leroy will definitely be interested in this!”  Jerry grins to Jen.  “He’s been outta stock of you for a while now.  One of his bestsellers!”  Jen blushes.

Mud stands in the other room.  Holdin’ his shirt up with his chin.  One hand holdin’ the bottom of the piercin’.  Two fingers of the other hand.  Holdin’ the screw top of the metal.  Pinchin’ it hard.  Tryin’ to get some leverage to turn the threads.  Watch his chest huff and puff.  Each time his hand not gettin’ anything to budge.  Tries twistin’ the metal hangin’ in his naval instead.  Still can’t get the thing to turn.  Face gettin’ red with frustration.  “How many of these should I prep Jerry?”

“Count me out.”  Mr. Marilyn laughs.  Passin’ through the kitchen.  Tries to lend Mud a hand.  Mud bickers with him.  Unintelligibly.  Doesn’t like the guy.  Doesn’t want his hands that close to his body.  Doesn’t need his help.  But can’t say he isn’t strugglin’.

“At least ten.”  Jerry snaps the binder closed.  “Make sure Sid gets some.”  Jerry walks to the other room.  Tellin’ Mr. Marilyn to take a step back.  Without makin’ as obvious as Mud that Mud doesn’t like the guy much.

“What are we doin’?”

“Methylphenidate.”  Uncle Dr. Bob doesn’t look up at me as he counts his magic beans.  Takin’ a dingy Swiss army knife from his inner pocket.  He makes an incision into the white wax outer layer of the capsule.  Strippin’ the pills sensually.  One by one.  Pilin’ the white clothing he removes.  Pauses to roll his one eye up to look at me.  Still hunched over the table.  “Twenty two percent of the active ingredient is in that coating.  For that instantaneous release.”

He laughs a bit to himself.  Mud groans in the other room.  Watchin’ him over Oakley’s shoulder.  The rushin’ water shuts off.  Baby Bevins takes the cig from my lips.  Giggles as she watches Jerry get on his knees.  Back to us.  Eyes level with Mud’s belt buckle.  Wigglin’ and jerkin’ slightly as he tries forcin’ the round topper to spin.  “Goddamn Brother!  How much puss did you let crust on this shit?”

“You ain’t supposed to remove it for some time.”

“Ever hear of saline?”  Mr. Marilyn says from the crinklin’ plastic couch under his ass.

“Don’t ya got smoothies to make Mr. Clean.”  Mud yelps.  Echoin’ the smack of Jerry’s palm on his chest.

“Fuckin’ lay down Mud.  I need better leverage.”

Jerry drags a beanbag chair across the floor.  Mud collapses into the already semi-flattened blob.  Spittin’ a few beans from a tear in the side.  “So what are the Polaroids?”  I ask Jen.  Baby Bevins returns the cig to my lips.

“Let’s just say Leroy sells my art.”  She winks at me with a flirtatious smile.  Jerry purrs.  Lookin’ over his shoulder to us.  Crouched over Mud.

“Pornography ain’t the same thing as erotic art.”  Mr. Marilyn tosses two pennies into the kitchen at us as he speaks.

“Open your mouth.”  Baby Bevins tilts my head back with one hand.  Takes the cigarette with the other.  Tucks it in her lips.  Fingers the white pile of wax.  Lettin’ the coating stick on her fingertip.  Read the fine black text comin’ towards me one last time.  “Alza 36.”  Her finger dips down my lower gum.  Saliva turns the wax pill coating to a gooey paste.  Stuck to the inside of my lip.  She giggles at the disgust in my face.  “Ya can’t wash it down with any water.  Straight no chaser.”

“Jerry!  I’ll hold the base.  Just grab that fucker and twist it as hard as you can.”  Mud yells from the floor.  Jerry gruntin’ to get the threadin’ to pop.  Mud groans.  Jerry pressin’ into his body to hold him still on the ground.

“This isn’t fuckin’ working.”  He stands in defeat.  Wavin’ his arms.

Oakley sits with an array of tri-colored ovals.  Wrapped in a thin skinned membrane to hold the innards of the drug together.  He takes his blade.  Slicin’ off the brown half.  “Push layer to create the extended release.  Expands to release the drug slowly into your system.”  His blade points out the two other colors.  Still encased in the indestructible skin membrane.

“So who’s buyin’ those Polaroids?”

“Not you…”  Jerry slaps his knee.  Walkin’ away from Mud.  Rollin’ around the floor.  Tryin’ to get the metal outta his body.  “Hang tight Mud.  I got an idea!”  Jerry’s words trail off as he exits the house.

“Leroy’s Mama’s is an adult entertainment store.”  Baby Bevins giggles.  Still holdin’ my forehead back with one hand.  Lookin’ up at her as she drops the half of the pill with amphetamine in it down my throat.  “This has been how to abuse Concerta with Dr. Bob Oakley the Third.”  She giggles as she doses herself with speed.

Jen tries delicately to get the metal outta Mud’s stomach.  “You’re sellin’ nude Polaroids to a porn shop?”

“The Amish need somethin’ to jerk off to…”  Mr. Marilyn’s answer even gets Mud laughin’.  Leans backwards toward his enemy on the couch for a high five.

“Stop squirmin’ kiddo!”  Jen holds Mud down.  Dr. Bob Oakley the Third still slices and dices away at the prescription drugs.  He’s probably still got an old script pad sittin’ around here somewhere.

The noise builds from the speakers.  Mud’s groans gettin’ louder.  Bugs swarmin’ the room.  Jerry bolts through the doors with a pair of pliers in his hand.  “Alright!  Mud!  Don’t fuckin’ move Brother!”  He crouches down beside the man in a panic.  Baby Bevins puts the cigarette back in my lips.  “Ma!  Pin him down.  I don’t wanna hurt the boy.”  Jerry snaps to Mr. Marilyn.  “Get over here and hold that bit danglin’ outta his belly button.  As tight as you fuckin’ can!  Don’t let that fucker move on ya.  No matter how sweaty your fingertips get.”

“See.  We use the money Leroy spends on Jen’s photography for band expenses.”  Dr. Bob Oakley the Third gums some of the wax coating himself.  Mud groans angrily as the mid-life crisis skinhead approaches his naval.  Feelin’ like I’m in some sorta fucked up Brady Bunch episode.  Stuck in the split between the A and B plots.  Cue the laugh track.  “Recording gear.  Spotify subscriptions.  She takes the money when she gets up here.  Then when she goes back down to civilization can manage and run all the band doings.”

Jerry pinches the round topper with the jagged teeth of the pliers.  Not needle nose.  Thick ends grip the tiny gauged metal.  Veins bulge in Jerry’s hand.  Grippin’ the exposed metal handles of the pliers against his flesh.  Palm flat on Mud’s chest.  “Ready!”  He begins to count down.  Me and Baby Bevins watch over Oakley’s shoulder.  Still movin’ around in the corner of our view as he converts extended release substances into instant release.  A night of continuous redosing.  Mud cries from the other room.  Harmonizin’ with Jerry’s groans as he pushes on the metal.  Finally gettin’ the thread to budge.  Leavin’ a tiny rust streak on Mud’s stomach.  But avoidin’ pinchin’ him at all as he spins the belly button piercing loose.

“I think I got some jewelry you can borrow sweetie.”  Jen says.  Helpin’ the outta breath man up from the beanbag.  He grabs some speed off the table as Jen walks him to her bedroom to check out the jewelry box.  Before the family night on the town.


Playboy After Dark

 “I always feel mischievous on acid.”  Cam the psychedelic cowboy taps their fingertips together as we leave my place for the second time.  Forgot my ticket.  I’m a sucker for a physical ticket.  The Honda hangs a right.  Sandy Bull noodles over a rollin’ tape.  When I picked up my ticket from Old Soul, Mary told me Jerry dosed the coffee at the Playboy Club when the Dead played there.  Mis-chie-vious.  Like a fuckin’ merry prankster.  Not up to no good.  Just on some character type shit.

The line outside Northern Lights cheers as roadside assistance picks the lock for some guy locked outta his car.  Pass through the door and immediately lose Cam.  Immediately lose my bearings.  “My first thought when I got here was I’d hate to be trippin’ right now…”  Sloppy Joel murmurs as I make eye contact with Hugh Hefner at the next table.  Is the old timer somebody’s pops?  Did he see this on the cover of MetroTimes?  Sold out lounge.  And Brooklyn’s sayin’ the drinks are bein’ overpoured.  It’s gonna get rowdy.

“Yeah motherfucker come on!”  Antonio wails.  Some body hits my shoulder.  Knockin’ me forward into the mess of body parts flailin’ around.  This would be an amazin’ bar to do blow in.  But we’re off that stuff.  Attemptin’ to be better.  People shove and groove around the floor.  Neck swingin’ back and forth with the ToneGoddamn!  Am I trippin’?!  Or does the guitar sound fucked up man!  Sustained pulsin’ of feedback.  There’s no gettin’ through the dancin’ mass.  Nothin’ much you can do besides surrender to the sonic sensations.  Flail like an electrocuted Peanut.  Playboy Bunny go-go dancin’ beside the lava lamp.  I told Cam on the ride up here.  I just wanna dance tonight.

“I feel like I’m in the way.  But everywhere feels in the way.”  Fur coats and velvet suits brush past.  Sequins and bunny ears.  Skin scarred with rainbows of ink.  Someone slinks behind ya.  Someone else slitherin’ between Cam and Kate.  Distorted figures pass the lenses of my sunglasses.  Blurred in the dimly lit bar.  And the smudged purple glass from gettin’ knocked around.  Look at all these beautiful people.

Johnny’s records fill the dancefloor with the stench of must and mildew as the 45 comes to a close.  “We’re the Stools…  You’re Northern Lights…  I sold that drum kit to Sugar T to pay my fuckin’ rent!”  The familiar greeting brings the crowd together.  Familiar freaks and MetroTimes hipsters.  “Get that boy some money!”  Matt screams back.  Gettin’ ready to get rowdy.  KQ wants to see some bodies fuckin’ move.  Man.  That motherfucker will always be my definition of cool.  See him skatin’ in the School of Rock parkin’ lot.  Velvet Underground and Nico raglan.   Add that to the list of things I only tell my friends in my head.  Flailin’ about on the corner of Conner and Hell.

Owner of the joint staggers through the crowd.  Bitchin’ about people hittin’ the low hangin’ light fixtures.  Will reminds everyone to keep it cordial after Chuck breaks out from behind the kit to cuss out the asshole gettin’ too aggressive with the ladies upfront.  Interrupted by Cam divin’ at the guy extednin’ a middle finger.  It’s gettin’ fuckin’ rowdy in here.  And it’s only the second band.  That Harsh Green River triggers the tinnitus serenely.  Hair splashes my face with the cool comfort of my sweat.  “Man I’m just tryin’ to dance!”  My lips make the words to somebody pushin’ me to the core of the pit.  But I can’t hear the syllables.  Just sounds of the snare crunchin’ under Chuck’s feet as he stomps it to pieces.

“I want to dance!”  Kate’s bass pulses the collective nostalgia of everyone thrashin’ about in the street to this durin’ ESG’s Labor Day set.  I can see Cam perfectly in the middle of Campau.  Yelpin’ away their lungs back.  Ava’s ring on the cowbell snaps me back to the here and now.  And in the here and now Shadow Show still the grooviest to ever do it.  The matchin’ outfits were always intimidating.  Some type of liberated Manson girl energy.  They got the psych poppin’.  Band boppin’.  Heads bobbin’.  Forget about the go-go dancer.  Willy’s standin’ on somethin’ beside the stage.  The long braids whip through the air.  Damn…  I know some truly beautiful people.  They may be on the covers of magazines.  But photoshoots can’t capture beauty like that.  “2024 and we’re still rockin’ baby!”  Dom screams at me.  At some point tonight the year changed.  Dizzy in the delirium.  Tryin’ to roll a joint outside.  Bar’s too crowded to get served.  Let alone ask for a water.  To be one of those poor bastards drownin’ in the pit.  Fresh Miller High Life foamin’ over the edge.  Not even able to get one sip out before the champagne flows across the floor.

“Sorry for roughin’ up the joint.  But it’s nothin’ a lil’ bit of Lysol can’t take care of.”  Jake slobbers into the signature, orange taped 57 or 58.  I don’t know man.  I don’t give a shit about gear.  A ferocious ‘60s homage.  The Seger System to the most meta band to fuckin’ do it.  The Monkees.  Will, Ava, and Antonio geekin’ out as the tracks resonate through the squeals.  Is that the PA?  Or did my hearin’ just cut out?  “Cigs inside?”  Joey shrugs from the side.  The only thing this shindig is missin’ to be a real ‘60s Playboy party.  Toeheads thankin’ Mary and Audrey for throwin’ this hootenanny.  Even if things seem to be gettin’ hostile here and there.  “Be my baby!”  Jake drools as the whole room holds each other and sways.  Splattered balloons bouncin’ overhead.  Occasionally explodin’ in the crowd.

White light flashes from the cell phone below our faces.  Jake pullin’ me and Cam into the Toeheads circle for a group photo.  People linger.  Cuttin’ a rug as Johnny Athey cuts up the wax on the turntables.  Can’t make it more than a few feet without someone grabbin’ ya.  Arms wrappin’ around each other.  Exchangin’ sweat.  Lips meetin’ cheeks and face stubble.  These are the people they make urban legends about.  People that know the miracle of moments.  That understand the joy of bein’ alive is just fuckin’ bein’ there.  No letters in any of the alphabets or snapshots on 35mm or Polaroid will properly preserve the fleetin’ beauty we can experience.  How alienating it is to be trapped in our own fuckin’ brains?  Too anxious to embrace each other in full vulnerability.  First New Year’s Eve off in years.  And damn does it beat tryin’ to slit your own throat blackout bartendin’.  “I’m glad my text this mornin’ reached ya when ya needed it!”  Cam hugs me as I thank them for their lovin’ text.  Helpin’ break the oncomin’ depressive episode.

“What’s your new year’s resolution?”  Ava asks me at the round table with Cam, Will, and Kate.  Covered in more of Joey’s sweat than I have been in a long time.  I see Jake dancin’ and singin’ his heart out to that 2000’s white girl music my brother says I probably secretly fuck with.  “Just Dance.”  “Supersonic.”  “One More Time.”  There are no guilty pleasures here.  As Will will tell ya.  Everclear taught us how to rock n’ roll on Ned’s Declassified.

“Be better…”  I say.  Starin’ away from her to the blank table in front of us.  Our hands meet to hold each other as I leave that generally.  Be better.  About all of it.  Not shakin’ off the image like an Etch-a-Sketch when it’s too overwhelmin’.  Say some of these things to the friends outside your head.  That KQ still is the hardest motherfucker out there.  That Jake’s hugs make ya feel worth it.  That Antonio’s guitar sounds so fucked up!  That as Joey puts it “it’s fucked up we’ve known each other so long now!”  That between clippin’ monitors and clippin’ eardrums.  The urge to relapse is muted by the ringin’ white noise as everyone closes their set with a reminder to tell your friends you love ‘em.  Happiness will only ever be fleetin’.  But we got each other and some good fuckin’ tunes to sustain and resonate with.  Feel we are one of the beautiful people we surround ourself with.  Cause baby we’re all rich men too.  Ava will tell ya the real heads know.  We’re more than just secondary characters in each other’s semi-autobiographical, great American adventure novel.

“Life’s been good to me so far…”  Cam harmonizes with Joe Walsh.  My grandma always thought this was the funniest song ever written.  In spite of the inevitable oncomin’ impendin’ doom.  Life’s been pretty good to me so far.  As Cam drives me to the other gas station cause they thought I meant the chips when I said this one didn’t have Buglers.  Who else is gonna drive you in the middle of the night.   No questions asked.  To the other gas station across town cause they think ya need the right snack.