The Experiment: Part Four

Rich went into the Circle K and came out a few minutes later with two rolls of paper napkins.  The car stereo had been turned off.  Billy and Dave were gingerly picking the glass shards from the dashboard and seat of the Cherokee.  Rich tore the cellophane wrapper off the two rolls tossed them in the front seat.  Soon, he joined in the search for glass shards in the jeep. The three of them cleaned up the mess in silence.  When Rich came back from tossing the last of the broken beer bottle in the trash he found Billy and Dave waiting for him back inside the jeep.

“We gotta hit it, man.  We’re losing daylight.”

“Oh, you and Billy are bros again, just like that?”

“No, but we’re sorry,” said Billy squinting at Rich in the afternoon sun’s glare. “We forgot what we’re doing this for.”

Rich eyes narrowed and a toothy grin emerged.  He rapped his knuckles on the hood as he walked around to the driver’s side door of the jeep, opened it and jumped in.

“We even forgot where we were goin’, dude!”  Dave cackled as they pulled back out on to the Highway.  “We’re goin’ to have the last good, goddamn time of our lives.”  Dave and Billy both began to laugh loudly.  Billy reached over and turned the car stereo on.  The deafening thud and shudder of Blue Cheer rattled their skulls as they soldiered on through the traffic.  Rich shouted over the music that the Circle K clerk had told him the bicyclists’ triathlon course veered off the highway a few miles ahead. As they drove on, Dave and Billy made woozy pledges to not stir up any trouble between them.  Rich occasionally interjected but kept his attention focused on the road.  Rich liked to drive fast, much of time the faster than his ability or reflexes would safely allow.  He sang along with his beloved Blue Cheer and pummeled the suspension of his jeep as they flew through the hilly desert just north of Florence.

 

The Experiment: Part Three

The mostly empty bottle of Shiner bock burst like wet brown light bulb on the passenger side front door handle. Foamy shards of glass sprayed the windshield, dashboard, the pavement outside the jeep, and Billy.

NOW WON’T SOMEBODY TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG

TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME!!!

For several seconds, the three of them sat in the stationary car, startled by the impact of the bottle and the ear splitting volume of the car stereo. Rich’s Blue Cheer disc thundered out of the speakers a split second after Dave threw the bottle at Billy.

“What’d you throw at me?” was the first thing that came out of Billy’s mouth when the stunned shock wore off.

“A BOTTLE OF SHINER BOCK, YOU JUNKIE PIECE OF SHIT, NEXT TIME YOU TALK LIKE THAT ABOUT MY FAMILY, I WON’T MISS.”

Rich saw an opening in the stream of cyclists to his right and gunned the engine. He made a quick turn into the parking lot of a Circle K and came to a jerky stop.

“Both of you assholes are gonna clean this up and start playing nice.” Rich abruptly got out of the Cherokee. “Jeezus Kah-RIST!! Can’t we just get our shit together for once in our lives?" He slammed the door, moved toward the sliding doors of the Circle K, paused and turned back.

CAUSE LORD, I BEEN SEARCHIN’

SEARCHIN’ SO LONG

OH, WON’T SOMEBODY

OH, WON’T SOMEBODY

TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME??

‘Out of Focus’ by Blue Cheer continued to blare out of the open windows of the jeep in the parking lot. Dave and Billy sat inside, making threats neither of them could hear.

The Experiment: Part Two

A slow creep of traffic met them as soon as they merged on to Route 79.  The shoulder of the highway was coned off.  Bicyclists in racing gear with numbers safety pinned to their backs wheeled through the desert past them as they crept along.  Billy reached into the bag at his feet in the passenger seat and passed out some bottles of Shiner bock. 

“I’m gonna miss the drive-thru liquor store when I die.  I’m gonna miss cold roadies like these.”

            “What the hell is a bicycle race doing on this highway?” Said Rich as he pulled on his Shiner and rode the brake with the hiccupping traffic.  “This is gonna totally fuck up the schedule.”

            “The schedule is to get fucked up… eh, what the FUCK did you do back here?”  Dave had opened up his tackle box on the rear passenger seat next to him and struggled to keep the camping supplies from belching out of the back storage on to his joint buildings.  “We’re going to Show Low to party with Billy, not earn a fucking goddamn merit badge, Ropkins.”

            “Gotta set up camp to party," said Rich.  “Maybe it’s some kind of triathlon and they’ll stop riding bikes and start running off into the desert.”  Rich finished his beer, distracted from the rolling slowdown by flipping through a travel bag of compact discs.  “There’s cold cans of Shaefer somewhere back there, wanna get me one?”

            “Damnit Fabbie, SHIT!” Dave tossed a spent box of rolling paper forward onto the console between the passenger seats, diving back into the tackle box.  “FUCK, her mom’s gotta get a grip on that bitch.

            “Fabiola got into your stash again?” said Billy turning away from the cyclists and surveying Dave’s progress.  “No offense man, but she’s one top shelf piece of ass.  All of the best parts of the Irwin DNA busted through that barrio rubber the night you and Christine lit the fuse on Fabbie.  Your kid is a thirteen year old, slut drug addict psycho!”  Billy spun around, stuck his thumb in the neck of his Shiner bock, shook it up, and pointed it out the window. 

            “FUCK YOU, HEALTH FANATICS!  PEDAL TILL YOUR HEART POPS!  YOUR DEAD WIFE IS SUCKING MY GHOST DICK AT THE FINISH LINE!”

The Experiment: Part One

   The whole thing started out with good intentions. Rich and Dave just wanted to do something nice for Billy before he got too sick to appreciate it.  Billy had stage 3c liver cancer and had decided to skip treatment in favour of riding out his last days on dope and pain meds.  Rich and Dave hatched a plan to take Billy up to the woods outside of Show Low for one last blow out.  Rich threw down a wallet full of cash on beer, mescal and steaks while Dave made the rounds on the phone for the pharmaceuticals.  Rich’s thinking was that the endless pine forests of Navajo County made for a good place to cut loose, get strung out, and holler at the stars without attracting the wrong kind of attention.

Dave kept Rich and Billy waiting on the Friday afternoon they were to head north out of Tucson.  Outside Dave’s place, Rich punched the horn of his Jeep Cherokee and kept it there. 

“FUCK YOU, RICH, I’M TRYING TO GET THIS ALL TOGETHER FOR US SO NOBODY FUCKING O’DS, AWRIGHT?” Dave spat as he flailed around inside the cluttered garage.  For a few tense minutes the horn wailed in the heat while Dave darted back and forth in the shadows, occasionally kicking at dusty boxes and swearing.  He eventually made it to the curb with only a tackle box.  “I’ve got it all sorted out in here, man,” he bragged. 

“Did you get the acid?” Billy asked.

“I got the acid and the coke and the oxy, mi hermanos.”

“Oh fuck, you’re gonna be the one who dies, dude,” groaned Rich.  “Is that all you’re really bringing? It gets pretty cold up there at night.”

“Yeah, and with this, I ain’t gonna feel a thing.”

           Dave shook the baggie of white, horse-pill sized tablets next to Rich’s ear as they pulled out of the cul-de-sac and on to Speedway, heading toward State Route 79, which would take them right past the State Prison at Florence, up to the junction with 60, and a straight shot to Show Low.    

Blow To The Head

"Hae'd ye geat that knoock oon y'ear aye?"

I looked up at a tree trunk of a young man 

polishing glasses behind the bar.

Come again?

"Hae'd ye geat that knoock oon y'ear aye?"

He had a slight smile on his face.

I noticed the bright red scars above both of his eyes

and touched the swollen mass on my eyebrow.

Well, you know, whiskey.

"HA! Aye knae ate! Goot sumuvum maesel!"

The big young man leaned forward 

turning his chiseled block of a head 

to give me a closer look.

Yep. It's in the blood, 

I said.  

What are you gonna do?

I squared up my tab

and walked out into the rain.

When It Rains On Friday And You Miss The Bus

I used to think.
I used to think I was.
I used to think I was an artist.
I used to think I was a musician.
I used to think I was a writer.
I used to think I was young.
I used to think.
I used to think I was.
I don't think so anymore.

I might.
I might be.
I might be the smile of recognition
on my dog's face
when I approach her
walking along the lake.
I might be
the touch of my mother's hand
on my cheek on a Sunday
when we both realize how lucky we are
to still be here.
I might be
a blown save opportunity.
I might be
a bit too much
but mostly
I might be
right where I should be.
So there.

American Exceptionalism

Lately, 

you keep reading these stories

about rugged individuals.

Rugged individuals 

scaling the supply side approach

to the summit of their dream.

Rugged individuals

who get caught 

in the leveraged white out

and flame out.

The mass of their helplessness

increased by the measure of impending doom

triggers violent supernovae.

Rugged individualism

This is a new thread

in the ongoing conversation

concerning the widely held belief

in American execptionalism. 

Lately you may have noticed

increasing reports

of white dwarves exploding

in gas clouds of little black holes.

Little black holes

that bore through the flesh 

of surrounding heavenly bodies.

These little black holes

are purchased and spent 

by the white dwarves exploding 

in increasing instances of rugged individuals 

exercising their god-given right 

to bear witness to their unwavering belief 

in American exceptionalism.

Lately

we have all suffered

but I am not afraid.

My country has chosen change

and my country has dared to hope

and my country is filled with rugged individualism

because in America

everyone is a star,

burning bright 

or burning out.