Shock Tea (6)
Previous episodes (read these first):1, 2, 3, 4, 5
And now... Chapter 2
Before going on, it’s probably important to decide whether this is a joke or a story. As, if it is a joke, we might want to simply discount it, forget it, put it on the shelves where it might mold in peace and never bother anyone else again. Well then, what’s the difference?
Comedy you say, but is this true? Are there not stories that are meant to be funny? Aren’t there jokes that just aren’t funny at all? To comedy must be said, No, no, sadly no. Comedy cannot be our delineator, our trophy winner, our ultimate means of deciding between joke and story. What then?
Well, that’s not too hard. A joke has an about. Did you hear the one about two priests, a nun, and a bottle of super glue. Did you hear the one about the dyslexic dog who could talk but could only say words that started with the letter ‘N.’ Of course, there’s always the grand daddy of all jokes: Did you hear the one about the end of time?
If time is linear, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t think it so, then it’s procession towards an end is no more interesting than taking a drug; first you’re under it’s effects, and then it wears off. No surprises, and perhaps, that in of itself, is surprise enough. But if time is not linear, and I don’t see why we should think it should be, then the end of time becomes far more sinister. Forget ever or never, forget previous or next, before or after, forget even yesterday, all of them adjectives of time, which is no longer. There isn’t even really the moment (a unit of time) to tell the joke (something that occurs within a time frame). Time, dead, gone.
-Have you heard the one about the man who knew there were only seven names and wanted two of them?-
But a story does not have an about. It has a title. If this were a story, it might be titled ‘The Conversion Of Telley Vee,’ but then it must be said, that some titles are better than others. For instance, this title is peripheral. For certainly, Telley Vee is converted, but that happens to be the least interesting thing that occurs. So, maybe a different title. How about, ‘How the broken became fixed?’ Again, yawn. Too much foreshadowing. Too much to live up to. What about ‘God On Smack?’ Well, at least it’s getting interesting, but there is so much more to talk about than infinite cities and robots. ‘Angels Of The Orange Sky?’ Well, why then even tell the story. ‘Revelations?’ Taken. I think in the end, it must be decided that the story be named after its most primary driving force. There is no choice, it must finally be called ‘How Drugal Became The Tantrum.’
But if that is our title, then you may ask (rightfully so), who is Drugal?
There is a hand. It sits only inches away from an alarm clock with red numbers that read something-late-fifty-nine. It does not stir. Time, in its own private way, has stopped. On the floor, next to a hole where the carpet and the boards have been worn through, and through which pipes show or the occasional rat head, is a body. The body aches. There is a strange metallic fever in it, like teeth on tin. There are revelations, long since past, that scream out, "I’m peaking, I’m peaking," but their sounds have long since reverberated into the boards of the Pacifica’s Presidential suite. If these be robots, than the crank that has moved their tiny little aenimae has long since passe d its duration, and one has taken a bed. One has taken the floor. Others undoubtedly sleep beneath.
A wrought iron railing, which the night before had seemed as sturdy as the bow of a ship, is now injured. Around and about are beer bottles and dead soldiers. The sky is grey, and a dump-truck has already removed the Japanese war flag. In the corner, Telley Vee passes the time by saying -so-and-so is a hundred and fifty today. God bless her for taking up the space.-
And then, something-late-fifty-nine becomes highly-important-zero-zero. The hand nearby kills it without mercy.
-Bobby.-
The metallic slumber remains...
-Bobby.-
but is strangely near awake dreaming of elephants and oily rags.
-FUCKIN BOBBY!-
-Emmm hemmmm. What!?-
-Get up.-
-What time is it?-
-Time to get the fuck up.-
-What the fuck dude!?-
-I need you to go to Drugal’s.-
-You go.-
-Fuck that mother fucker. I need to fucking sleep.-
-Get Coyote to go.-
-You.-
-But I don’t really know Drugal.-
-The money’s in my pants. Just get whatever you can buy. Don’t worry about it. He knows who you are.-
-Tell Coyote.-
-I got shit to do with fucking Coyote.- An empty bottle is thrown. It misses. -I’m telling you to do it. Now fucking do it.-
There are no more fucks to be handed out. Slam is again asleep.
Who, then, is Drugal? It is probably better to define him by his absence thus far, or the absence that he will continue to be. For instance....
The streets outside of Drugal’s haunt are lined with an eight foot wall made of wood, but no trees grow in the little patches of dirt on those streets, or will grow there, or maybe even can grow. This fence has no gate at all, only a part that has a pad lock and a section of chain. No cars ever drive down these streets, except for those that are stolen, or those containing stolen passengers. Missing. Gone. No one ever sees anything on the streets outside of Drugal’s haunt. No one ever hears anything. No one was ever there. Not really.
Those posters of missing children and long passed shows hung themselves. The warehouses across those streets, even by day, are just buildings with signs and dogs. The orange street lights that come on at night do so out of habit, and not for any real discernable purpose. The ocean, only three blocks away, keeps the silence of these streets just as it keeps them from continuing on out into it. Some of the avenues appear to do so anyway. The outlines of buildings with stories too low can almost be made out beneath the waves of low tide.
One person who is not on one of these streets at 4:30 in the afternoon is Broken Bobby. He is not standing on a fire hydrant barely able to peer over the fence to the abandoned train yard beyond. He does not follow the fence around until he finds a dumpster that he can push across one of the empty streets, avoiding a car that is not there. Nor does he climb onto that dumpster, empty and stinking, so that he can hop over the fence and land on the other side where he might truly once again exist, evidenced by the sound of his rubber soles kicking and spreading gravel. The gravel making tink tink sounds off the metal rails that will never be used again.
He is in Drugal’s train yard, brushing off the dirt, saying "shit," with the sharp ache that has spread across the bottom of his feet fading away like resonations from a gong. It is the train yard that the city long ago vowed to take down, to destroy, to turn its rancid inhabitants out so that they might better spread their plague, but the train yard stands. The city couldn’t find it on any of it’s maps.
-Drugal- he shouts as he walks forward and looks around for a door, a tunnel, something. An unknown lean black kid, kind of rough, but mostly tumble, hops off a cement embankment. He leaves behind a paper bag in the shape of a bottle.
-Wassup-
He doesn’t stop walking. Bobby stops. There is a pile of rubble. There is a turned over box car. There is a loading crane half dismantled. There is nothing near the fence. Just dirt and star thistles.
-Wassup man- Still walking forward, sort of swaggering. How close before he smells fear? How close? Already that close? He sprints. Bobby watches without thought just fear, mindless infantile fear, then he turns, then he slips, then Wassup is on top of him with two punches, and a knife to his throat.
-Give me your fucking money-
According to Telley Vee, muggers are full of words. They say -Give me all your fucking money or I’ll cut you. Yeah, you jumped over the wrong fence today. What you doing in here. You’re trespassing and your fine is all your money or else I’m going to cut your stupid ass. That’s right give it up or I’m going to kill you.- On this point, Telley Vee was wrong.
-Give me your fucking money.-
-Don’t kill me.-
-Shut the fuck up and give me your fucking money.- And with that Broken Bobby hands over Slam’s bounty, and with one kick -Wassup- is gone.
The tears of five minutes are still blinding when he hears another voice. -You okay? You okay?- Real quick as a pair of hands try to check him to make sure he’s okay. They slip into his pockets to make sure -You okay?- and then more pockets -You okay?-
-Shit, he aint got nothing-
-I need to see Drugal.-
-I think he’s trying to talk-
-You got any money so we can call you a cab?-
-Somebody... took it.-
-Let’s just leave him.-
-Yeah. Well, fuck man, you aint got no money, we can’t help you. Seeya.-
-Drugal!!- too loud.
-What’d you fucking say?!-
Quieter -I need to talk to Drugal.-
-The mad Russian.-
-Oh. The mad Russian. Why do you want to talk to the mad Russian?-
-I was...I got sent here to buy something.-
Both pause.
-Tell you what. You don’t look like you can walk so... you give me the money, tell me what you need, and I’ll go talk to the mad Russian myself.-
-I told you, somebody took my money. I need to talk to Drugal.-
-Let’s just take him to the mad Russian.-
-Fuck that. I aint carrying him.-
-We leave him out here, and he’s one of the Russian’s regulars, he’s gonna be pissed.-
-Do you understand me?- Loud, loud, loud. - I am not going to carry you. You need to get up. Then we will take you to the mad Russian.-
His side feels worse on Broken Bobby’s knees, and worse still on Broken Bobby’s feet. He clutches it. Cradles it, as if it is a dead child he can nurse back to life if only he can find the right equilibrium between nurture and pressure and he waddles on.
The building is dark. Shafts of light stream through barely open shudders where bits of dust do ballerina tricks, pirouettes and playas, in their own stray spotlight. He hears -Watch where your fucking walking- from a bag of thrown away clothes with a glint near the top like eyes, -this is my space, you hear me, my space- from a smell with a razor, and -she’s only ten dollars, come on man, that’s cheap, around the corner you got some privacy- from a spine in camouflage with a whimpering china doll dressed in lace curtains at his side. The big iron door is the only thing that doesn’t look hand-me-down, destroyed. The only thing that doesn’t stink. It looks official, and beautiful.
And now... Chapter 2
Before going on, it’s probably important to decide whether this is a joke or a story. As, if it is a joke, we might want to simply discount it, forget it, put it on the shelves where it might mold in peace and never bother anyone else again. Well then, what’s the difference?
Comedy you say, but is this true? Are there not stories that are meant to be funny? Aren’t there jokes that just aren’t funny at all? To comedy must be said, No, no, sadly no. Comedy cannot be our delineator, our trophy winner, our ultimate means of deciding between joke and story. What then?
Well, that’s not too hard. A joke has an about. Did you hear the one about two priests, a nun, and a bottle of super glue. Did you hear the one about the dyslexic dog who could talk but could only say words that started with the letter ‘N.’ Of course, there’s always the grand daddy of all jokes: Did you hear the one about the end of time?
If time is linear, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t think it so, then it’s procession towards an end is no more interesting than taking a drug; first you’re under it’s effects, and then it wears off. No surprises, and perhaps, that in of itself, is surprise enough. But if time is not linear, and I don’t see why we should think it should be, then the end of time becomes far more sinister. Forget ever or never, forget previous or next, before or after, forget even yesterday, all of them adjectives of time, which is no longer. There isn’t even really the moment (a unit of time) to tell the joke (something that occurs within a time frame). Time, dead, gone.
-Have you heard the one about the man who knew there were only seven names and wanted two of them?-
But a story does not have an about. It has a title. If this were a story, it might be titled ‘The Conversion Of Telley Vee,’ but then it must be said, that some titles are better than others. For instance, this title is peripheral. For certainly, Telley Vee is converted, but that happens to be the least interesting thing that occurs. So, maybe a different title. How about, ‘How the broken became fixed?’ Again, yawn. Too much foreshadowing. Too much to live up to. What about ‘God On Smack?’ Well, at least it’s getting interesting, but there is so much more to talk about than infinite cities and robots. ‘Angels Of The Orange Sky?’ Well, why then even tell the story. ‘Revelations?’ Taken. I think in the end, it must be decided that the story be named after its most primary driving force. There is no choice, it must finally be called ‘How Drugal Became The Tantrum.’
But if that is our title, then you may ask (rightfully so), who is Drugal?
There is a hand. It sits only inches away from an alarm clock with red numbers that read something-late-fifty-nine. It does not stir. Time, in its own private way, has stopped. On the floor, next to a hole where the carpet and the boards have been worn through, and through which pipes show or the occasional rat head, is a body. The body aches. There is a strange metallic fever in it, like teeth on tin. There are revelations, long since past, that scream out, "I’m peaking, I’m peaking," but their sounds have long since reverberated into the boards of the Pacifica’s Presidential suite. If these be robots, than the crank that has moved their tiny little aenimae has long since passe d its duration, and one has taken a bed. One has taken the floor. Others undoubtedly sleep beneath.
A wrought iron railing, which the night before had seemed as sturdy as the bow of a ship, is now injured. Around and about are beer bottles and dead soldiers. The sky is grey, and a dump-truck has already removed the Japanese war flag. In the corner, Telley Vee passes the time by saying -so-and-so is a hundred and fifty today. God bless her for taking up the space.-
And then, something-late-fifty-nine becomes highly-important-zero-zero. The hand nearby kills it without mercy.
-Bobby.-
The metallic slumber remains...
-Bobby.-
but is strangely near awake dreaming of elephants and oily rags.
-FUCKIN BOBBY!-
-Emmm hemmmm. What!?-
-Get up.-
-What time is it?-
-Time to get the fuck up.-
-What the fuck dude!?-
-I need you to go to Drugal’s.-
-You go.-
-Fuck that mother fucker. I need to fucking sleep.-
-Get Coyote to go.-
-You.-
-But I don’t really know Drugal.-
-The money’s in my pants. Just get whatever you can buy. Don’t worry about it. He knows who you are.-
-Tell Coyote.-
-I got shit to do with fucking Coyote.- An empty bottle is thrown. It misses. -I’m telling you to do it. Now fucking do it.-
There are no more fucks to be handed out. Slam is again asleep.
Who, then, is Drugal? It is probably better to define him by his absence thus far, or the absence that he will continue to be. For instance....
The streets outside of Drugal’s haunt are lined with an eight foot wall made of wood, but no trees grow in the little patches of dirt on those streets, or will grow there, or maybe even can grow. This fence has no gate at all, only a part that has a pad lock and a section of chain. No cars ever drive down these streets, except for those that are stolen, or those containing stolen passengers. Missing. Gone. No one ever sees anything on the streets outside of Drugal’s haunt. No one ever hears anything. No one was ever there. Not really.
Those posters of missing children and long passed shows hung themselves. The warehouses across those streets, even by day, are just buildings with signs and dogs. The orange street lights that come on at night do so out of habit, and not for any real discernable purpose. The ocean, only three blocks away, keeps the silence of these streets just as it keeps them from continuing on out into it. Some of the avenues appear to do so anyway. The outlines of buildings with stories too low can almost be made out beneath the waves of low tide.
One person who is not on one of these streets at 4:30 in the afternoon is Broken Bobby. He is not standing on a fire hydrant barely able to peer over the fence to the abandoned train yard beyond. He does not follow the fence around until he finds a dumpster that he can push across one of the empty streets, avoiding a car that is not there. Nor does he climb onto that dumpster, empty and stinking, so that he can hop over the fence and land on the other side where he might truly once again exist, evidenced by the sound of his rubber soles kicking and spreading gravel. The gravel making tink tink sounds off the metal rails that will never be used again.
He is in Drugal’s train yard, brushing off the dirt, saying "shit," with the sharp ache that has spread across the bottom of his feet fading away like resonations from a gong. It is the train yard that the city long ago vowed to take down, to destroy, to turn its rancid inhabitants out so that they might better spread their plague, but the train yard stands. The city couldn’t find it on any of it’s maps.
-Drugal- he shouts as he walks forward and looks around for a door, a tunnel, something. An unknown lean black kid, kind of rough, but mostly tumble, hops off a cement embankment. He leaves behind a paper bag in the shape of a bottle.
-Wassup-
He doesn’t stop walking. Bobby stops. There is a pile of rubble. There is a turned over box car. There is a loading crane half dismantled. There is nothing near the fence. Just dirt and star thistles.
-Wassup man- Still walking forward, sort of swaggering. How close before he smells fear? How close? Already that close? He sprints. Bobby watches without thought just fear, mindless infantile fear, then he turns, then he slips, then Wassup is on top of him with two punches, and a knife to his throat.
-Give me your fucking money-
According to Telley Vee, muggers are full of words. They say -Give me all your fucking money or I’ll cut you. Yeah, you jumped over the wrong fence today. What you doing in here. You’re trespassing and your fine is all your money or else I’m going to cut your stupid ass. That’s right give it up or I’m going to kill you.- On this point, Telley Vee was wrong.
-Give me your fucking money.-
-Don’t kill me.-
-Shut the fuck up and give me your fucking money.- And with that Broken Bobby hands over Slam’s bounty, and with one kick -Wassup- is gone.
The tears of five minutes are still blinding when he hears another voice. -You okay? You okay?- Real quick as a pair of hands try to check him to make sure he’s okay. They slip into his pockets to make sure -You okay?- and then more pockets -You okay?-
-Shit, he aint got nothing-
-I need to see Drugal.-
-I think he’s trying to talk-
-You got any money so we can call you a cab?-
-Somebody... took it.-
-Let’s just leave him.-
-Yeah. Well, fuck man, you aint got no money, we can’t help you. Seeya.-
-Drugal!!- too loud.
-What’d you fucking say?!-
Quieter -I need to talk to Drugal.-
-The mad Russian.-
-Oh. The mad Russian. Why do you want to talk to the mad Russian?-
-I was...I got sent here to buy something.-
Both pause.
-Tell you what. You don’t look like you can walk so... you give me the money, tell me what you need, and I’ll go talk to the mad Russian myself.-
-I told you, somebody took my money. I need to talk to Drugal.-
-Let’s just take him to the mad Russian.-
-Fuck that. I aint carrying him.-
-We leave him out here, and he’s one of the Russian’s regulars, he’s gonna be pissed.-
-Do you understand me?- Loud, loud, loud. - I am not going to carry you. You need to get up. Then we will take you to the mad Russian.-
His side feels worse on Broken Bobby’s knees, and worse still on Broken Bobby’s feet. He clutches it. Cradles it, as if it is a dead child he can nurse back to life if only he can find the right equilibrium between nurture and pressure and he waddles on.
The building is dark. Shafts of light stream through barely open shudders where bits of dust do ballerina tricks, pirouettes and playas, in their own stray spotlight. He hears -Watch where your fucking walking- from a bag of thrown away clothes with a glint near the top like eyes, -this is my space, you hear me, my space- from a smell with a razor, and -she’s only ten dollars, come on man, that’s cheap, around the corner you got some privacy- from a spine in camouflage with a whimpering china doll dressed in lace curtains at his side. The big iron door is the only thing that doesn’t look hand-me-down, destroyed. The only thing that doesn’t stink. It looks official, and beautiful.
