Saturday, March 14, 2015
Revelry and Roll Call
Journal: (Fri.) at Clay’s
Clank! Clink, bang, clunk. Loud sounds in the kitchen slapped me from the hour’s worth of sleep I got after my visionmare. Putting me upright in a snap, I was wondering who was playing revelry on cookware. Hurrying to the doorway of the small kitchen I found Clay grabbing for things from cabinets and slamming them down on the table.
“What the hell man?” I asked in sleepy eyed frustration.
“Yah, mornin’ to you too cupcake,” replied Clay without turning around to look.
Farting around in a nasty bathrobe, my friend had shucked out of clothes at some point. The robe’s belt was missing, not gone. A potted plant, a fern long dead, was tied to the shower curtain rod with it. I was glad Clay hadn’t used it on himself with equal results. Fortunately, his old briefs remained tight pals with his junk.
“What you doing brother, what you looking for?”
“Worm Dirt Ain’t It.” Clay collected used coffee grounds in a bucket and emptied it on a compost pile or worm condo as he called it.
“Right here, next to the coffee maker,” I says while holding up the can. "Fresh, not used though."
“Gal, she never puts things away in the same place twice. Well, you’re there bro, get it goin’ for us,” remarked Clay and parked himself at the table.
Preparing the coffee maker I gave play by play commentary.
“Load the canon soldier, get that wadding in there, throw black powder in on top, tamp it, light it, and fire,” I said when tapping the on switch.
“You gots a screwy way of seein’ things man,” replied my buddy leaning back in the chair.
The coffee maker gurgled, wheezed, and sputtered to a stop 5 minutes later. The last of black nectar dribbled into a one quart sauce pan subbing for the broken glass carafe that belonged there. I uselessly wiped at the brown ring on the counter top surrounding the pan. Countless splatters had joined their distant cousins gathered in mass on cigarette burned Formica. Pouring our go-juice into a couple of chipped mugs I addressed my shaggy brother.
“Nice toes sweetheart,” I said.
“Yours are nice too there Ain’t It,” says Clay pointing to my feet.
“Dammit Clay, how did you pull that off? I must have really been passed out tired.”
Folding his arms he gave rebuttal.
“Just getting’ back at ya for doin’ mine first.”
“I didn’t do it. It was you, I mean Jovee.”
“Oopsie. Met her did ya?”
I pointed to his fingers that still had a few skids of the polish on them.
“You didn’t notice your own hands yesterday?”
“Naw man. My mind was all taint. Taint here and taint there. Follow? Takes the drug a good 8 to 12 hours to push me off the fence.”
I reached down by Clay and got the bag of fish jerky. One piece remained. I snapped it in half and handed my pal his piece. It was breakfast in two bites and washed down with coffee.
I must have had an “I’m curious” look on my face. Clay spoke.
“Ask it Ain’t It.”
“Alright, how many people, spirits, voices or what have you’s are pestering you brother?”
Expressionless, Clay says, “Rebels, call ‘em that cause they took me over by force. Anyways, here’s your answer; there’s Aura, Sheriff, *Jovee, Thorny, Ginx, and Mike.”
I counted eight, thought of my visonmare, and gulped.