mateoshea-blog - Tumblr blog

mateoshea-blog · 7 years

Text

Pink Clouds & Pocket Lint

Part I

“Grabmeuhcouplecokes… cotton mouth y’kno?” as Fast Eddie chokes out the last toke of the roach. Quickly, Fast Eddie stashes the funky skunky stuff into an old oxidized ALTOIDS can – MADE IN GREAT BRITIAN, NT WT 1.76 OZ (50g). Fast Eddie had this logic that if he collected all his roaches, he could pawn off the “1.76 OZ of homegrown” to some free-lancing left-brained Polo wearing yuppie college kid for 50 bones. If anyone could pull a stunt like that, it was Fast Eddie.

“Yafuckinkiddinme! ‘Spose I’ll hoof it across the street to PAULIE’S CORNER STORE since Pizza Face and Pretty Boy both got Cerebral Palsy all-a-sudden” – Yeah, that’s the villain I been scheming with since I got clipped from the umbilical cord. Fast Eddie, guy was a maniac with a potato head. But, his barber scalped a fade around his temples to precision. Jesus, I mean his barber was his actual wingman. He’d tell us to go to the gay barber. We’d be sitting in at SPEEDY’S CUTS while Fast Eddie was choppin’ the locks and we’d overhear,

“Fast Eddie what work will my soft hands be doing today?”

And Fast Eddie would dish it right back, “If you wanna play with more than these locks later, what would you want my sex hair to look like in the morning?”

Just like that, Fast Eddie had undercooked and greasy golden French fries atop his potato head. Slicked back and thin cut, ready to serve. Ready to be swallowed into a cheap customer’s mouth. That’s why the drunks, gays, straights, in betweeners, freaks, creeps, geeks and neighbors all liked the fucking guy. Blue collar, told it how it was, and even offered a third hand when his other two were tied up someone else’s ass!

I could see Fast Eddie still jerking around across the street. Shootin’ the shit with the local folk. More than just a “It’s so warm in here!” small talk guy. Nobody remembers the shmuck with a dull personality. Fast Eddie could make a blind guy fantasize about the cashier at PAULIE’S just by the way he worked his tongue into imagery. He had it. Coupleuhcokes turns into Fast Eddie holding the door open for any pretty broad that gives him the slightest amount of eye contact (the polarizing effect of a good haircut). Perfect case study for Freud.

The musty haze of the hotboxed jalopy paranoid the living daylights outta me! We could get high in any partatown and Fast Eddie always coerced us to smoking in his car. Never got to enjoy my high, could never even tell if I was even high at all. The mirrors read “OBJECTS IN THE MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR” – that’s for damn sure. Mirrors were always staring at me with a never-ending time-warped nightmare. I’d get stuck in the mud with the Piggy’s that busted me with the joint that was burning away my dreams of CALIFORNIA COAST. I could only roll in this mud pit for so long until the objects in the mirror become reality.

Julian senses that one of my classic paranoia episodes is imminent. An observant learner, personal therapist, and mediator. Some of his unpaid roles. He uses the crank on both doors to roll down the clouded condensated windows.

“Carlton man, you love riding on the shoulder” chuckled Julian as he lounged in the plush back seat of the Caravelle.

“This is why I hate smokin’ grass, now you’re speaking straight from the hole that I call your CHAFFED LOOSE ASS!”

“Naw man… see listen, you ride the shoulder too much. That motherfucker ahead is always driving 5 miles per hour under the speed limit. You let him. And he owns you. He holds you back. He controls the rate at which you reach your destination. Shiiiit, if you ever reach it. You can’t pass him, you stay leaning on that white cozy shoulder called COMFORTABILITY. When you gonna pass the mothefucker ahead of you that’s been controlling you? When you gonna take EXIT 52 towards IMFUCKINFREEVILLE?”

I can’t even flip this one on Julian, “Yeah well I can’t ride yours and Fast Eddie’s coattails for too long now. IMFUCKINFREEVILLE has a population of some twenty million people. Once the weather vane in my oversaturated brain oozes out some hope and blows WESTWARD, I will pass that motherfucker ahead of me. No turning signal either. Imma trade in the cozy white shoulder for some dotted yellow cheese.”

“Carlton… that motherfucker dragging ass is YOU. Pass him with a prayer, leave him in the rearview.”

Julian, the backseat monk. Met him after I graduated high school. P.F. Flyer’s always crispy white, not ever one crease, not ever one scuff. Always thought he would become some materialistic rich prick. Prejudgment without contempt. Stupid me. Materialism attached to the developing brains of us high schoolers. Some shake it and others go to Universities to chase degrees that breed greed. Julian didn’t let the manmade cancer infiltrate him. He ended up rolling with us Proletariat outlaws. Somewhere, Karl Marx is grinning at me for my recruitment.

We had 30 minutes, precisely, to make it to the liquor store. Saturday’s were always the night for our bender.

Fast Eddie had this shit-eatin’ grin on his face when jogged back over the ’85 Caravelle, “Christ Almighty! Fast Eddie were you rubbing one out in PAULIE’S bathroom or sumthin’? We’re alloutta Jameson and you know we are 20 miles from the liquor store and it’s already 8:30!”

Liquor stores were no joking matter, we only found one that never had us show I.D. Plus, Fast Eddie grew a liking to the geyser that worked there. A sad babbling sack of space that got comfortable and stuck with one job his whole life. Bubbling and babbling, day in and day out. Shook so many times that he eventually became flat too.

“Pizza Face and Pretty Boy… always so self-interested. Gonna catch up to you shits soon enough.” Fast Eddie inserted the crusted key into the ignition of the Caravelle – DOOOP, DOOOP, DOOOP. God knows how many germs were on that steering wheel. Thick coats of compiled grease, excess secretions, and the fluids from various estranged females that Fast Eddie coxed in to his traveling fuck-pen. Law of superposition says oldest layers were on the bottom. I’d rather not know these things, but the smell invades my nostrils like the troops on D-DAY. Can’t even condition or desensitize myself to this aroma. Unrelenting attacks by the smell of Fast Eddie’s ball sweat and lingering remnants of a poor mans weed. I want to take a shower.

“Saturday Night. Dropping the needle down on a dusty B-Side for all you crazed, erotic, and hormonal souls cruising around looking for trouble. How about that L.A. WOMAN track… 1971. The Doors.” Slick Tom, our favorite disc jockey the night of a bender. Always reliable to set the tone.

Fast Eddie pounced on the pedal as Jim Morrison screeched sonic sex through the speakers, “Oh shit yeah fellas, we’re on the move. ‘MR. MOJO RISIN!’”

We punched it onto RT. 5. The faster route according to Fast Eddie, but it was actually the scenic route for him. He loved cruising past the prestigious Victorian style homes and dissecting what kind of conversations happen between the walls of those monasteries.

Fed up with the scenery after 3 miles, Fast Eddie barks “I bet these rich prick Dad’s just read the STOCK MARKET page in section B5 of the WALL STREET JOURNAL and ask their rich prick wives and rich prick kids where they wanna go on vacation next once the rich prick Dad’s inside trade deal hits on Monday morning.”

“Put the boner back in your pants, you’ll get your dividends too once you start pushing your roach filled ALTOIDS cans to the future homeowners of these fucking houses!”

Fast Eddie snapped right back at me, “I swear I’ll ash my next roach on that smirk of yours, Pizza Face. Maybe that’ll make you look more appetizing.”

Julian leaned in from the backseat, “AN ENDLESS PISSING MATCH, don’t your sacks ever go dry? Your testicles are attached right to your egos. Big swollen ball sacks swinging back and forth back and forth. Blowing your load all over one another day in and day out! It’s exhausting, your egos need a vasectomy!”

Just like that, right when Fast Eddie and I erupted, Julian cooled us down at the surface like molten rock. Crystallizing and metamorphosing into conglomerate. Needed him to flush our egos out. Needed to stop treating him like my urinal cake.

Fast Eddie swerved and weaved around the slow-moving masses of society that had no agenda for the night. Maybe they did. Maybe this is my self-interested motivations speaking again. I hated how maliciously Fast Eddie rounded the corners. Guard rails could’ve skinned my fingertips if I cracked the window open. This was Fast Eddie’s route. Knew every stop sign, timed every red light, and new all the lucrative hideouts where the Piggy’s patrolled.

It was 8:47, the odometer of the Caravelle twitched another mile on the dash. Only two miles remained between the three Proletariat outlaws and our enabler.

My second paranoia episode ensues, “Holy Shit Fast Eddie, you’re doing 55 in a school zone!”

“Who says I wanna choke down Jameson tonight? I’ll turn into De Niro from TAXI DRIVER if you don’t shut the hell up”

Just like that GUMBALLS GUMBALLS GUMBALLS flash in the mirrors. Objects in the mirror are becoming closer than they appear. Nightmare come true. I’m fucking doomed. We are fucking doomed. My self-interest putting me first.

“GODFUCKINGDAMMIT EDDIE! Mile away, no traffic, all interstate and now I’m gonna get jammed up with the Pigs!”

Fast Eddie retaliates, “Me, me, me! You squeal just like a fucking pig!” He takes the pressure from my brain and applies it to the pedal, POUNCE.

Julian has been around Fast Eddie enough to know that he will go to extremes to prove a point, “Fast Eddie c’mon man be cool, WE all ain’t trying to get canned. WE got living to do.”

Fast Eddie has that same shit-eatin’ grin that I seen earlier, “Fine I’ll pull this piece over. But, you don’t speak Pig Latin, got it?”

“What the hell do you mean!”

That’s all I was left to work with during my waning moments of freedom. The cop high tailed it over to the Caravelle. Tiny hairs, all a half inch long stick straight up and down on the officer’s fat head. Level one blade to navigate his temples, had to be Fast Eddie’s barber. I’m sweating bullets. The plate tectonics of my face begin to emerge. Premature pimples surface and I feel the magma boiling under the crust of my skin.

Fast Eddie rolls down the window, “HANDS ON THE WHEEL OR BRAINS ON THE WHEEL NOW”

My stomach launches acid into the back of my throat. Fast Eddie complies. Answers to an authority figure. No finger-fucking around.

“NOT ONLY ARE YOU THREE LITTLE SHITS A LIABILITY ON THIS ROAD, DO I HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE YOU WERE SMOKING MARIJUANA?”

Julian hasn’t flinched and Fast Eddie’s mute. Fast Eddie’s still got that shit-eatin’ grin on his face.

“AM I SPEAKING FUCKIN GREEK? IS THERE MARIJUANA IN THIS VEHICLE, THIS IS THE LAST TIME I WILL ASK BEFORE I SHAKE YOU DOWN TO YOUR PALE PEACH FUZZED ASSES!”

In my peripheral I see the ALTOIDS can staring at me. Rusted smile, MADE IN GREAT BRITIAN. 1.75 OZ – damn near weightless. But, enough weight to land me in the sin bin.

Enough to land us in the sin bin.

The Cop begins laughing, I mean really fucking laughing. The wild Pig chased his pray down and now he is foaming at the mouth. Ha-HA-HA-hahaha’ing until there is no oxygen remaining in his bloated stomach. Almost as if the funky stuff has protruded from the ALTOIDS can and immediately hit his bloodstream.

“ALRIGHT FAST EDDIE, THESE ARE THE PROLETARIAT OUTLAWS EH? OUR MOUSE TRAP COULDN’T CAPTURE A RAT!”

Fast Eddie’s dimples break out from his skin for the first time in a decade, “Thanks OFFICER LAFFERTY! Next hoagie from PAULIE’S CORNERSTORE is on me!”

“I’ll take the ALTOIDS can instead… when it’s full.” He replies. Walks away, swinging his Billy-club.

Fast Eddie peeps his dilated eyes into the corner of the mirror, glancing at Julian. “Pretty Boy whatsamatta! You didn’t croak! You didn’t squeal! Conglomerate don’t crack!”

Julian boasted,“Yeah, RATS don’t survive by scurrying on the shoulder. Too scared to chase the dotted yellow cheese if ya know what I mean. I gotta eat, I mean… WE gotta eat.”

“Amen.”

And, just like that comfortability didn’t appeal to me anymore. Lit the roach, took a toke, exhaled. Puff puff pass to Julian puff puff pass to Fast Eddie, and back to me. Repeat. Fast Eddie inserted the rusted key into the ignition – BOOOP BOOOP BOOOP. Slick Tom was steady playing them classic B-Sides. Liquor store was closed. Detour: EXIT 52 towards IMFUCKINFREEVILLE.

3 notes · View notes