Sometimes, when near water, or far from it, sometimes, it is very good to have some along. No, really. Jest with me not. It’s kind of like never passing up food. When you’re at a person’s place, never pass up food. A: it’s impolite. B: you can never be quite sure when you’ll get to eat again.
Sure. No, actually, you might be quite certain of it. Quite secure in the knowledge that your next meal is just down the street, at the Wendy’s, drive up window open late. But, consider, should your car flip into the ditch, you not watching the wheel, hunting for the last remnants of change you need to make up the tax.
The awesome tender grasp of g-force, the fain sweep of headlights against a rough hedge, bouncing off a shallow pool.
Now, don’t you think, lying there, crushed against the dash, benzene leaking toward the battery, that you should have jumped on that plate of jambalaya at Old Dan’s place on Route 73? Can’t cook for shit, but, at least, you’d ‘ve left your pitiful excuse for an existence with a gut full of foodstuff.
The rental idles in the parkinglot as you swing a shopping cart loaded with trash against the side of some car. Puke, beer and rotting soup spill weakly against a shiny new door. Quickly, before the rest catch wind, you dart around to your assigned spot, the shitty one where your death rate is exponentially, well, from death’s perspective, pretty fucking rosy.
Inside, on the way towards possible desolation and the promise of madness, the beer flows freely, and the expanse of desert is simply fascinating. Stark promontories, massive alluvial fans, wind scoured ridgelines marching every which way. You sit, straining at the urge not to blow up, not to become too aggressive, to start cutting up the car roof, to rake the eyes. But, as quickly as they slip in from the sides, the fury are gone, hiding, for now.
The descent to five hundred feet from three thousand within the span of not too many miles should not be done under the following conditions:
- in a rental car with mediocre brakes
- with a tired driver, and/or one with a painfully short fuse whilst driving
- in the dark
- on mild psychedelics
- drunk
Ah, but sometimes, the worst conditions are in fact the best. Took the wrong exit? In certain towns, where any sort and manner of person COULD hang out, you might just come around the corner, trying to find your way back onto the freeway, and come upon a shitty looking drunk clown hitting on an eighty year old prostitute.
But only if you’re lucky. The glowing disk smacks you out of your brief repose, you pick it up, and you whip it to a stranger in the dark, some dark figure with no visible face. There is a girl there, and a handful of tired folks all sort of waiting for something to happen, or someone to come up with a really great idea like ballooning, even craps. In the light, an outsider, you may stick out… Just put on your finest
But never trust them, especially not the expat British auto mechanic and his flamboyantly gothy, possibly Midwestern girlfriend, who somehow managed to bring an tomahawk, two dozen throwing knives, a high powered magnet, various stimulants, one large wrench, various large pigstickers, and a number of other blunt and dangerous objects that don’t quite stick in the short term memory banks through the fog of drugs, onto the plane.
That first night, somewhat secluded from the rest of the small group of real fucking troopers that made it out early too, take some Ecstasy, preferably good stuff. Your tendons clench like after that one time you took fifteen Adderall, nothing too bad, just a little jumpyness, just a little jacked up, the occasional happy feelings swimming around below your diaphragm.
You didn’t bring a tent, and this is
But let them leave, if they want, and film some silliness on a camera. Try for reality animal hunter show, or withered lost hiker. Destroy some foliage, maybe toss a boulder into a shallow stream, crushing the wiggling ‘poles beneath. Prove your showing arm, and for gods’ sake, show off any tattoos you may have. Enjoy the time with your sister, too, for she’s the only one you’ve got, and a damn fine actor to boot.
Later, back at the ranch, mom’s hollerin’ for slop, and ringing that big ole brass number. But she’s really just a naked man with red pubes, who will stay that way for the duration of the weekend, standing in the sun, smiling just somewhat shyly. Leucadian, or something. Needs a trim.
Join the group listening to the first ever recording of the standup comedian who’s hosting the getaway, kind of randomly shuffling about as your method of controlling the weed-downs, a sort of hyperactive, nonsensical, witty but offensive drive, shifts you from spot to spot, never really letting you relax.
If things become foggy for you at some point, and you’ve become very nervous lounging directly in line of sight of the big guy, who’s sitting on an old foundation covered with Astroturf, next to about fifteen others. His energy is weird, so you project back, so you try sending some tentative surges of attention that curl and twist like loose smoke into suction. But they seem to flay off, not really penetrating his indifference. Nothing major, just a look here and there in between making subtle hand and facial signals referencing things you’ve shared this past quartcent with your sister. And you’re really just sitting and roaming around enjoying the day with a bunch of steadily changing people, variously talking nicely to:
one superhot Commonwealther, there with a possibly pickup driving Mister Clean, but arguably the hottest number there; an insecure, pushing the limit of controlling his weight banker or something; the ax wielding duo who fairly regularly speak of testing out methods of throwing the tomahawk; one short girl of possibly Armenian descent, whom you had espied that morning emerging from her tent in a very nice diaper, who maintains that the diaper was the first thing she could find to wear in her bag; one septum pierced, tattooed woman with exquisite breasts, which she keeps showing, who acts as if she were expecting something, trying to read you, very awkward.
When the banker guy leans in and kisses those wondrous orbs, follow suit, and get right in there, biting with the back molars immediately, testing her level of pain tolerance. If you hear her grunting with pleasure, you know you’ve probably got a winner. But, the sun, walking, drugs, alcohol and lack of sleep are really fucking killing you, so take a nap around eight. But take the lone other Ex before it at some point, in case you want to kind of fuck up the timing. Whatever.
Wake at around ten thirty, and hit the party, drinking beers, hitting the trees, kicking things back into gear. There, you’ll be lucky to run into gorgeous orbs, but maybe not that lucky. There isn’t another town in any direction for a good night’s forced march. Somehow, you come to the conclusion together, without the banality of words, lucidly exchanging various sexual and social energies, separate to the ubiquitous darkness, and pretty much start furiously making out with orbs.
If you find yourself in an empty showroom window, and are having problems getting it up, just stick at it. At some point offer to exchange her fallacious efforts, and if she says that it’s been a hot day and you probably don’t want to go down there, thank whichever gods you call your own. Winner. Fucking bingo.
But there’s something about the room that’s not right, so, you’re bold, and blinded with the raw pleasure of the BJ, and you go out, lie down on the Astroturf, which is now blindingly ringed with spotlights, and quite centrally located. She’ll go at it again, making some progress, but you’ll be a bit freaked out by the people walking places at the edges of the raw light. Slowly, at the sound of shuffling feet, you open you eyes to find a leaning, scrawny man of about fifty staggering over you, initially curious about the action, then getting a wee too happy about what’s going on. So tell orbs that it’s really not working out there, and stumble to the dark recesses of the campsite.
If you choose the park bench next to her tent, well done. Sit down, variously checking out the bonfire party going on twenty feet to your left, and your posse saddling up for the shack in front of you, as she works up for the finale. Sometimes, you’re lucky, and actually find a girl who can read your wrinkled Mr. Lincoln like a book, and adjusts the shape of her mouth to accommodate your unique fingerprint of erogenous zones. Nerves singing along your spine, on a high crest of sheer pleasure, you ride. Let her work you up for a massive, blinding, silent finish, then soil your shirt.
Get up awkwardly, mumble some kind of acknowledgement, but not thanks, to the girl. She leaves awkwardly after mumbling something back, and you go pass out in the car.
The next morning, wave at her weakly under the staggering agony of forced wakedness, and if she gets up without a word and crosses the street, not to be seen again until you leave, you’re golden, broseph.
Skip breakfast, then pack up the tent and hit the road, back towards Vegas. Perhaps you’re jaded from a childhood of growing up among things old and ancient, and don’t share your countrymen’s views of so called local “historic” sites, but you MAY want to go check out some of the touristy shit around the area.
Back in Vegas, convince the rest to take a fucking cab to go see the strip, to go do touristy stuff, and not the van, because it’s been a long day, and you’re all feeling a bit loopy. If they balk, keep at them. If all else fails, offer to, then actually pay for the cab yourself. Fuck. You’re only so often in Vegas, might as well enjoy it, with as little stress involved as possible.
No comments:
Post a Comment