She laid on her towel profusely.
She imagined the sun sending microscopic missiles into her pores exploding in 20 years into some awful noma. She often had dreams where she was chased down an alley by an extremely agitated posse of grey, billowing nomas. Today, she soaked.
An unusual amount of sand blew onto her arm and she opened her eye to see a steel-tipped boot. Shit.
“Where’s the fucking cheese, Jackie?”
She turned over quickly and stood up, nimbly clutching her towel to some of her nakedness as she did so.
“The fuck you doing here, Lenny?”
Lenny grinned his greaseball smile and re-manuevered the toothpick around in his mouth. “I came to play with the beach balls. I like playing with beach balls. What are beaches for, if not for playing with da balls?”
She attempted her evil eye, unfortunately weak in lieu of her clothinglessness.
“I don’t know nothing about no cheese, Lenny.”
Lenny smacked one fist into palm. “It was his best sonata, Jackie! You shouldn’t a just took it like that. He’s a wreck, now. A complete catastrophe. He needs that sonata back!”
“You damn fool!” she screamed. “He would have been a global laughingstock had he released that piece! It was called Cheese, for christ’s sake! It only consisted of one note!”
He put his hands on his hips.
“You bitch!” he sputtered. “Plus, you look like a lobster!”
He ran off into the high grass. She put the back of her hand to her forehead; she did feel unusually hot. Plus, she freckled; she was the type to burn easily.
She applied some oil and laid back down. She liked how the sun warmed all her parts.
Mr. Groove set up shop in a beautiful little hut on a beautiful little Caribbean island. He walked out the office door, shoeless, and into white sand, facing surf. He breathed deep.
“Ah!”
He put the cigar-sized j into his mouth and took a big puff.
“Ah!” (on exhalation.)
“Mister Groove?” came the melodious voice from behind.
He turned and there was Velma.
“Your one o’clock is here.”
Ah, first meeting of the day. He gave her a big smile (so genuine, so flecked with fresh memory-gland imprints of their most recent uber-gland display) and motioned for her to send him in.
He stood waiting behind his desk.
He quietly noted the progress of the occupants of his aquarium as he continued to puff. Ah, so fluid.
Ah, ah.
Motion behind him. He turned, natch.
“Ah,” he said. “Down By Law 6.”
Down By Law 6 nodded and slinked into the room. He was tall and thin and dressed entirely in black. When he moved, it was like a willow leaning.
Down By Law 6 extended his hand and they shook.
“Nice to meet you,” Down By Law 6 said.
“The honor is truly all mine.”
They dissembled.
“In fact,” Mr. Groove said, getting behind his chair and pulling it out. “You sit here.”
Down By Law 6 wasn’t the type to argue over obvious formalities; he sat.
Mr. Groove sat across from him in front of his own desk. Both chairs were wicker. The floor was tiled in red ceramic. The air was tinged with sea and pot and honeysuckle. Down By Law 6 put his sunglasses on.
Mr. Groove stood up for a minute and leaned over to open up a wide low wooden box on his desk. He laid the top aside and swept his hands over the air he had just exposed and what lied beneath.
“Whatever ya like.”
“To help the conversation,” Down By Law 6 replied, leaning over and taking a few things out. “Hmmm . . . “ he said, perusing.
They eventually performed the Italian Tea Ceremony with a little Texada Timewarp and a tincture of silk.
“So anyway,” Mr. Groove sez, now relaxed, leaning back.
“I’m building this new thing down here and wanted to see if you could help.”
Down By Law 6 nodded noncommitally. But Mr. Groove could tell his eyes were inarested [spelling intentional, partial homage to Uncle Bill].
Still, Down By Law 6 had to ask. “So, what’s the vision?”
Of course, thus prodded, Mr. Groove got up and did an amazing act across the room which most Oscar winners could only preen at. Plus, he wrote his own stuff.
Images went off in Down By Law 6’s head like candy-coated fireworks, backlit by stars.
“I’m interested.” Down By Law 6 said.
Soon, they both stood on the beach looking out over the water.
“You got some good shit down here.” Down By Law 6 professed.
In his head, he was already wondering what kind of computers he would need for this. What kind of code. What kind of magic to pull this crazy shit off. They would really do it this time. They would save the motherfucking world.
“So.”
“So.”
It was two of them awkward sos. They were making each other nervous and each felt like the geek.
She licked her lips and looked up at him again, her oversized eyes pooling with warmth.
He fought to keep from hyperventilating. “Am I sweating profusely?” he rapidly wondered.
She smiled--her last resort when feeling socially helpless. And also her first. In between she snorted and odd parts of her body got sticky.
He, on the other hand, when pressed, exerted a unique aroma which smelled like the result of an unholy congress between old Cheetos, young snails and yam. Also, he chortled.
“You, uh, got an extra box of staples?” he asked. He wiped his hands against his khakis. They left sweat marks you could take fingerprints from.
Her coming nite passed before her eyes: bus, Jane Eyre, boorishly-talkative roommates and ice cream and masturbation alone in her room. She looked him over hotly.
“Um, yea. Right here.” She fished them out of her top drawer, and while leaning over she faced his sloppily-laced sneakers. She wanted desperately to relace them for him.
She handed him the box and tried to brush fingers. Instead she jammed the box straight into his index finger's hangnail and he let out a howl; she convulsed and the box went flying.
“Ow!” Jeannie in the back said. Apparently it had struck her in the throat. Jeannie would then go home sick. She had that thing going around anyway.
“Oops!” the girl cried, aghast.
He was glancing over at Jeannie, red moons emerging on his cheeks.
He looked back down at her.
“Oh well, I’ll see if the mailroom has any. Thanks anyway . . . “
“Sorry about that,” she said, smiling. Her mind flashed to ice cream.
“See you around,” he said, offended digit already placed into hot wet mouth.
“You too.” she said.
She watched him go and then turned back to her monitor. In a minute, Jeannie would trundle over and ask her in that accusing voice if she knew where the first aid kit was. But for now, just for the moment, she could look at that beautiful beach wallpaper and dream.
you’re here
because your father
bopped your mother.
how you bop
is anybody’s game.
life is a fucking tragedy
because everyone dies
in the end.
just keep the ball of culture
bopped to the youth
as you go down.
bop, bop.
transcendance
it’s what everyone wants
the runner
the smoker
the drinker
the bible-thumper
we’re the only animals
on this planet
who can forsee
our own death
our whole system is set up
to help us live
and we all know
no matter how hard
we work
how hard
we try
how far
we go
we’re gonna lose
in the end
transcend that.