Dorian Hargrove 3:30 p.m., Nov. 25
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The move begins.
Twenty is fearful of the new house and sticks close.
A month later, 12:12 pm
I say my good-byes. Tex hits the road to Australia. Part of the lease is that I care for his two toy poodles (Blackey and Whitey), when he travels for work. In unison, his car backs out the driveway and I exhale relief. I flop on the couch and hit Tex’s bottomless bong. Twenty flops on the couch. Whitey and Blackey crawl and climb onto my lap. Twenty and I glance at each other and shake our heads. The W&B lap camp almost prevent my reach to the closest stacked beer fridge. A sixty inch HD screen mesmerizes me with Brazil the Movie. Next, I discover TIVO and dive into thirty-seven episode of Seinfeld.
THC and beer pulsate through my fingers. I leave the pack to explore the neighborhood. Disappointment is blown at Lancer’s, when I score a 22oz bottle(s) of Pliny the Elder. I play Ween and the Beatles on the jukebox.
I manically trek the 8 blocks to the Live Wire stopping briefly for a quick puff with the pack. I sit at the crowded bar listening to Danzig’s “ I am the One”. I sip a hoppy motherf@cking beer. Motherf@cking describing the magnitude and quality of hoppiness. I partake in the social climate via the mirror behind the bar.
My cortex calculates and visualizes the infinite number of possible interactions.
“My interactome is HUGE!”, my brains giggles.
I talk to no one for three beers.
Mrs. Fourth Beer swings in. Mrs. FB ripples my stupor with slightly annoying but pleasant questions, which I answer with great enthusiasm. Her declaration of her half of century age astonishes me more than it should. My attention triggers her to blab about her son’s UCSD graduation.
I spot Miss Ninth Beer.
I flow out of Mrs. FB’s lair into the aura of Miss NB. She is ten times hotter than Mrs. FB, but fifty times less receptive to my charm.
Two blocks to the pack
First block: A tree saves my life.
Second block: House Barbecue Party. A second wave of bliss corrects my slouch.
Words dribble from my mouth, which produces a metallic taste in the mouths of the young party goers. Arnold Schwarzenegger asks me to leave. I shake my head in agreement and stumble to the pack. I throw B&W in the yard and Twenty and I relieve ourselves.
I reconnect with the bottomless bong and search the web for tunes. I stumble across the band Cluster. It’s a Brian Eno joint and it blast through Tex's expensive speakers.
My numb corpse begins to tingle.
First my toes, then it waves to my groin, and I salute.
Before I can conjure a dirty thought, the wave hits my heart.
I speculate a heart attack. My fear of death transforms into a curiosity of an afterlife.
The waves ascend to my brain and all my thoughts ooze out my ears like warm pool water. My neck bobs my head. The music induces synaptogenesis. I stare at Twenty. Twenty stares back.
“Do not be afraid” she gruffs.
I stare at Twenty.
“Do not be afraid, I will guide you.” she gruffs.
“Any thing else you would like to say?” I slur.
I lounge painfully on my bare mattress. My heads pulsates from dehydration. Twenty wiggles on her back for a belly scratch. During a hot fifty minute shower, I dissect the night.
Pliny the Elder, fat old lady, snotty young chick, party, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Twenty talking.
I laugh. I blame the night on Tex’s killer pot, drinking all day and then topping it off with ten percent beers.
I dress while watching Twenty chase a spider along the wall. I throw B&W in the yard. Twenty and I walk around the block.
I quizzically examine a lawn disfigured by a deceased social gathering with Arnold Schwarzenegger passed out on the grass.
My eyes shoot Twenty as she gobbles a piece a shit off the ground.
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