Dingledoodies
“New record to northwest!” Guy shouted at the bottom of the off-ramp. “Nine minutes!” he yelled over his straining two-door Mercedes as he weaved through traffic, barely missing oncoming vehicles and flying by cars at sixty on a downtown street. He merged back on after picking up Chris and took the bridge at over a hundred, screaming up the interstate and passing a dozen cars at one intersection. He’d gotten pulled over last week, but that might as well have been ancient history. With the bass rattling and his two-door floating past entire city blocks in a blur of head bobbing and grinding clutch, it felt like a real modern day adventure. Like he and Chris were a pair of fearless pirates patrolling the sterile commercial lanes, flashing their silver teeth and sharp swords to whoever dare look. They hit a jam merging north and a jeep was free riding past the gridlock on the shoulder. This was exactly what they were looking for.
“Huh, who the fuck does this guy think he is?” Guy mumbled and darted out, riding hard up the jeep’s bumper, gunning the engine until he thought he might smash into it, slamming on the brakes at the last possible moment. Taunting. Daring him. Like a matador obsessively swooping his red cape, he set up the kill. The middle-aged man wore a cowboy hat and sang off-key to top one hundred country. They paused just long enough to look him dead in the eyes, grind their teeth and yell, “nice hat fuckface!” It was so invigorating to see such a genuine response in another human being. You can’t fake fear, you can’t hide fear, it is the base emotion, it equalized everyone- a middle-aged cowboy, two college punks, a financial planner - fear was a language they were all conversant in. Chris and Guy laughed riotously and flew through five lanes to clear the gridlock. They were indomitable, reckless, daring – in a world bursting with abstraction, status and subtlety, it was the truest thing they knew.
They sailed into the park in minutes, cursing their way through the rocky, beer bottle-laden path towards the waterfall, feeling gaunt and strong, their skin caked in salt from earlier exertions. Guy glanced at Chris like he always did, like a piece of trash, but one he would nonetheless indulge, if only for a few weeks as his latest kick. He shoveled a big stack of chips onto his tongue and bent his head to the side in a big grin, “Umm, barbeque or sour cream? I don’t know. Barbeque’s so good, classic, but sour cream goes down, so smooth. It is filling!” It was a toss-up, a true intellectual quagmire. “Hey!” was always how he launched into his next manic musing, “you wanna get Mad Dogs tonight, put jollies on the bottom, Mad Dog it up tonight?”
Chris smirked as they saw the falls gushing onto the boulders ahead, a scene that had probably been just like that, undisturbed and pristine, for the last ten thousand years, “are you fucking serious? It’s OE times tonight at Glouchester.”
“Right, right,” Guy sputtered as he tossed the chips and his shirt onto the bank and straddled the rope tied to the tree roots above and swung out over the water, releasing just when it looked like he might smash into the opposite rock wall and down to his death. They joined the crew of locals – teenagers chain smoking on the side, sliding dangerously down the slippery rocks on their Vans or finding a new incline to gator off. Always pushing the limits, feeding off the inevitable energy that builds in groups. Total freedom is scary. Guy gave a guttural scream and sat in the air for seconds, his sinewy body screaming towards the chopping waves below, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.
All the hours of grinding work, bombing through the woods of Northwest, humping the hills of the park in the scorching sunlight, plastering a smile on for hours at a register, it all built up in their bodies like a chemical dependency. The best parties are spontaneous but inevitable - the momentum of work and routine slamming violently against the hard contours of debauchery and indulgence. Guy leaned against the kitchen sink in his torn jeans, sideways generic tractor hat, already slurring his words. In the other room a sedate group played menace to sobriety to its film counterpart, while Chris and Guy just tried not to fall over onto the filthy linoleum kitchen floor.
“So, where do you work?” Guy could be textbook charming when he wanted.
“Abercrombie,” the girl practically whispered, looking off at the suddenly engrossing sliding glass door off the porch.
“That’s cool, cool,” Guy smiled and threw a ping-pong ball into a red cup to the sound of muffled cheers.
“I also do the theater here,” she added.
“Ah, no way, that’s crazy, I gotta buddy who’s gonna be filthy rich in that stuff man, he’s got this screenplay all lined up,” he kept his tunnel vision on her for a second and laughed at how ridiculous it all was.
“Rad, my grandfather is in film, he’s on a first name basis with Spielberg,” she paused to watch her friend in apparent slow motion grab Chris by the throat and push him against the wall, wailing, “I’m not retarded! Take it back!”
Guy burst into laughter as Chris reflexively karate chopped her arm down in genuine astonishment, already forgetting what it was he had said.
“Hey, let’s go, alright,” his new friend said to her enraged companion.
Guy was sad to see the interesting brunette go, I mean she practically knew Steven Spielberg and he still had a few minorly charming things to say.
“Hey, nice meeting you,” she said while wrestling her belligerent girlfriend out of the kitchen.
“Yeah, yeah, you too,” he sputtered and gave an epic, reconciliatory smile to the ceiling fan twirling above.
After getting a pseudo-tour of the house, equipped with all things classically college male - including an impressive full-size Marilyn Monroe doll, stripper’s poll and a bar that would make most restaurants envious - Guy concluded it was best to get out of the house as quickly as possible and sit in a ball on the curb with his head in his hands, shivering in the breezy summer night.
The bass line bounced back and forth between his temples, “Cause I’m Mike Jones. Who? Mike Jones, the one and only, you can’t clone me. Got a lot a haters and a lot of homies some friends and some phony.” He mumbled it over and over in his broken spinning head, and when the officer showed up, he asked him if he knew the rest of the lyrics. Unfortunately, he said he didn’t.
“How you doing there pal,” the policeman stated, shining a flashlight over him and pulling out a notepad.
Apparently he didn’t appreciate the lyrical genius of Mike Jones altogether.
“Super, real good,” and he got up to stumble over to the ditch and fill it with his vomit.
When he got back, Chris was already there, laughing at the stern, card-board figures of the officers as they probed for IDs and let the entire party in the house flee through the back porch.
Guy looked up into the officers’ eyes and saw any manner of authority figure gazing back. His father. His coach. His adviser. He could see the officer thinking, perhaps replaying the days long ago when it was him shivering on the curb, crying in laughter. Chris pleaded to walk the line, “please officer, really, I’m a champ, please!”
“Have a good night guys. And get back inside, it’s cold out here,” the cop said, falling into the warm patrol car to the sounds of dispatch.
Guy and Chris watched the car speed down the black, desolate tree-lined neighborhood onto the next call, and stood up, and then instantly sat back down, laughing huge riotous laughs, shattering the quiet summer night with their shrieks.
* “Dingledoodies” is attributed to Jack Kerouac and Mike Jones reserves all rights to his lyrics
“New record to northwest!” Guy shouted at the bottom of the off-ramp. “Nine minutes!” he yelled over his straining two-door Mercedes as he weaved through traffic, barely missing oncoming vehicles and flying by cars at sixty on a downtown street. He merged back on after picking up Chris and took the bridge at over a hundred, screaming up the interstate and passing a dozen cars at one intersection. He’d gotten pulled over last week, but that might as well have been ancient history. With the bass rattling and his two-door floating past entire city blocks in a blur of head bobbing and grinding clutch, it felt like a real modern day adventure. Like he and Chris were a pair of fearless pirates patrolling the sterile commercial lanes, flashing their silver teeth and sharp swords to whoever dare look. They hit a jam merging north and a jeep was free riding past the gridlock on the shoulder. This was exactly what they were looking for.
“Huh, who the fuck does this guy think he is?” Guy mumbled and darted out, riding hard up the jeep’s bumper, gunning the engine until he thought he might smash into it, slamming on the brakes at the last possible moment. Taunting. Daring him. Like a matador obsessively swooping his red cape, he set up the kill. The middle-aged man wore a cowboy hat and sang off-key to top one hundred country. They paused just long enough to look him dead in the eyes, grind their teeth and yell, “nice hat fuckface!” It was so invigorating to see such a genuine response in another human being. You can’t fake fear, you can’t hide fear, it is the base emotion, it equalized everyone- a middle-aged cowboy, two college punks, a financial planner - fear was a language they were all conversant in. Chris and Guy laughed riotously and flew through five lanes to clear the gridlock. They were indomitable, reckless, daring – in a world bursting with abstraction, status and subtlety, it was the truest thing they knew.
They sailed into the park in minutes, cursing their way through the rocky, beer bottle-laden path towards the waterfall, feeling gaunt and strong, their skin caked in salt from earlier exertions. Guy glanced at Chris like he always did, like a piece of trash, but one he would nonetheless indulge, if only for a few weeks as his latest kick. He shoveled a big stack of chips onto his tongue and bent his head to the side in a big grin, “Umm, barbeque or sour cream? I don’t know. Barbeque’s so good, classic, but sour cream goes down, so smooth. It is filling!” It was a toss-up, a true intellectual quagmire. “Hey!” was always how he launched into his next manic musing, “you wanna get Mad Dogs tonight, put jollies on the bottom, Mad Dog it up tonight?”
Chris smirked as they saw the falls gushing onto the boulders ahead, a scene that had probably been just like that, undisturbed and pristine, for the last ten thousand years, “are you fucking serious? It’s OE times tonight at Glouchester.”
“Right, right,” Guy sputtered as he tossed the chips and his shirt onto the bank and straddled the rope tied to the tree roots above and swung out over the water, releasing just when it looked like he might smash into the opposite rock wall and down to his death. They joined the crew of locals – teenagers chain smoking on the side, sliding dangerously down the slippery rocks on their Vans or finding a new incline to gator off. Always pushing the limits, feeding off the inevitable energy that builds in groups. Total freedom is scary. Guy gave a guttural scream and sat in the air for seconds, his sinewy body screaming towards the chopping waves below, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.
All the hours of grinding work, bombing through the woods of Northwest, humping the hills of the park in the scorching sunlight, plastering a smile on for hours at a register, it all built up in their bodies like a chemical dependency. The best parties are spontaneous but inevitable - the momentum of work and routine slamming violently against the hard contours of debauchery and indulgence. Guy leaned against the kitchen sink in his torn jeans, sideways generic tractor hat, already slurring his words. In the other room a sedate group played menace to sobriety to its film counterpart, while Chris and Guy just tried not to fall over onto the filthy linoleum kitchen floor.
“So, where do you work?” Guy could be textbook charming when he wanted.
“Abercrombie,” the girl practically whispered, looking off at the suddenly engrossing sliding glass door off the porch.
“That’s cool, cool,” Guy smiled and threw a ping-pong ball into a red cup to the sound of muffled cheers.
“I also do the theater here,” she added.
“Ah, no way, that’s crazy, I gotta buddy who’s gonna be filthy rich in that stuff man, he’s got this screenplay all lined up,” he kept his tunnel vision on her for a second and laughed at how ridiculous it all was.
“Rad, my grandfather is in film, he’s on a first name basis with Spielberg,” she paused to watch her friend in apparent slow motion grab Chris by the throat and push him against the wall, wailing, “I’m not retarded! Take it back!”
Guy burst into laughter as Chris reflexively karate chopped her arm down in genuine astonishment, already forgetting what it was he had said.
“Hey, let’s go, alright,” his new friend said to her enraged companion.
Guy was sad to see the interesting brunette go, I mean she practically knew Steven Spielberg and he still had a few minorly charming things to say.
“Hey, nice meeting you,” she said while wrestling her belligerent girlfriend out of the kitchen.
“Yeah, yeah, you too,” he sputtered and gave an epic, reconciliatory smile to the ceiling fan twirling above.
After getting a pseudo-tour of the house, equipped with all things classically college male - including an impressive full-size Marilyn Monroe doll, stripper’s poll and a bar that would make most restaurants envious - Guy concluded it was best to get out of the house as quickly as possible and sit in a ball on the curb with his head in his hands, shivering in the breezy summer night.
The bass line bounced back and forth between his temples, “Cause I’m Mike Jones. Who? Mike Jones, the one and only, you can’t clone me. Got a lot a haters and a lot of homies some friends and some phony.” He mumbled it over and over in his broken spinning head, and when the officer showed up, he asked him if he knew the rest of the lyrics. Unfortunately, he said he didn’t.
“How you doing there pal,” the policeman stated, shining a flashlight over him and pulling out a notepad.
Apparently he didn’t appreciate the lyrical genius of Mike Jones altogether.
“Super, real good,” and he got up to stumble over to the ditch and fill it with his vomit.
When he got back, Chris was already there, laughing at the stern, card-board figures of the officers as they probed for IDs and let the entire party in the house flee through the back porch.
Guy looked up into the officers’ eyes and saw any manner of authority figure gazing back. His father. His coach. His adviser. He could see the officer thinking, perhaps replaying the days long ago when it was him shivering on the curb, crying in laughter. Chris pleaded to walk the line, “please officer, really, I’m a champ, please!”
“Have a good night guys. And get back inside, it’s cold out here,” the cop said, falling into the warm patrol car to the sounds of dispatch.
Guy and Chris watched the car speed down the black, desolate tree-lined neighborhood onto the next call, and stood up, and then instantly sat back down, laughing huge riotous laughs, shattering the quiet summer night with their shrieks.
* “Dingledoodies” is attributed to Jack Kerouac and Mike Jones reserves all rights to his lyrics
No comments:
Post a Comment