Big Jim had spooked the shit out of me. Videos and speakers. Who would have thought he was getting this advanced? Then he’s calm as can be and turns me loose with a bike. I needed a shot of cognac. I put the bike in the garage. The weight bench still had white stains from the cocaine on it. I ran my finger over the stain and licked it. Twang! It changed my mind. No coke.
I strolled into the house and poured a big glass of cognac. It was like a long lost friend, warm all over. I rolled a little reefer and went back to the garage. It was quiet and dark and the weed rushed over my head. The cognac washed it down and the weed rolled over my head again. I felt as though I could sit there forever. I could smell the banana peel. I thought about the dark garage sitting in the bright sunlight. Sunlight traveling billions of light years or millions of light years and wondered if it went on past the garage and over to the dark side of space and how far the light could go before it petered out or if it went in a big circle and came back to the sun like a perpetual light machine. Was the universe a circle?
It had to be.
The cognac was getting warm and it had a creator. It also had a consumer: me. I kept the cognac on its toes and it occurred to me that that’s what the problem was with humans. No natural consumers, no predators. We were fat and lazy and needed bears and wolves to thin us out, keep us on our toes.
I smelled the banana again and thought of banana republics and those hats they wear. Were they panama hats? The Panama Canal was full of boats full of bananas weren’t they? Wasn’t it? Bananas full of cocaine straight off the Valdez peninsula. Zippered up hermetically sealed bananas full of cocaine packed in coffee beans to hide the smell. Coffee rang a bell. I was really stoned. My heart was pounding and a half glass of cognac was sitting there looking extremely unappetizing. I needed a Starbucks costume. Urban camouflage of a different sort. Undercover goon squad camo. I went to my room.
This costume was intriguing. I would be on a bike. I didn’t want to look like a tweeker or a homeless bum. I wanted to look like a bike rider. I had no spandex, and I wasn’t sure if I’d wear it if I had it. Did bike riders wear sweatsuits? They did wear black suits and ties and handed out pamphlets. How cool would that be?
I had an old black suit. I put on the pants and a white shirt and a black tie and black shoes. My white socks peeked out, glared out in the mirror. No jacket for me, too warm. Drop dead fuck off Ray-bans completed the costume. I looked straight into the mirror and growled, “Fuck off.”
Yeeeeah. Time for a ride.