RODENT MEWS

 

 

 

                                             RODENT MEWS

                                                  PART ONE

                                                 THE YARD

                                                     


"Acid Drop, dude," says Craig. "It was radical, man,"
"Whaat?" I say.
"The Acid Drop Dude,"
"You already said that. What the fuck is acid drop?"
"When you take off on a wave and suddenly have the bottom fall out as you free fall down the face. Radical wave, dude."
This Craig Hammer guy…this fucking whole American-guy down at number seven-five-six, he is a like big kid but at his early thirties, so it’s kind of weird, talks surfer lingo and drives a foreign car, a Swedish-Polished-Brick SUV Volvo XC90, for ratfuck’s sake, the whole cliché thing.
   This is Hollywood and its fascination with the cult car Volvo.
   He offers the fatty, Como, dude, go high’ he says choking.
      Davy.
      Wha?
     Or Dave. Mr Jones would be great but that would make me feel old. I’m only eleven, I say, giggling. I’m not supposed to get high.
     You live once, dude, Craig says.
    Almost sixty- per cent of cars used in Hollywood movies are fucking Volvos, I say, taking a long drag.
    What?
   It’s a fact, I say, but it sounds ‘effect’. There is this beat old Volvo, this Swedish fucking Brick in every movie. I take another long drag before I hand it to him, and I say,That's factually fucking crazy, man. This Polar Bear featuring in every flick.
  What are you talking about, dude? He says.
  What’s wrong with Chevy? I say, even though I know what’s wrong with Chevy.
  Dude?
   Don’t call me dude, I say and hand him back the joint.
   I don’t mind Chevy, Dude. I don’t like Dodge.
   Same difference. And now, now, it’s the new models…just made the Brick more acceptable, that’s fucking invasion, man. The V.O.L.V.O Invasion.
 Are you talking about my Volvo, dude? He asks, staring at some graphics on his Mac and he’s talking like he is on five- hundred-twenty-six torque speed. Torque? Fuck if I know what it means! It’s as complicated as Einstein’s Relativity. So, I don’t understand a fucking thing he is saying. He has a surfer tan and sounds gay, gaycious, and I’m sure he’s gay. But I don’t judge.
    I’m only eleven.
    Yeah, I am talking about your fucking Volvo, I say in between drags. Your new black Polar Bear. You’re a cliché, man. Fucking cliché.
      He is a cartographer.
      I know, he says. Fuck, I shoulda bought a white color. Have to wash the damn thing everyday.
      That’s gay, man, I say. So totally gaycious.
      You drive an Audi TT, dude.
      So?
      Audi is not American.
      I take along breath. What is wrong with you, man? You're missing the point. I'm talking about Hollywood's fascination with the brick. How many movies you've seen with an Audi in it?
      Transporter. Jason Stetham drove an Audi.
      Jason Stetham is British and probably it was his choice.
      Any other?
      Fuck me if I care, Craig shrugs. He takes a little plastic bag full of cocaine and tears the side with his teeth and pours all on the glass coffee table. Grabs a balloint pen and disassembles into two parts: the part where a button at the top and powered by a spring within the pen body, the other lower screw part. He makes a line with a gift card and half inserts the screw part into his one of nostrils and sniffs vacuum-like sniffs two, three times for each nostril and makes an annoying hollow sound and leans back, shutting his eyes. Then, he takes another plastic bag, goes through the same processes and hands me the hollow pen part.
      Omitted for further revision.

      Google is not a problem, he says changing the subject. With this hyper-head ADD there is no subject. We’re two grasshoppers smoking grass.
       Google is a problem, man! He is practically out of job. Unemployed. But, I don’t say that.
       I want to obliterate him, stop him from jabbering, instead.
      Stupid fuck.
      Give me patience.
      Give me tolerance.
      I’m tolerant. I am ‘The Tolerance of Jesus’… ‘Of God!’
      I should fucking have my statue in the Museum Of Tolerance.
      Listen! Commo, pay attention, freak, I say. I’ll be your inspirational brother. It’s a journey you don’t have map for.

   Chillax.

   Listen.

   What do you think about my new Retina Mac, he asks.

   I dohn’t. Fuck your Retina Mac, I say. I’m a PC person.
   I put your lighthouse image as a desktop. It looks fucking awesome on Retina Mac screen.
   My image looks fucking great on every screen, you fucking yuppie hypocrite. It looks fucking great on Playstation.
   Yeah, dude. You are a great photographer.
   Yeah, well, I’m only eleven.
   No, dude. You’re twenty-six. You keep forgetting that.
   Whatever, man.
   Craig vomits on the gray cobbled yard.
  Welcome to the yard…