[Cont.]
And some teenagers are trying to smoke dope at the park, but our goats keep trotting up and eating each cigarette that’s filled with cannabis, right out of the hand of the youth who is holding it, before he can get a chance to light it. So this is a bummer for the teens, because cannabis is something that you really look forward to smoking at the park with friends.
“Hi kids,” I say, when walking thru the park with Monica and Anna, “how’s it going?”
“Horseshit,” sez the teen who looks like the leader of their pack.
I stop short and blink. “Can I believe my ears? Are you being sarcastic? How could it be that things are NOT going well for you teenagers? Please explain!”
The teen who spoke keeps kicking at a worn part of the grass and staring downwards when he speaks: “It’s just that ever since you herdsmen showed up, everything sux. Cuz we can’t smoke weed anymore, cuz your goats keep eating it. They come up and snatch it with their mouth, right out of our hand, before we can even manage to light it.” And all the teenagers in the group nod in agreement with this testimony.
“What?” I say, folding my arms incredulously. “Why don’t you just hold the joint up higher so that they can’t reach it. Goats really can’t jump very high, despite all the rumors.”
“I DO try to hold it high up — my arm is fully extended — but what goats lack in jumping-power they make up for in tongue-length. Plus it’s hard to smoke when you need to keep your cigarillo elevated; not to mention, the high winds in the upper atmosphere sometimes blow out the match that I am using.”
“So you do occasionally get your joint lit?” I ask, trying to make sense of the fact that he mentioned the difficulty of actually smoking at high elevations.
“Sometimes,” murmurs the teen. “But usually not.”
“What kind of lighter are you using?” asks Monica Vitti.
“I already said that I use matches, not a lighter — those cheap disposable butane lighters are dangerous: I saw a news segment on one of the major networks that showed how, when you flick the serrated metal wheel that strikes against a piece of flint to create a spark, which is supposed to ignite the gas from the fuel well, what happens is that, instead of resulting in the desired small, steady flame, nine times out of ten, the whole chamber will explode, thus obliterating your hand and leaving soot all over your face.”
“Nine times out of ten?” Monica sez.
“Nine times out of ten,” the teen confirms, nodding half-confidently.
“Hm,” sez Monica. “So that’s why you only use matches?”
“Yep,” sez the teen.
Now Anna Karina takes a cautious step forward and sez: “Have you tried injecting the marijuana directly? Perhaps that would work: You could find a used syringe and fill it with granulated cannabis — maybe melt the drug first, so that it’s easier to pour — and then just jab the needle into your jugular vein and squeeze down the plunger to shoot the liquid ganja into your bloodstream.”
The teen looks up, not because he’s interested but because Monica and Anna are enchanting. “We’ve already tried that. It doesn’t work.”
Anna looks shocked: “Why not? What’s the problem?”
“Goats will eat anything. Even tin cans and syringes.”
Anna exchanges a glance with me, and then she and Monica exchange a glance, and we all hold our peace. This teen really knows his stuff. We collectively conclude that we’ve been outmatched.
“Well, I sincerely hope that you find a way around all this bureaucratic red-tape,” I say. “But I’m afraid that, rather than decreasing anytime soon, our herding activities are likely to become a permanent part of your future; so you should try to get used to all these goats leaping around and licking your weed. Learn to harmonize — as Christ told Saul: it’s hard to kick against the pricks.”
Then, just as I end my speech, a she-goat trots past and unloads a shipment of droppings before the shoes of my teenage audience. This exacerbates their depression.
§
Now Anna and Monica and I head over to the part of Eagan where our geese and ducks are standing.
Monica points: “Hey, look — Fernando and Jeanette are just a few paces away, holding their crooks and rods while sporting blue mantles, keeping watch over the wildfowl.”
Sure enough, Fernando Pessoa and Jeanette MacDonald are just a few paces away, holding their crooks and rods while sporting blue mantles, keeping watch over our wildfowl.
“Hey, you two,” I say, while drawing nigh, “what’s up?”
“Hi there, Bry,” they say. “Nothing much is up with us. What’s going on with ye?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I say. “We just came to herd the ducks and the geese. Looks like they’re mostly standing around, doing nothing.”
“Yep,” sez Jeanette, “that’s the way they’ve been all morning.”
“Oh yeah? When did you two arrive?” I ask.
“We’ve been here since about five a.m.,” Fernando replies; “maybe a little earlier.”
“Wait — isn’t it Monday?” I say.
“No, it’s Tuesday.”
“Oh my goodness!” I say, slapping my forehead; “I had the days mixed up.”
“You thought today was your day to watch the wildfowl?”
“I DID!” we all laugh at my error.
“Well, I’d better go herd Anna and Monica over to our window-booth at the diner,” I say while beginning to walk in their direction, “so we can watch the koala bears play.”
§
When I inform my fellow herdsmen Ms. Karina and Ms. Vitti that we all had the day and month and year wrong, and that we should be at the diner watching over the koalas, they say:
“Ay me! How funny that we were all so mistaken about the calendar! Oh well, let’s go!”
So we walk past the store called J.C. Penny and also the store called Sears. Then we walk past a pinball machine that is standing in the street.
“Why do you think there’s a pinball game out here, in the middle of nowhere?” I ask.
“This isn’t nowhere,” sez Monica; “look: there are department stores over there, and a few brick buildings, and various establishments in the business mall coming up.” She points and points and points.
“You’re right,” I say. “I guess it just seemed strange that there weren’t more similar units nearby — I’m accustomed to seeing these types of entertainment machines positioned in groups.”
“I think it makes sense to put it here,” sez Anna; “because it’s just outside of the game parlor.” She gestures toward the sign before us that reads: Aladdin’s Castle Video Arcade Funhouse.
“Ah,” I say, puzzled with myself for being so unobservant, “I didn’t notice that.” I ponder for a long while and then finally say: “I guess it’s just weird that they left so much space between the machine and the building — it looks like this single pinball game either got left behind or escaped.”
The ladies cock their heads and look at the scene, sizing it up in their minds. Then Anna sez: “I see what you mean.” And, after a half-hour passes, she asks: “Should we play?”
I look at the place on my arm where there should be a wristwatch. “We’re already late,” I say; “we really should get to the diner so that we can keep watch over the koalas. Who knows what type of danger they might be in.”
Monica sez: “C’mon, let’s play — just one game each.”
I sigh, “Fine, just one game apiece, real quick. Here’s a token for each of you.” I hand Monica Vitti and Anna Karina each a coin that sez “Aladdin’s Castle Game Token”.
We play three games of pinball. We’re all very good. Before beginning, we note that the red glowing digits at the top of the machine’s display keep flashing a “Highest Score Yet” and the box beside it reads “2021 points”, earned by someone whose initials are “JFC”. (We all spend a moment arguing lightly about whether the J. and C. mean Julius Caesar or Jesus Christ.) Anna breaks this record — her total score ends up being nine hundred thousand and twenty-five points; so she gets to enter her own initials as the new champion. Monica comes in second with a score of seventy seven thousand; and I myself place tertiary, carrying off the bronze medal with a score of 539.
We now continue to walk in the direction of the diner, where a morning of hard drinks and koala-watching awaits us. We pass the store called Northern Hydraulics, which offers custom and original components, along with expert repair services. “This is the place where my dad used to bring his trucks, when he was alive, before he ran his business into the ground,” I explain to Anna and Monica. “Oh,” they say. (They seem genuinely interested.) Then we continue to walk and we pass a Dairy Queen fast-food restaurant and a clothing store named Jeans West in the Burnhaven Mall. “Do you want me to buy you anything?” I ask Monica and Anna. “No,” they answer. So we continue to walk.
Soon we reach our destination, the Paradise Diner, where our herd of koalas can be seen aerobicizing and tree-hugging outside of the grand window in front of the black leather booth which is perpetually reserved for us alone (sorta like how mobsters have their favorite table at a club, and only certain thugs are allowed to sit there; except we are strictly nonviolent, unless provoked, and other people are free to sit at our booth in our absence — the intruders simply need to move when we show up; unless we like them, which we usually do). But we totally space out and blank on why we were walking here in the first place, once we arrive, so we stroll right past the diner and continue to gawk at the other shops in this vicinity. (Don’t worry: we eventually remember what we came here for and then return to our mission; it’s just that, in the meantime, we continue to wander and store-gaze.) Also I should mention that this whole time while we are strolling the streets of Eagan, all of our other herds and packs and schools and gangs of barnyard animals are grazing around us, so we pet them as we pass. There are vicuñas, for instance, from the mountainous regions of South America, whose fine silky wool we run our hands thru; and also alligators and tarsiers and woodchucks.
There are, moreover, alien creatures that don’t have names yet, whose red eyes scare us.
Thus moseying on, we see the Barber Shop, and the St. Croix Antiquarian Bookstore (I purchase a couple prize-winning essays by Schopenhauer, as long as we’re here); and then we shake our heads at the store called Musicland, which sells cassette tapes and compact discs. Then we all stop in our tracks and gasp, because we remember that we forgot to stop at our intended destination.
“Oh! The Diner! We passed it approximately sixty-nine parasangs ago!” sez Monica Vitti.
So we turn back; and, as we do so, Anna Karina points to the Schopenhauer manuscripts that I picked up at the bookstore: “Are those signed by the author?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say; “and they have handwritten dedicatory messages upon them addressed specifically to me.”
Anna frowns: “Lemme see that.” She snatches one of the essays out of my hands and skims the cursive German writing: “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, to my dear friend Bryan Ray.” Anna looks up and hands back the manuscript. “That’s amazing — I wouldn’t have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it in person.”
“Yeah, neither would I,” I smile and we laugh. “After all, I wasn’t even alive back then. But I do remember Schopenhauer discoursing with my pneuma, prior to birth. I only wish I’d given him better advice…”
“Here we are,” sez Monica Vitti, gesturing to the big neon diner sign.
We go inside and sit at our booth and order three bottomless pitchers of vodka and some light breakfast items. For Anna and Monica, that means toasted bagels with caviar butter; cinnamon brioche; two croque-monsieurs; a few blue cheese quiches; and then my ladyfriends split a baked egg danish with kimchi and bacon.
For myself, I order a fried egg with hazelnuts, chanterelles, green garlic, and blackberries; two waffle sandwiches with salted meat, avocado, and arugula; some flatbread stuffed with honey and ricotta; ninety-nine of the best croissants, served with an equal number of elixirs to dip them in; and, lastly, a perfect egg-and-cheese soufflé. Ooh! and also a grated potato-and-cheese omelette.
Of course, while eating and drinking, we watch over our koala bears; for, as I mentioned before, our booth is positioned before a window that has a view of the jungle. In the main, our koala-herding consists of making sure that the flamingos and pelicans who share this habitat with them do not peck them too much.
We three herdsmen keep our shepherd’s crooks and our rods at our sides; and we occasionally pick them up and bonk them on the glass, if we see the birds acting rowdy — this gets their attention, and they usually shy away from their bullying when they know that we know that they know. Also, Monica and I remembered to bring our mantles blue (tho I’m the only one wearing mine properly; for Ms. Vitti has sorta draped hers casually around her shoulders, like a shawl, which, by the way, looks fantastic with the rest of her outfit); and Anna is just wearing her normal cute street clothes.
Our only other job, this morning, is to make sure that the fake houseplants, which serve as our rainforest’s greenery, are spritzed routinely with water droplets from a spray bottle, so that they appear sufficiently glistening when cinematized.
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