'My Name is John' Ch3 part 2 (con't)

Chapter 3
'Abnormally Normal' (con't)


We unfolded the two best lounge chairs in a pile of driveway treasures and found a patch of sun. I got the green and white one. It was the kind that could incline with a quick adjustment, even the leg rest. I sat down, leaned back. It collapsed.

“Piece of shit.” I reached around and set it at forty five degrees. “Hey what’s up with Chris? He’s getting worse.” I prodded in a soft whisper.

Danny lay completely flat on his. “Same ol’, your guess is as good as mine.” He didn’t look over, just stared into the clouds with his hands interlocked behind his head.

“He’s gonna’ snap one day. He belongs in an insane asylum.” I said, looking back, unsure if my voice carried. It didn’t. I was safe.

Danny didn’t respond. He just closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was his way of saying: 'shut the hell up, I know I live with a sociopath druggie who belongs in a straight jacket, eating fruit cups with a plastic spork- no reiteration needed, thanks.'

I pulled the backrest up and let the chair fall even further. “Grab the radio.” I said.

“No batteries.”

“Just get the extension cord.” I was pushing it.

“You can.” Danny’s said, drained. It was like every ounce of motivation passed through his mental sifts and sat in a big plastic bowl somewhere, ready to be baked, eaten, digested, defecated out, and flushed into another big plastic bowl. It was long gone; he was on par with Sheila and Reggie and Tran before he could legally vote.
If everything around you is blue, you don’t understand reds and yellows, pinks. The concept of pearl white with faded teal borders sends the mind into a state of self acceptance. 'I am what I am.'

Silence. The sun was nice. It was that spring sun; hotter than it really was, distorted by the winter’s persistent bite. It was hard to relax and get the full Feng Shui thing going. Stanton Street certainly didn’t have that same energy force that the Rock Wall offered. I sat up.

Danny’s small cottage wasn’t the ideal backdrop. There was nothing consistent about it. Slabs of old clapboard, thin and cheap held on for dear life, patchy and off colour. The flimsy slats were added on a supply and demand basis. The thing was unstable- and I don’t mean 'they don’t build em’ like they used to unstable'- I mean, 'no foundation, sitting like a rocking chair on the cement unstable.' Masonite and PVC piping made up the guts of the house and the roof was well worn with those asphalt shingles that looked like rubbery sandpaper. It looked one of those shanties in an apartheid film- the nice shanty, the one that almost resembles a house- Cape Town’s finest.


I looked over. Danny’s mouth was wide open, choking on heavy breaths. Damn that’s annoying…He made that pestering semi-snore sound, the type where no two are alike and just when you think it’s over the person takes a huge gasp of air, continues. I wondered if he was dreaming of the big bad wolf coming and blow blow blowing his house down. Maybe Chris taunted him in his sleep or he dreamed of alley cats gnawing on his paralysed limbs. Maybe he wouldn’t dream at all and would wake up each time in exactly that same place where he left off; no temporary escape.

I heard Chris coming before any sign of Datona 500 skin tights or symmetrical crew cuts. The sound of heavy, 40 ounce bottles of malt liquor was unmistakable. Clang….clang, ching, clang, dinnng. It was enough time for me to close my eyes, pretend to be asleep. I didn’t dare. I knew he would somehow know, some drug addict premonition that he learned while fighting the Viet Cong in his head.

“Johno.” Chris nodded and opened the screen door.

“Hey, man.” My enthusiasm was hidden somewhere between the communal dumpster and the broken down Valient that decorated the driveway.
Danny rolled over. “Hey John, what time is it?” Danny asked, between a long, volcanic yawn.

“Early still, you just nodded off for a minute.”

“Oh.” He rolled back over, stretched his legs and reached out, mimicking his flannel superman curtains. “Feel like doin’ anything, man?” He fell back into non superhero form.

“Dunno.” I sat up. My Lounge chair followed with a quick pull. 80 degrees, perfect. “The sun’s nice, for a change.”

Danny agreed. “Hmm, yep.”

Chris crept out from behind the screen door with a glass of beer tucked against his chest. He leaned against the beaten wooden door frame; his eyes hidden by a pair of counterfeit Oakley sunglasses. Chris looked different when his eyes were covered up- could almost pass for a tradesman or someone who owned a small fishing boat; or had an SUV that took 'little Bobby' to soccer practices on Sunday mornings. He took a small sip and sucked the froth from his orange tinged moustache. It was one of those first beer sips- the 'I’m only gonna’ have one today, so I’ll take my time sips.' It was never just one.

“Hey Danny, what you doing today?” Chris asked, foot tapping. It’s like his foot had a mind of its own- had its own survival technique that kept the blood flowing despite all the toxins.

Danny took a deep breath. “I don’t know Chris. I’m thinking I might fly to the moon today, maybe do some needle point. How about we hold a bake sale, set up right out front?” Danny pointed down the driveway, sarcasm spilling.

Chris laughed. “Ok, I’ll make the brownies.” He was too thick to realise it was Danny’s way of saying, 'get lost you freeloading junkie.'

Chris turned his back and took a big swill of beer from the glass; a truckers’ gulp. He only stopped because he had to catch his breath, otherwise he would have kept going. He turned back around. Those upmarket bar sips never lasted. He wiped the side of his mouth with his thumb, downward, stretching his bottom lip. A thick lump of skin on the top of his thumb showed years of nail biting killed its’ only source.

Chris was the type of guy that thought he was some sort of agent- a covert operative that would forever conceal his true identity. In fact, he was a clumsy magician- his slight of hand too slow and the appearing handkerchief act wasn’t fooling anyone. If he cleaned like the 'Energizer Bunny'- he was high. If he sat, thumped- he was withdrawing. If he was nice- there was a motive. If he was missing- nobody gave a rat’s ass. He was the step father from hell, disguised in the worst costume in the shop- the ten dollar one that had everyone asking, 'soooo…..what are you supposed to be… actually?'

Sadly there wasn’t anything unique about him, there were millions of Chris’ all around the globe- all shapes, sizes, different secrets and rap sheets. Some could lie better, manipulate more natural- and they were never who they said they were, vague, misleading, and full of semi-believable shit. Midwest, they were all from the Midwest- some two bit town that had the most generic name, like Springfield or anything that ended in ‘ville. They made sure their ‘hometown’ coincided with 20 other possibilities- if, by some chance someone knew someone and they needed to send in the special teams for a quick two point conversion.

These kind of guys usually lasted a year, two tops. They knew the right bars to go to, the perfect stories, the best timing with the cleverest punch lines. Chris could write a thesis on the psychology of single mothers and take the Oscar for 'Best Adaptation to Real Life Melodrama.'

I looked at Chris. He adjusted his glasses. They pinched his face- too small and the lenses didn’t quite cover everywhere they were supposed to. They looked like they belonged to a teenage Little League player, minus the fluorescent bungy strap and Kool-Aid stains. I wondered where he found them. Chris was the sort of guy that could pick up an old sock and justify it with half a cup of bleach and a tumble dry. He walked inside.

I closed my eyes. I could feel the plastic straps on the lounge chair stretch with each movement. They were a perfect metaphor these chairs- the kind of beach chair that never smelled chlorine or tasted saltwater and would never be crammed next to the French baguettes on a long drive to Mount 'wherever'. I wondered if I was just another driveway lounge chair. Danny was certainly one of these - someone who would never live up to the laser print picture on the box, confined to the six easy-to-follow steps in his two page instruction manual. For me, not only did I want to sit under an extravagant umbrella, beachside, but I wanted to be made into a raft or welded into some bizarre piece of bohemian art.

A small pillow of pot landed in my lap. I looked up, imagined Mary Magdalene with a pair of pruning scissors or Samson lugging a fresh cannabis plant on his swollen shoulder. 'Thank you Jesus'. Danny’s dimples flared with a proud little smirk. He had that kind of ability- the out of the blue, rainy day contingency plan type. The only thing was that it wasn’t raining, it wasn’t even overcast. It was just another gloomy day with an ultraviolet façade.

I held the small pouch up to the sun. It was green; a loud grasshopper green that comes in spray cans or some funky hair dye called Rebellion or Contra Culture.

“Where you get this from?” I asked, looking over.

Danny smiled, mute, pulling a small glass pipe from his pocket and waving it in the air. I rubbed the top of the baggie together and dipped my nose into the sticky fluff. I could smell grandma’s sweet lemon meringue punch me in the face.

“Man, this is strong.” I said.

Tiny specks of crystals sprinkled the bud like artificial snow on a plastic Christmas tree. There was nothing organic about it. California’s finest.

“Northern Lights.” Danny stated.

“Northern Lights? Got somethin’ to do with the indoor lights or something they use now-a-days?”

“Dunno, but it’s the best goin’ around blood. This will get you zooted, twisted for real- had some the other day.” Danny plucked a small bud from the stem and packed it in the blown glass. 'Flick'. He sparked the pipe. A ferocious breath turned the flower into a blazing mandarin bush. He held it in. His eyes glazed as the smoke struggled to find its way out. Exhale. “Dats the shit, man.” Danny coughed; the words swimming through a chunky cloud of endless smoke. “Here,” Danny said, arm stretched out. I grabbed the pipe, took a small puff.

The smoke hit my lungs. I took another drag. Again. In tiny intervals.

Danny laughed. “Damn… dude you smoke like an old man. Like you on some Lazy Boy chair readin’ encyclopaedias or somethin’.”

“Yeah, whatever man. I haven’t got some crazy titanium lungs like you, man.” I said.

“Titanium?” Danny asked.

“Yeah, titanium, that space age metal stuff that’s real light and strong too.”

“Yeah, alright Einstein.” Danny spat, grabbing the pipe.

“You’re a dumb ass Danny….don’t even know what titanium is? Like all them new golf clubs their coming out with. They’re all titanium, man- super light for more distance.” I could sense the dope stalking me. It felt nice, better each second. Lighter and careless, gradual.

Danny’s cheeks caved in with another ghastly swallow of the pipe.

“Fuuuck….. you suck better than Sheila after a bottle of Lambrusco and some stolen garden flowers.” I said.

“Pheeew…” Danny’s laugh got lost in a premature escape of smoke. “Ah…hell naw, don’t even go there man!” Cough. Laugh. “Fuck you man.” His face turned a beetroot red and his eyes started to shed what should be tears of misery, but, nevertheless they came out.

I grabbed the pipe, took another puff; this time with a bit more gusto and titanium-like invite.

“Yeah, that’s more like it.” Danny said, looking at me with approval.

I tapped the Rastafarian toothbrush on the ground. A lump of ash sat on the unswept pavement for a moment, then slithered away into a hundred little pieces in all directions.
I looked up. A plane crawled through the sky. The sky slept so still; a giant sheet of glass, unblemished with a tiny plane embezzling inches of blue.

“Hey Danny, where do you think that one’s headed?” I asked, pointing up.

“Huh, what?” Danny asked. He squinted into the air; his eyebrows holding his stoned eyes open like a puppeteer with strings made of flesh. “Don’t know, Johnny Boy, dunno…..Tanzania man. Leopard hunting, they goin’ Leopard hunting man. Or elephants…ivory, they’re after the ivory.”

I laughed. “Elephant poachers? A whole plane of elephant poachers, huh? You never know.” I looked at Danny. “Australia! They are off to Australia!” I shouted.

“Australia? You think so, John? Ok….Ok, Australia it is.”

I jumped up, stood on the chair. My foot slipped through the woven plastic strips. “Australia, matey!” I screamed. Head up. Arms open, wide. Danny laughed into my helium thoughts.

“Your fuckin’ crazy, John.” Danny said, followed by another long, uninterrupted chuckle.
“You’ve lost it man.”

I tried pulling my leg free. No use. I sat down; my foot wedged in the classic driveway-beach-chair-your-going-nowhere sense. I shuffled over to Danny, picking it up with my leg and my arms. “Hey, you know…” I brought my weighted eyelids to Danny’s face. “….the Australian Aborigine people believe they can communicate through their dreams and stuff man, like they get messages from the dead man, for real.”

Danny pulled away. “What? Dude, you’re too close. Your breath stank, man.” He snickered. “I don’t know about any Aborigine people, but you’re off your head, man.”

We laughed. I fell back on my chair. I looked down at my leg and tried one more time to kick it free. 'Never mind, ain’t no use'', I thought. I tried to find the plane, track it through its fading growl. It laughed at me. 'Can’t see me you waist-oid', it whispered through it’s turbines.

“What do you dream about Danny?” I asked.

“Huh, nothin’ man.”

“Nothing. You don’t dream about nothing? Everyone dreams.” I looked at Danny. My euphoric transmission changed gears. I sat idle, in neutral- right between serious and manic. “C’mon, don’t you dream?” I asked.

“Nope.” Danny said, blunt. “You?”

“Yeah, I dream. All the time. Sometimes I dream that I’m fallin’. And when I’m fallin’ I know that I’m gonna’ die and all this stuff passes through my head, you know. And just when I’m about to hit the ground I start to float and I feel like this huge relief, and I look around and I am somewhere else- not here, somewhere real different. I always get this panic- but a good panic you know, like I’m so glad that I ain’t havin’ to deal with all this bullshit…”

Danny looked at me. His eyes seemed to fight the dope and they opened a bit more.

“….and then I wake up. And every time it’s the same feeling. I realise that it was just a dream and I am back here, doin’ the same shit with the same people around and the same crap, Danny.”

Danny sat up. “Damn, John. What’s wrong,man? Why all this?”

“And it’s like….I hate that dream man, ‘cause for a second I really think I am somewhere else- and every time I have it, I feel even worse and realise I haven’t gone anywhere. Its like my dreams are taunting me, you know.”

“I’m glad I don’t dream, when you put it that way.” Danny said.

We sat. Silent. Danny reached for the baggy of weed. “Let’s smoke, huh?” He said.

“Alright.” I pulled my leg free.

“Hey John.” Danny said.

“What?”

.....“Would you stick it to Sheila for a hundred bucks?” He asked, eyebrows tilted.

Pause. I screamed. “Ba ha ha haaa, fuck you man, at least two hundred man, at least!”