A Pipe Dream

The sound of waves and roller coaster screams came in through the bathroom window in Niv’s motel room: my favorite place in the world. I’d hose down my wetsuit and shake the Pacific chill in the shower, hang out in the steam to watch the sun go down and the fog roll in.

Niv lived at the Tramonto Motel with his Iranian girlfriend. Her family ran a Persian restaurant up in San Francisco. They disapproved of their daughter’s lifestyle choices, but they sent money. Her brother rolled back and forth between the States and Tehran. He always had opium. The restaurant connection was a perfect cover. He shipped the dope in bottles of pomegranate syrup. He came down to Santa Cruz often, to visit his sister and get stoned with her and her friends.

His name rhymed with Ay-rab, so that’s what I called him. He’d get hot, and sputter that Iranians weren’t arabs, like anyone cared. I can’t remember his sister’s name, or if it rhymed with anything.

Ay-rab was nice to look at. He and his sister worked on their tans in minimal Euro-style beachwear while Niv and I caught waves. Back at the motel, she’d cook Iranian dinners and we’d blow opium. The motel was built to look like an ocean liner, with portholes for windows and fake smokestacks on the roof. The room smelled of poppy resin, and pomegranate syrup cooking down.

Big Dan dropped by with his sister Kath. She was new in town, fresh from a divorce or a less formal break-up with some black guy over in Stockton.

Kath was wearing one of her brother’s sweatshirts, about four sizes too big. Her shorts made her thighs bulge when they didn’t have to. Flowery flipflops showed off her blackened soles and toenails. When she pulled down the hood it looked like someone had gone over her hair with bacon rinds. Smelled that way, too.

Motel room rhymes with womb and tomb. Kath squatted down to hit the pipe, and didn’t even ask what was in it. An intimate whiff of herself blended in with opium smoke and Iran grub. I stared, and got lost in a stoned dream of her soaping up in the shower not far away.

Big Dan shot an ugly look. He was close to seven feet tall, weighed over two hundred pounds. He was the human hydraulic lift at a garage on the outskirts of town. He reamed out corroded pistons with his bare hands, or his hard cock. Lay off my sister, the look said. She’s in a bad place right now. 

Opium bugs crawled around like a family of cockroaches under my skin, which felt like a wetsuit. Dreams rolled in like waves and mist from the ocean.

Niv changed records. His olive-skinned lady brought in dinner and we ate it on the floor.

Ay-rab seemed really interested in what Big Dan had to say about slant-six engine blocks. He opened his caramel-colored eyes wide, and wagged his head slightly off the beat from the speakers.

Kath rose shakily to go to the bathroom. She came back with a flush fanfare and dropped down again, slightly closer than she’d been before. I handed her the pipe. She showed a chipped front tooth when she smiled.

Niv’s woman took her shirt off. Those two were real make-out artists.

Big Dan was explaining what ring job meant. Ay-rab scratched, nodded, blinked and mouthed oh wow. He packed more opium into the pipe with a little knife.

“You’ve got good hair,” I told Kath. “But you don’t treat it right. Look at you: no body, bounce or sheen.”

She shrugged, scratched her crotch. She had sorrows to forget, pain to medicate. She put Zippo to pipe-hole and sucked in deep.

Looked like a movie flickering on a distant screen when I reached out to flick a limp strand.  Kath said quit it, like we were back in fourth grade. So I flicked her again.

Then I must’ve nodded out. I was in a sideshow: The Man in the Chicken-Wire Cage Full of Snakes. My job was to sit there barely even breathing while cottonmouths, copperheads, fat rattlers and cobras crept and crawled. Suckers in Sunday clothes paid a quarter for a look and a shiver. A Gaboon viper flicked his forked tongue, sensed a carotid artery neaby and lunged. But if I panicked, all the other snakes would sink their fangs in.

Kath’s breath pulled me out of the snake-pit. “What is this stuff, anyway? Got me all sleepy.”

The only light was a beam from under the utility kitchen door and the stereo’s green glow. Niv and his motel wife humped away to the drone music under a mound of sleeping bags, blankets and clothes on the motel bed. The heap rose and fell in the gloom. The springs creaked in tune with their breaths and moans.

Ay-rab and Big Dan were off in Dreamland, fascinated by the live love show.

“Kath, let’s face it: your hair’s a mess. You’re a mess. Let’s hit the shower and see what we can do. Come on.”

She tripped over her brother’s legs. We bumped the bed. I locked the bathroom door. The dim bathroom light seemed surgical after the motel room’s gloom. I unscrewed one of the lightbulbs over the mirror at the sink. Kath held her arms up like a kid so I could pull the dirty sweatshirt over her head. Her tits flopped and bounced. Cool air from the open window stiffened her nipples.

A black mamba went for my jugular vein.

Kath’s shorts hit the floor. No panties. Female funk filled the air. I stripped like getting naked was no big deal, turned the knob, checked the temperature, pulled her into the stall.

Niv’s woman had barrels of hair-care products stockpiled in there. I moved Kath around like a doll, kept her nose and mouth out of the spray so she wouldn’t drown. I became the hairdresser who’d make her look like the girl in the shampoo ad of her dreams.

Green gunk oozed from one of the bottles. I massaged it into her scalp. Gray foam formed, like roadside slush-monsters seen from bus windows back East. Rinse and repeat, apply conditioner and let it steam. Steam was fine, but smoke was better. I pulled Kath from the shower, sat her on the sink. “Don’t move,” I said.

A needle skated uselessly on black vinyl. Niv and his woman were still screwing like dogs. Ay-rab was sucking Big Dan’s big dick. He was good at it. I almost stayed to watch, but grabbed the pipe and a lighter instead.

Kath had slumped forward on the sink.

She sucked the smoke hungrily.

“It’s working,” she whispered. “It’s like I can feel my hair coming alive.”

Like snakes. Medusa. Men turn to rock.

There was a chrome blowdryer on the shelf, and a pair of scissors.

A yellow butterfly tattoo on Kath’s left shoulder showed in the clouded mirror. I hit the pipe and began to snip.

Kath took another big hit and pulled me into her face to shotgun the smoke. She had teeth missing. She squirmed, bucked her hips, moaned she needed love, bad.

But I had a haircut to finish. My ears filled with invisible music. My hands flew.

The mirror cleared, and showed the unholy mess I’d made of Kath’s head.

Her cement-boned brother Big Dan was in the next room. Outside, mist rolled in off the Pacific. Waves roared in darkness. Sharks glided just below their surface.

Better re-fog the mirror. Steam billowed from the shower like a dream of incense-breathing dragons.

Kath, limp with romance, glamour and opium, let herself be dragged back into the stall.

“Let’s get the stray hairs off you, or you’ll be itchy all over.”

New boys in the Marine Corps had better haircuts. Nothing left but the Final Solution, which in this case wasn’t placenta-based conditioner.

Niv’s woman kept a quiver of razors in the shower. Shampoo can be used as shave cream. Kath was too stoned to maintain erect posture. She sunk to a showerstall squat and did what came naturally.

A surf bum no longer, I became some kind of monk whose saffron robes flapped in sunlight and a stiff breeze that blew from snow-mountains in the background.

Kath was a monastic novice who still lived in the sensory world that was maya, illusion, vanity. She had to learn, pray, meditate. But first she had to get her monk look down. I shaved Kath’s head to serve God’s will.

Then I shaved my own, and took my left eyebrow off too.

Kath kept on doing what she did best. The drain was clogged with hair. Dirty water and human fluids rose, overflowed. Then the motel’s hot water ran out.

Nude bald stoners shivered in a shower stall in Santa Cruz. We couldn’t stay in there forever. We had to face what passes for reality, in this world.

When I unlocked the door, Niv’s lady rushed in as though she was about to explode. She squealed when she saw the horror.

Niv was sprawled on the bed.  Big Dan was nailing Ay-rab to the floor. He got a load of Kath.

“Whu’d you do to my sister, motherfucker? I’m gonna take you apart.”

“Shut up, you big homo.”

He stared, open-mouthed. He shut up.

Big Dan later beat up Ay-rab for turning him gay.

Kath liked her new hairdo, for a little while. We went to a wig shop just off the boardwalk and got a magenta Louise Brooks model from the bargain bin. She liked the wig.

Niv still lives in the ship-shaped motel, but he never invited us back.

You Can’t Go Anywhere

I really thought I was ready.

The premier for my movie was set to play my hometown—after Cannes, Sundance and Toronto—and I insisted that everyone close to me come: my girlfriend, my parents and my homies. Which was going to be difficult, because most of us, outside of my parents, live in Hollywood these days. And right before I broke it to them, the news had reported on yet another movie-theater shooting.

I skulked around my parent’s living room, pausing to gaze at my reflection in a china cabinet. I frowned at my long face, my thin lips and delicate features. I considered my short black hair in a fauxhawk, my cobalt eyes and tanned skin, not to mention my crusty douche-bag mustache. I came off as looking about as greedy and as cheesy as possible. All that was needed to complete the profile were some huge gold chains around my neck. When did I become this guy? The entertainment biz, I tell ya, the ruination of persons.

So here I was, all the way home from Hollywood, and I still had to convince my folks to attend my premiere. Bracing myself for the inevitable backlash, I sighed and went back into the kitchen.

“It’s just not safe, Mickey,” my mother said, pursing her lips in that persnickety way old women have. “There’ve been many movie-theater shootings lately…”

“But you can’t live in fear,” I argued. “Besides, we live in Mowquakwa, Illinois, where nothing ever happens. C’mon, I’m into mixed martial arts. If we run into that, I’ll disarm the puke and call the cops.”

Bad things did happen here, though. Many were convinced Mowquakwa was cursed, built on an old Indian burial ground. I wasn’t about to remind them of that, however.

Dad nodded his gray head in my direction, coming back from the fridge with a beer. “She’s right, Mick,” he said. “It’s just not practical.”

I slapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon, I’m into karate, boxing and wrestling. I’ll protect you, Dad.” I threw some pretend punches at his face and gut, bobbing and weaving as he returned the gesture.

Willa came into the kitchen from the other room, where she’d been watching a fright flick with my homeboys. My girl—thirty, thin and vivacious—looked jailbait but blessedly wasn’t. She wore a collared shirt with popcorn, candy, and film reels on it, along with tight black jeans, and she filled out both like a champ. “C’mon, old people,” she said. “You can’t be fraidy cats. You need a little adventure in your lives!”

Going to a movie’s an adventure? I guess it is nowadays…

How the mighty have fallen.

But I know karate and shit!

Manny G. swaggered in, his Flexfit Cardinals hat on sideways, the stickers still on it. His hair underneath was dyed blond. He wore a silk shirt and trendy, baggy-ass jeans. “Hey gringos,” he said, “you tellin me ya don’t have the cojones to go see a stinkin movie?”

“Thanks, home skillet,” I laughed.

Z-Boz swaggered in after him, an African American in an Oakland Raiders jersey and snakeskin pants that made me look like an amateur baller in comparison. He also wore a black Cardinals hat like Manny G’s. “Yo, fam,” he said, “ya’ll need to get some mayonnaise!

I raised my hand in his direction. “Up-top!” I said.

He hissed like a snake. “Man, ain’t nobody do no ‘up-top’ no more, kid.”

Suddenly, a brilliant scheme found its way into my head. “Tell you what,” I said, turning back to my folks. “You two come with us, and I’ll quit smokin.”

My sainted mother placed her hand over her heart. “Oh, I do hate that habit. Does no good, just kills ya.”

Dad nudged her. “C’mon, Mother. It’s for a good cause.”

Mom touched her gray curls of as if keeping them in place, then wrung her hands in frustration. “I don’t know…”

“I’ll pony up some money for a charitable contribution,” I added. “What’s that club you’re in?”

“The Historical Society.”

“Yes! I’ll pump it up.” I gave Mom the puppy-dog eyes. “Please? Hey, I know Krav Maga, Kajukenbo, taekwondo, Okinawan karate, Shotokan karate, parkour and Kung Fu. I’ll be on that psycho before he can dye his hair Joker-orange!”

Standing behind them, Willa put her arms around my folks and pulled them both in for an embrace. “You seasoned veterans need to show us young people how to let our hair down and have a good time!”

“I feel ya, Willa.” Manny G. said, turning his hat the other way.

“Yeeeaaah, son!” Z-Boz added.

“Aw, poo,” Mom said. “I guess we’ll give it a try.”

“If it helps, I’ll be packin, Mother,” Dad macked.

She turned to him with that tight-lipped frown and narrow eyes. “You leave that thing at home. You’ll probably shoot yourself in the foot.”

Fucking derringer.

“It’s just a pea shooter anyway,” I blurted without thinking. I can be a bit of a dick sometimes.

Mom smoothed her apron over her skirt, for she’d been baking like a Stepford. The rich scent of hot cookie dough was driving me mad. “All right, gang,” she said, “let’s get ready to go to the Bijou, then. Ooh! My cookies!” She took them out of the oven and set them atop the stove.

I found myself jumping up and down and whooping with Willa and my boys.

Little did I know it would be a premature celebration.

***

If I could’ve seen myself entering the movie theater with my arm around Willa and my boys flanking us, my parents—the stragglers—bringing up the rear, I probably would’ve grinned ear to ear. It was to be a celebration of my labor of love, our hands full of popcorn, soda—spiked with peach Schnapps, my girl’s demand—Jujubes, Sour Patch Kids, Raisinets, M&Ms, Goobers, Lemon Heads, Milk Duds, Dots, Junior Mints, Trolli Sour Bites, and Cherry Twizzlers.

“You kids are going to go into anaphylactic shock with all that sugar,” Mom said.

“No, that’s an allergic reaction,” came Willa’s response.

Holding her close, my shorty’s scent was enchanting. She’d put on Kim Kardashian perfume just for the occasion—Gold.

The Pied Piper of the rats, I led my posse up to front-row and center. The screen, huge and inviting, hadn’t been lit up just yet, but the wan bulbs around the stage gleamed like Christmas lights. This evening was like Christmas to me, but little did I know, it was soon to be more like Christmasland in NOS4A2.

I took a load off, and for a few vivacious moments, Willa perched on my lap with her soft, firm behind. Va va voom. She giggled and sat down next to me. My boys took their seats to my left. My folks took the row behind us, showing their age as they groaned into their seats.

“Got the life! Victor gets the spoils,” I  said, tossing candy out to my homies.

My girl and I went at the treats like starving dogs, the candy and popcorn delectable, ambrosia—the sugar made me dizzy, joy fireworking all up in my brain.

Man, I’m such a lightweight…

No anaphylactic shock, but the sudden sugar overdose damn-near numbed my tongue.

Mom leaned forward and placed an arthritic claw on my shoulder. “Fancy place, Mickey. You must be doing pretty well for yourself.”

“Bangin like a baller,” I laughed.

My dad’s hand fell firm upon my other shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Son.”

I craned my head and said, “You haven’t even seen the movie yet!”

That’s when I got a creepy feeling I was being watched. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of some shadowy figure, but by the time I’d turned my head, it had already vanished into the darkness. The fire door was left swinging, however. Someone had placed a brick to keep it open.

Clearly, some hater must’ve thought they were getting a free movie.

Which meant they were ripping me off.

Needless to say, I wasn’t havin none of that. I rose and headed straight for the door.

Cavalierly, Willa rose and ran off ahead of me.

“Whachoo doin, girl?” I snapped.

“I got you!” she said, smiling back over her shoulder.

“Nah, I got this…”

But she’d already closed the door before I could catch up to her.

Heading back to our seats, my homies were laughing and pointing at me.

Manny G. said, “Man, I’m gaggin. She had to handle yo shit!”

“Damn, son, you be doggin,” Z-Boz added.

I shot them both my best look of death through tightly narrowed eyes. “At least I got a girl, poindexters…”

My parents, easily amused, smiled as they looked back at forth between me and my homeboys. They could’ve been at a tennis match.

“You tell ‘em, Son.” My dad bade me into a fist-bump.

Who was I to deny him? “Thanks, Daddo.”

“We just playin,” Manny G. chuckled.

“I feel ya,” Z-Boz said. “Strong shorties be hot.”

“Watch it,” I said, “That’s my girl you talkin bout.”

Meanwhile, the rest of the audience was finally showing up, a compliment to me of course. On top of the world, I snickered as the lights went down and the huge screen came to life, rolling out the coming attractions.

Nothin can touch me.

***

And then, all at once, I really had to question that thought.

Blasting through the fire door came a fiend like the devil himself, all done up in white makeup with black smeared around his eyes and mouth. He was dressed just like the Penguin from Batman Returns, complete with top hat and black coat.

He held a shotgun in his hands, a pistol strapped prominently to his side.

Wise folk say your life flashes before your eyes when confronted by death, but this fool’s sure didn’t. Pure rage consumed me, not only because he was about to ruin my hometown premiere, but also because he aimed to shoot us up as well. So, like any good Dean Koontz fan, I took his advice and ran into what scared me. This clearly caught him off guard, but before I could grab him, he jumped back and leveled the shotgun at my head.

Aw shit…

Acting on reflex, I pulled an Okinawan karate move, swiftly stepping to my left and slapping the gun to the other side. But before I could follow up by kicking it out of his hands, he pivoted away and dodged my foot with ease.

“Satan told me you’d try that…” he wheezed.

Blam! He shot me in the leg.

A sharp ringing erupted in my ears, everything else fading into background noise by comparison.

I cried out—my voice embarrassingly high-pitched—and collapsed onto the floor. The pain exquisite, the whole rotten event instantly transforming into an open house in Hell.

He snickered in a tinny little voice, the Penguin’s laugh exactly. Rushing back over to me, he roughly hauled me up to my feet.

“Prepare to die…” he rasped in my ear, drawing his pistol and holding it to my forehead.

“How the Hell you supposed to prepare for that?” I whined, trying to sound all tough (I didn’t).

He frowned and furrowed his brow, the eyes of the Devil staring deep into mine. “Say your prayers, stupid!”

Seeing my opportunity, that’s when I attempted a Krav Maga move. Lifting my hands in a gesture of surrender, begging him not to shoot, I went to kick him in the nuts while simultaneously crouching down away from the gun. Pretty smart, right?

And yet, once again, he dodged with the grace of a dancer and re-holstered his pistol. With a mocking sneer, he leveled the shotgun back at me.

“You gotta be kiddin me!” I cried.

I’d seen YouTube videos that said gun-disarming didn’t work, and I hadn’t believed it. If it was good enough for Black Scout Survival, it was good enough for me. But, balefully, they’d been right all along.

“Where my homies at?” I screamed in panic. “Cap this fool already!”

“Shut your cocksucker!”

Blam! He shot me in the other leg. I gritted my teeth in agony, writhing in a pool of my own blood.

Finally, the previews came to an abrupt stop and the house lights came up. All I could hear was the screaming of my fam and crew. I rolled onto my side so I could see the catastrophe unfolding before me, live-wiring my brain with a sense of terror and doom.

He’s gonna murder everyone I love!

Meanwhile, my homeboys had drawn their own weapons, but why were they just standing there shaking and not firing? That’s when I knew they were all talk, the fuckin cowards.

“Bust a cap in his ass or you’re dead to me!” I yowled in pain.

But the Penguin was a sharpshooter, shooting both pistols out of their hands just as my boys had finally found their nuts.

That’s when Willa came charging at him from the side. To do what? Some wrestling takedown move? Hurling herself feet first, she was poised to connect a perfect dropkick, and then…

Blam! He spun around and shot her right in the crotch. Blood sprayed out of the back of her skin-tight jeans as she flopped onto the floor. Then he shot her in the tits. Blam! Blam! Instantly deflated.

“No!” I cried out in anguish.

The love of my life! Dead?

Curling up in a ball on the floor, all I could do was pinch myself.

This has gotta be a fucking nightmare!

Meanwhile, everyone else with half a brain had already fled the theater, but my folks had only just begun to rise shakily from their seats, as if suddenly stricken with Parkinson’s.

Blam! He blew the top of Mom’s head clean off, leaving her bottom lip quavering, her tongue lolling around in search of the roof of her mouth. Instinctively, Dad turned to dive into the row behind them to scoop up the top half of her head, just like a male Jackie Kennedy.

“Mom! No!” I cupped my hands tightly over my ears, but still this wasn’t enough to drown out the deafening gun blasts echoing within my skull.

Blam! Hitting him in mid-air, the Penguin shot Dad square in the ass, sending him sprawling into the aisle.

“Dad! No! Oh God, oh Jesus Christ…” I trembled all over and pissed and shit my pants, this black comedy of errors finally taking its toll on my sanity.

In a last ditch effort to take him down, my homies screamed at the top of their lungs and bum-rushed the Penguin. Before their could tackle him though, he blasted Manny G.’s left leg off at the knee. My homeboy went down like a sack of onions.

“Tweedledee and Tweedledumb…” the Penguin mused, laughing in that tinny voice.

Swiftly tucking the shotgun under his arm, he whipped out a machete from under his coat. Then, just as Z-Boz lunged, he cold stabbed his ass in all the Van Damme pressure points: his forehead, high on his left shoulder, lower on his right shoulder, lower on the left and into his heart, and into both of his sides of his abdomen. Z-Boz closed his eyes and sank to his knees just in time to get his head sliced off for good measure.

All my loved ones, dead.

I’d lost the plot.

And I’m next, I knew. And I’m not saved. I’m going straight to Hell.

Lord knew my parents had taken me to church as a child and had been on me to go back ever since, but I wanted horror, the handiwork of the devil, the job of the damned! Shoot, I had a franchise, son!

At least I was bleeding to death, a precious small mercy. My vision was going dark around the edges. Yet I knew I wouldn’t die just yet.

Pulling out my own hair and keening like a banshee, I screamed my guts out as a conflagration set my brain aflame. The breakdown was like spiders crawling out through my ears. All of my loved ones were dead, and demons were going to fuck my straight ass with no Vaseline in damnation, for all eternity. I just knew it.

That’s when the police entered the theater, guns drawn, screaming at the Penguin, “Down on the ground! Right now!”

Instead, he turned on his heel and stared deep into my eyes, grinning with yellowed snaggleteeth as he stuck the pistol under his chin. Took the coward’s way out. Blam! Bloody gray matter blasted out through the top of his head.

Fuck the Joker. By the time the EMTs reached me, I was cackling like the goddamned Mad Hatter.

And I couldn’t stop.

Saw bugs as big as cars on the walls. Shrieked with more laughter. Whipped out my cock and smeared shit all over my own face.

Some fates were worse than death. Worse than even Hell. Where would I go from here?

YOU CAN’T GO ANYWHERE