|
 Fast Strange Impressions of a Fast Strange Night in New England July 4, 2002 Three story white New Hampshire home circa 1850s likely once a single family home now with three electric meters on the outside wall, a Radio Flyer wagon in the driveway beside a motorcycle covered (against rain? snow? theft?) with a bright blue kiddie pool upsidedown like a ten-gallon hat on a cockroach, a stroller, four trash cans strewn on the sidewalk, each a different color and in varying states of decay, Orchard Street, Franklin. Horse Xing and a big round white wafer-lookin thing sunk down to ground level like a missile silo and my attorney says it's an X-files bee cultivator.. fat lady in tight blue pants standing on the side of the road with her skinny dog, green, green so much green as we careen these cowhampshire back roads, beautiful! Piles of round stones, walls from some long dead sense of property, red fire hydrant, hay bales hillside vista over rolling mountains of trees, trees, old barn green tilting earthward, lazy gravestones lying around a random roadside cemetery in the woods, Crossmill Road. Grace Community Church, Foo Fighters in the car choir, MSAHJ a New Hampshire vanity plate, crazy gibberish with Dave the dealer, coke on a rope, least he's not out robbin schools or rapin little girls his girlfriend says, says she's on a weekly freebase habit, but hey nobody's out of control HERE! We’re on the road to nowhere. Get a photo. Wal-Mart killed the Franklin Ames. Those fuckers! They must pay. Bristol Crack House, local bed & breakfast with a rock-smokin’ twist. The local chainsaw dealer is a closet cross-dresser, and fools that we are, we’re waiting on a dingbat’s haircut. At last the Trestle. I leap like a pheromone-stoned lover from the old wooden bridge into the warm waters of nostalgia. Beautiful. The water of Winnesquam is not water, it’s womb-fluid, amniotic night-black wet dream splash. Get the camera ready, Justin. Ready? One, two, three.. away! And I dive this time, leaping straight out, my eyes downriver. I hit the water at 427 mph and my nuts clang like bad church bells. Down below, I hit something with my outstretched dive-position hands and there’s a moment there before the onrush of testicular pain, a moment of silent thankful prayer that I didn’t crack my head open on whatever the hell that was down there. And naturally, my attorney missed the shot. Billy Idol now on the car stereo zooming through the forest green at sunset. I walk the walls with you, Babe. Eight million times for you.. for money to burn. Some overpriced restaurant called the Gilford Smokehouse. Jesse and I fight over a sweet old broad who keeps leaning in toward our table, game for our silliness. Her stale cracker old man looks angrily on. We get a photo. It’s a good one. When they leave, Wendy informs us that the old broad was wearing a diaper. My pork brisket wagers from the end of my fork telling me to shut up and order another Cape Codder. But what about my recent swearing-in ceremony at the Tilton Teetotalers Union, I ask the pork. Fuck those people, it responds. I’ll give you something to swear about! whereupon it promptly rams the fork into my forehead. Blood everywhere. A terrible mess. The lounge act tells a joke to lighten up the scene. “Wanna go shoot some cans?” he asks. (long pause..) Then he says it. “Mexicans, Africans, Puerto Ricans.” I sick my Afro-Mexican Dago attorney on him. Now the place is really slathered in blood. Time to go. On the way to our next drug-induced fit of mania, I scrawl a rant on my arm for lack of paper. It reads: Ranking spanking Yankee life living and tripping and dipping and diving and jiving and feeling alive in New Hampshire on the eve of our country tis of thee’s big blast cherry popping freedom flaunting fourth of Justin cousin July sky and I’m free, free, free-falling into a green and genuine mountain majesty journey, faithful attorney at my side, no, no, not Samoan he, but Italian scallion on penne pasta rasta far-eyed pilot of this back road blitzen blast of nitrous and is he righteous - oh yes! Cuzin Justin my lone wolf warrior in the warbled eastern Winnesquam water world, America amen. -RSM [Postscript: the following sick and twisted grade school essay was found
alongside a child-sized crack pipe and a half-eaten candy necklace on
a Bristol playground last September]
|
