Authors: Craig Spivek
An excessive lifestyle resulting in a
sex-tape leaked to the
internet
would begin their
downfall. Rick had filmed her wearing nothing but the tool belt in their
hotel suite, while they were guest panelists at a Fundamentalist Christian Home
and Garden convention, thus resulting in a huge scandal, loss of income, and a
bitter separation. Randi would pose for
Playboy,
again, but the
sales were tepid because as Rick put it, “she wasn’t able to show
pink”.
Rick went broke for a while until he was offered an executive position
for the Hammer
channel which specialized
in Nascar,
porn-star reality, and exploitable talk shows. Rick wrote his own ticket
with the burgeoning network after coming up with its new internet-driven
catch-phrase
--“HAMMER! IT’S ALL ABOUT THE TITTIES!” which
became a sensation. Post-divorce Rick and Randi still met up twice a week
for sexual re-fuelings.
Randi still had millions. With a portion
of it she created a trust fund for baby Kevin and sheltered another huge chunk
of it from Rick by handing it over to Honey’s Church which granted salvation to
most of the ex-convict and current convict population in Northern Florida.
Honey’s church, The Church of the Unchained Heart, also dabbled in sex-workers
and human rights issues abroad thanks to Floyd and his wife both of whom shared
a thriving practice as well as a sensational swingers lifestyle.
From time to time Lisa would catch herself being
concerned for baby Kevin. But the child appeared to be thriving in the
gentle arms of his main caretaker, Honey.
Enclosed in the wedding invitation
envelope was a candid shot of Lisa and God on a beach in Hawaii. I could hear
the sand, it reminded me of Carin’s beach, but the beach is where Carin began,
and the redwood forests are where she now stands tall. In the photograph
God was covered in smiles with a lei around his neck. He was holding her
hand out, which displayed a huge, blood diamond he had just put on her finger
as result of successfully asking for her hand in marriage. It would be a
June wedding, followed by a March baby. Her look was placid but distant,
not quite connecting with the camera, not quite smiling, not quite sad either.
Removed, somewhere else. I wondered where she was.
It stung that she was off the market, but it
nearly destroyed Pudgie. He had money coming in as result of the talk
show sale, he had auditions lined-up, and was up for a feature, but he felt
different. He still took shifts at The Big Pizza more for therapy than anything
else. He understood why Carin had bought the place. He considered
buying his own someday. He looked down at the picture of Lisa and God. He
saw Donnie and his Daddy come in and take their usual table. He looked
like he was going to say something. He gave them both the slightest of
nods and salutations out of respect.
He then yielded to Geraldo who handled their order. I was
impressed. He grabbed my plate and placed it in the bus bin that was underneath
the counter. He threw the picture and the invite into the bin on top of
it.
Lisa got married had a kid and now runs a
studio.
Pudgie became famous and was considered a
high-profile target by paparazzi.
Geraldo became a co-owner.
Carin sued Dickie.
Gino
got into porn.
I moved out of my parent’s house.
Carin and I are friends. We do yoga
together. I tell her what I think about scripts and directors, but only
when she asks. She listens, but sometimes her mind wanders elsewhere.
I wish I were Giuseppe turning her onto Brando.
My
insights pale in comparison.
I
eye-ball
Lacey a lot in class. She is my new Juliette and actually seems to be
responding.
I dream of she and I together, entwined
like transistor wire in the lotus position, discussing where we should get
registered.
What an ass on that girl. Geez. Carin
makes fun of me.
Carin keeps her cards close to the chest.
She dates on occasion but mainly keeps to herself. Geraldo and I
are her trusted knights making sure she is protected from all who attempt
trespass, foreign and domestic. The Ginos and Dickies of the world
unwelcome within our domain. Geraldo handles the store.
I handle the soul. It seems I have
gifts for that sort of thing. Like some sort of astronaut able to launch
himself into the far-reaching galaxy of individuals set before me.
Helping guide them back safely to sanities shores. It’s a living.
From time to time when Carin is not onset we go
on walks in Devilcountry. We are in search of trees. Big trees.
Trees that are local to the area and have survived the
test of time.
Finding any type of entity man-made or organic, that
is over
twenty five
years old in this town is a sight
to be seen. They are out there if you look hard enough. Devilcountry
does everything to maintain its youthful vigor and shine. So when we come
across anything that has withstood the test of time we stand and cherish it.
It is a way to reconcile the past, be at one with the present and be open
to the future. For some it is the desert, for others a beach, but for us it is
the tall, tall trees. We then chill with a slice and a soda, letting the
normal wash over us like a crisp warm shower. We go to our separate homes
in agreement to reconvene at a future time and place.
At home, I will sit there.
On my bed.
Peacefully contemplating. Staying in
a state of gratitude. Waiting for the visions to come again. As they
always have. To pass the time I read comic books. Right now I’m
really into a graphic novel about Machete wielding alien dinosaurs
who
kill Nazi assholes. I find the text compelling.
I believe Carin performs a similar
routine,
only she’s not up on the graphic novels the way I am. She’s more into the
self-help stuff.
Neither of us owns a TV.
And now for some auxiliary tales from the
Devilcountry.
Think of these stories as you would bonus
tracks on a record.
DOG
I
hit this joint. I am baked. It’s about 12:30 in the afternoon.
I need to get my last check from my old job before starting my new job at
The Big Pizza. I picked up shifts at “Heidi’s Frogen Yozurt” store
temporarily but it is time to move on. I had been working at the Yogurt
shop off and on for years since enrolling in junior college. Everytime I
quit a pizza gig or any gig, really, they took me in and let me work. But
now it’s over. Time to hit the big time. The Big Pizza
awaits
.
My life bleeds out in front of me as I inhale.
The chronic is my pot dealer’s schwag, spruced-up with red hairs or some
shit, and the asshole still has the nerve to charge me full price. Potty
is not a friend. Everytime I go over there to purchase his product I sit
there for a time with him and his girlfriend and try to be cordial. But
usually they get into some sort of fight and then it becomes incredibly
awkward. Clearly, they require an audience. Some couples are like
that. I don’t understand it. I don’t want to hear you both trade
insults. That’s why we have reality TV. Then it gets weird when
they make up in front of me. Yikes! It’s like watching The Animal
Channel. I make my purchase, excuse myself and make a hasty retreat.
My pot days are numbered. It’s not worth it.
Shit, where am I? I forgot…oh yeah, wait, what
was I saying’?
it’s
Thursday. Last
paycheck. I’ll walk up to the store and get my check.
I leave my house. It is a
peaceful, four-bedroom suburban tract home. In the middle of Porn Valley.
My parents are the original owners. I graduated college. I bummed
around. Burned through several
career oriented
positions. I got my old Yogurt job back. I’m back at home. Then I
found pizza.
The sun hops by with a few dangling
clouds reminding everyone it is bright and pleasant. To me it just shows
how needy the sun is. Stop being such a whiny bitch. The Valley
scoops along with plenty of traffic and bullshit, yet this suburban paradise
still manages to persevere and every now and then spits out a beautiful, wispy
smogless day out in front of me. Fuck! It’s just too bright.
It’s what I call “Valley Bright
” in
that
there are no trees, to cut down the glare. It is impossible to venture
out without the aid of sunglasses. Squinting becomes second nature.
The clouds are losing their heavenly battle against the sunlight shining
down, which is more penetrating than it is soothing. I get to the end of
the block. I see this dog. Like he was waiting there for me.
A big, furry dog.
Looks like a Husky mix.
Gray and black.
Panting, no collar.
He’s just sort of
staring at me from across the street. What does he want? I have no
food. I’m hungrier than he is. Go on git! Shoo! Did I see fangs?
Maybe he was growling. No, he’s just panting. Better just
keep on walking. He follows. He’s ten feet behind me as I make my
way down the street. Great. Now what? I don’t need this.
I’m too stoned. What does the Kabbalah say? Yes, I remember.
I had gone to “Jew camp” where I had met Rachel Abramsberg. Rachel
was gone now. She had broken my heart but she had turned me onto
jewish
visions. Kabbalah was at the heart of it.
Jew-Camp
was a month-long retreat in the Simi Valley hills where young Jews met, lived
Kosher together and screwed openly with the blessings of the management in an
attempt to repopulate the species. Rachel was one of the camp leaders and
studying to be a Rabbi. She was wonderful, but as soon as she left the
campus grounds to pursue her career she turned into a phony jerk. But I
remember sitting with her and Rabbi Levi under a giant Jacaranda tree. Learning
about Kabbalah. His lecture was okay. It was the tree, frankly,
that did most of the talking. It’s energy, its grace and the ancestors it
protected. Rabbi Levi was short in stature, bald, beard, not an ounce of
fat on him. He played great basketball. He said, “To understand
Kabbalah you must understand the happenings of the everyday. You must
plug into it. For it is the everyday experience, the real life
experiences that transcend the normal, bringing you messages of light and
wisdom.” Okay, better go with it. “Recognize the messages when they come.
Acknowledge the guide whom you sent for and learn from them.”
I sobered up briefly during camp. I had been
smoking and drinking for years. I hadn’t done weed in months and now it
was easier to remember things. My mind was sharper. I remember him
saying that. I remember it staying with me. I remember waiting.
I had saved up a chunk of cash for this camp and moved out of my
apartment in San Francisco to attend. By the end of my stay, I was broke,
and had to come back home to the Valley. Why is it everytime I attempted
spiritual enlightenment it drove me away from the possession of cash? I
remember feeling a strange sense of journey, accomplishment and blindingly
ironic
punishment when
I walked back into my
house.
The dog cuts ahead of me. He is mangy and
unwashed. Yet, he doesn’t smell. He comes up to my knees. He
is fairly rotund,
well-fed
and has a very mellow
demeanor. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this dog was more stoned than me.
I felt a sense of ego bruise as the dog walked past me. I guess I
move too
slow
.
He is in front now, leading the
charge. He makes a left and I make a left too, and we begin the ascension
of Mt. Reseda. Towards the mini-mall where my $215.00 for two weeks of services
rendered awaited me. The traffic becomes deafening as we head north,
along the sidewalk.
All of my senses kicked-in.
It was overwhelming.
The noise, the sun, the sky, my
scout on point.
The reintroduction of Marijuana was more than I
could handle. I am glad the dog is with me. We walk. We
traverse.
In search of the watering hole.
Questing towards our oasis.
At one with the
everyday.