Downstairs the teevee was playing the Beverly Hillbillies.
It was the episode where Jethro fancied himself a secret agent capable of manifesting innumerable methodologies especially designed to thwart the communists and their minions—who looked just like Natasha and Boris Badanov, not the cartoon characters, but for realz, yo.
Mr. Drysdale's wife rolled over on the Mayflower, flashing Red Sox memorabilia, fabulous bling and a custom-made fur coat. One of Ellie Mae's pet bears—which looked suspiciously like a flattened photo emulsion when viewed through special eyeglasses exclusively available through publications like Popular Mechanics and the Radio Shack Catalog—ran for cover but collapsed in front of the cement pond.
Loose yellow music was pouring out of a cigarette on the other side of the room, just like smoke, rougher but prettier. And the light from the teevee kept flickering and flickering.
Over there in a world that never really existed, the double-naught agent from the land of large fruit-laden palm trees and hearty, two-cow breakfasts sped off towards the city in search of a new kind of kick. I wanna get hog mad, he gravely intoned, headed toward North Hollywood in a ramshackle truck with broken skateboards for tires.
I step into a city park restroom through a broken cinder block wall. As I start to pee into a central basin I see dark eyes peering at me over a stall. The eyes are filled with fear.
A tall, thin dark Indian man steps out. His head and hands are wrapped in bandages. He offers, in impeccable English, to do odd jobs for me.
He presents his daughter. She is small and cute with red hair and a green dress. She lives with her father in the bathroom. She seems to know some database concepts. I know I can find some work for her. I won't be able to call her but I know where to find her.
My brother-in-law and I are about to leave on a trip for which we will need two maps: one of Phoenix and and another of Bandelier. My neighbor M has them.
A new red jeep backs up into our driveway, proceeding to their house which is behind ours. They are leaving too. I need to get to the maps. I walk around back to their house. I see the maps are already in the back of their station wagon, but their house is gone now. It's just a low wire fence around some dirt.
I see M and L sitting on a bench outside the house next door. I step over the low fences and approach them. They are watching intently as an irrigation ditch is being filled with a lot of water. A guy in a gray suit is diving for bodies. He finds one and floats it to the surface.
I meet my pal E on a downtown street. He starts to tell me a long story about seeing me in my truck. According to him, I was waiting at a light for J, who stuttered as a child, to cross the street. I finally grew to impatient and raced through the intersection, causing all my bottles of prescription drugs to bounce off my rear bumper into the street.
I am trying to follow G as she climbs a tree to get out onto a fallen-log bridge that goes over a deep canyon. I can't seem to make the last step from the tree to the log because my left foot keeps changing into something else. The log bridge shifts suddenly in its notch, knocking G off her balance and causing her to spin around it like a propeller. She files off and falls, hitting her head on a rock with a loud crack.
The front seat of my truck is filled with grocery bags. I pull into John Kerry's driveway behind a white minivan. I speak with him through my window. He is offering a million dollars to anyone who can catch his dog. I can hear the dog barking in the trees out back. I see U, from work, aiming a camo-painted dart rifle at the dog while his sidekick looks on.
I joke with my brother about the origin of the butternut root, telling him that their special flavor comes from the way they are harvested: by monkeys who store the roots in their butts as they pick them.
I receive a commission to paint a watercolor for a girl. She wants me to paint a girl pointing a gun at her. She provides me with a large palette with new grass growing on it, and stones that can be scraped for color. My pal T advises me. He has taken a watercolor class recently.
I join my pal R in the task of giant Indian basket moving, which involves standing inside the giant, boat sized, wicker basket with red-painted bow-and-stern-ends, and throwing one's weight against the side or kicking at the keel to move the basket along the trail.