Take the Lead, Kimo Sabi

He didn't know what else to do. It seemed to be the only course of action. He was perfectly willing to do whatever he deemed necessary. His sweet-tooth was callin' the shots, though, so what HE deemed necessary was inordinately influenced by the munchies.

So, this being the case, he hoisted himself from the couch and put his shirt back on. It was a cool shirt, at least he thought so. Swan Song label, man! Zeppelin, eh? Yeah, cool as fuck.

He grabbed his car keys after slipping into his worn-out flip flops. With no small degree of swagger he strolled out to the ratty 1990 Toyota Celica he called his own. The ignition fired up on the first try…the Celica may have looked like it barely survived a nuclear war, but it was reliable…damned reliable.

His destination was not far from home. Walking distance, actually. It probably would have turned out better for him if he had. Only two blocks to his favorite grocery store, which also doubled as a psychedelic Utopian oasis when his head was in a good place.

Al & James Grocery. That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. He knew that store like it was his own grub-filled mansion. Every aisle memorized. As you walk in the store, he would have told you, look to the left and you’ll see the produce section. Lettuce, broccoli, cucumbers, a vegetarian’s dream. Fruits, too. Enough fruit to make a man sick of fruits in general.

“To your right”, he would continue, “is the soda pop aisle. I love this aisle. I drink it all, perty much, except for that nasty diet shit. Pepsi, Coke, I don’t give a fuck. It’s all the same to me. Motherfucking Sprite, that’s some refreshing swill. Hell, if I’m broke I’ll substitute one of the other “doctors” (you know, the cheap-ass store brand) for the king of soft drinks, Dr. Pepper. Dr. Thunder, Dr. Shasta, Dr, This and Dr, That. None of ‘em tasting much like the Pepper. But hey, if you've only got 50 cents they’ll do and you betcha.”

Aisles, aisles, long aisles, crowded aisles. Aisles that smelled like spices. Aisles that smelled like coffee, a delicious, familiar flavor. Aisles, chilly from the frozen food showcases on either side. Aisles, clumsily stocked by the graveyard shift, already fucked up before the day’s half over.

Miles of aisles to choose from, but on this sunny Oklahoma afternoon the man in the patchouli-stinking Led Zeppelin shirt had only one aisle on his mind.

"Ice cream, baby. This is what it’s all about”, he says, talking to an investigative reporter sent by the “In Your Corner” team of do-gooders from the channel 4 news crew. "This is the serious fuckin’ shit! You think I couldn't eat me 3 or 4 gallons at a time? Just watch me. I do it up every which way but loose…I’m gonna get me a belly-full of Rocky-fucking Road. Make me a hot fudge sundae. That be a good idea.”

The reporter’s camera crew had shut down and moved on, but Terry, who was also the main anchorwoman at KFOR , hung around in an attempt to introduce herself to this ice cream connoisseur on a less-professional level.

“That was a beautiful soliloquy you gave about those bomb pops. Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Sylvester Stallone in profile?”

“No”, he answered, a certain gleam in his eyes, “But it has often been remarked by those who know me that I bear an uncanny resemblance to Richard Gere”.

“So what’s your name?”

“Richard Gere.”

She giggled…”I would never have placed you…you look more like a white Morgan Freeman; I could never have mistaken you for Gere.”

“Okay”, he conceded. “My name…no, my REAL name…uhh…that would be…”

“Yes…surely you've not forgotten it?”

“Timothy. That’s it…no, really. It’s Timmy Carver. You can call me Jim, if you want to. If I can call you Terry…”

Terry replied, “Oh, I would not have it any other way”.

“Has anyone ever told you, Terry, that your beauty shames the Venus de Milo? That your smile is as hypnotizing as the Mona Lisa? That your elfish eyes seem stolen from a really high quality sculpture of Helen of Troy? That the very scent of you makes me swoon and stagger?”

“Yes”, Terry said. “I've heard all of that before… A couple of guys used the Mona Lisa line on me, one right after the other…but somehow it seems like when YOU say it…well that makes all the difference in the world. Now, Mr. Ice Cream Expert, what have you to say about the Blue Bell brand ice cream sandwiches?”

He smiled. “By God, you've made my mind up for me. What have I to say about ‘em? I say they are the shit. I say that they are on my top-20 list of favorite ice cream confections. Yes, ma’am, I've got a lot to say about them, but truth be told, I also got Willie Nelson on the TV at home right now, and this grocery store visit has already lasted 3 times longer than I wanted it to. I've probably already missed ‘Whiskey River’…and that was the only reason I was even watching. So unless you’re wanting to come home with me, where we can enjoy what’s left of Willie’s show in private, I'll politely request that you move your bulk and girth., I really need to get these ice cream sandwiches paid for and skee-daddle before they melt on me. I hate that...”

“Oh, but yeah…I should have known you’d go for the sandwiches. And I would have thought that, had you found me half as attractive as I find you, you would have already asked me to come with you,”...her lips moist and red, pouting… “…and I’d go. Yes, indeed I would take your grubby hand and go with you. Baby., you take me away to a world I never knew…what else can I say? I wanna go with you”.

She knew those were her own thoughts. But she hadn't  realized she'd actually spoken them out loud. She caught herself, but it was too late.

She looked away, and he watched her awkwardness. “If that’s how you feel, Terry…” he said, “well consider yourself invited, but I’m warning you…my house is a wreck. Now grab another box of Blue Bell brand ice cream sandwiches and let’s get the fuck out of Dodge.”

“Take the lead, Kimo Sabbi.”

…and he led her down a path of murder, sabotage, prostitution and perversion. A shadow land of jealousy, envy, pride…His strange desires held sway, and she knew there was no way back now that she was in so deep. Her years were wasted, tossed away like empty beer bottles thrown through the windows of a speeding car. He took the lead, alright. He led her straight down his own long and winding road to hell…

…But that’s not what happened…sorry.

What DID happen was this:

They got to the car and embarked upon the short journey. They spoke to each other in the tentative tones of people falling in love. They locked eyes once or twice, and saw hope there...he saw it was strong in her as it was in him. A smattering of laughter and even though hers was an intoxicating sound, he was surprised to find that some of it was his. They went on and on and on…and they would have gone on a little further if Timmy had not realized that he was completely lost. Two measly blocks from departure to destination and he is hopelessly lost.

Terry laughed it off…in fact she found it quite endearing, much in the same way his passion for ice cream sandwiches made here WANT to love him. “Here I am,” she managed to keep this thought to herself: “prepared and willing to offer my body and soul to a man who can’t even find his way back less than 2 miles from his own house…What the hell am I doing here?"

She led him back to Al & James, His mind had cleared up a little bit. He figured his short term memory would kick back in and the way home would become clear.

It was with a great degree of sadness when, after finally arriving at the right address, they found Willie Nelson’s “Austin City Limits” performance had given way to an installment of Nova, in which the phenomenon of black holes was being discussed by a panel of astronauts, rocket scientists, astronomers, movie critics, Satanists and carnys.

“Oh well”, he apologized. “I was really hopin’ to munch on them Blue Bells to the rhythm of ‘Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground’ or maybe ‘Always on My Mind’…something real smooth to get you in the mood to pitch a little woo.”

“Yeah, it’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Somehow he found Terry’s usage of such course language very sexy. “But hey, I like black holes. I think black holes are fascinating. Just think…a portal to another dimension. Or the entrance to transcendence. What does it feed on? Is it an intelligent life form? Does it prefer French fries to tater tots? Does the fact that it’s a ‘black’ hole signify that it’s white on the other side? Naw, dog, K-momma can hang with the black holes!”

“Okay…I’ll grab us some sandwiches. I always eat two or three, so how about you?”

“I’ll take two.”

“Good girl…that’s a good girl. What was that name again?”

“Terry.” She replied. “But you can call me Terry.”

++++++++++++++++++++

THINGS THAT TIMMY HOPES TERRY NEVER FINDS OUT, part one.

Timmy oftentimes wondered if he was a pervert of the meanest stripe because he downloaded porn movies and saved them to disc. His collection ranked in the hundreds of free 20 minute movies he found on the internet. His personal favorites included: "twoforher”, “poolside threesome” and “dirty old man”.

He often felt consumed with guilt about this. His collection of short porn movies, that is. But the shame, forceful as it was, did not deter him from downloading more. And he never regretted burnin’ ‘em to disc, either.

It would shatter his already frail psyche if Terry ever discovered his personal stash…If she were to watch even one from start-to-finish…well, hell…he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

Maybe…is it too much to even hope for?...Terry likes that shit??? Who knows, She might have her own collection of pornographic films.

Still…it’s better not to take the chance. So he thought as he found a new place to hide the seven discs of smut. Terry’s got a wild streak in her…hell, it’s one of the things he loves about her…But he doubts she’d appreciate the collection very much.

For now the discs are his own secret, and one that he’ll most likely keep with him to the grave.


MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH

Timmy and Terry were snuggled together on the love seat. “Nova” was wrapping up, the consensus being that the Satanists’ theory of black holes was the most plausible one. “It,” they say.” is the work of the devil”. The movie critics also chimed in, making obligatory references to many of the classic motion pictures of yesteryear. The critics’ idea of a black hole, however, was markedly at odds with that of the rocket scientists, astronomers and the astronauts. Not only that, but furthermore, it was roundly denounced by not only the Satanists but the carnys as well (indeed they had the most bizarre black hole theory of them all).

…None of it mattered, of course, because the couple we have already come to know and adore, Terry and Timmy, were too busy pitching woo to notice that the program had even ended. Their kisses tasted like chocolate and vanilla, cool as ice cream. Even their hands were sticky from it.

When it was all over they were covered in a light sprinkling of gooey sugar. Terry didn't waste any time getting out of the bed. You’d have thought it would be the man, the insensitive schmuck, who would bolt first. But Terry had good reason for making such a hasty exit. Scheduled to anchor the morning news show in about 6 hours she figured she’d be lucky to get 30 minutes of sleep. She hated having the make-up crew put through so much trouble so early in the morning.

“No, baby, no…” he said, rising from his seat. He hastily threw on some clothes…it looked as if he was going to be wearing that Swan Song shirt for a second day straight…”Don’t go just yet. One more hour, please? Who needs sleep?”

“I do.”

He rightfully ascertained that these two words signified the end of the discussion, period. It would be utter foolishness to describe them as anything less than authoritative. He did not try. He just lay there and admired her lithe figure as she put her clothes back on, bending down to pull each garment from the pile she'd made the night before. Then without so much as a "see you later alligator" she walked out the door.

It was enough. He closed his eyes and ran the memories through his brain for a few minutes while they were still fresh in his head. He freed his freshly woken mind to fly away into fantasy, let go of the grip he'd been losing on the waking world, and he fell back to sleep. The big sleep. The big fuckin’ sleep. Deep down swimming in shimmering pools of sleep.

And lo, did he dream.

He dreamed of gods and men, of warriors and priests. His unconscious mind conjured many characters, both spectacular and lame. Heroes and villains. Nightmares of decay, disease and death. Black horses and invisible riders.

But the one he remembered for the rest of his life, the dream he claimed had changed his life in such a dramatic way, was the very one that spawned two characters that have come to be known in literary circles as…

Eddie and the Jolly Rancher.


THE DREAMS OF EDDIE & THE JOLLY RANCHER

An opera by George Frederic Handel was playing softly in the background. Seemed out of place, such regal, uppity music in a rundown trailer house 7 miles north of Tecumseh.

Lying side-by-side, spooning, as it were, the snoring bodies of Eddie Tubbs and his long time girlfriend the Jolly Rancher occupied the greater portion of a ratty queen size mattress. Beer bottles littered the floor around the makeshift bed and their clothes were piled up on both sides.

I don’t think either the cultured Mr. Tubbs or the Jolly Rancher even liked opera. The Rancher enjoyed jazz and heavy metal while Ed leaned more to classic rock and some of that new country shit that people make fun of.. So it was somewhat unusual to hear “Xerxes” jamming the airwaves in that trailer house. Jamming in vain, it would seem, seeing as how the couple were both sound asleep. The sound of the arias, the tenors and altos – vibrating like an electric razor on a pane of glass – they fell upon ears closed to anything outside of their dreams.

Somehow their biological clocks were perfectly synchronized to the point where they woke up together at the same time every morning. 8:30 am.

And so 8:30 am did arrive and with the crowing of the cock their collective eyes opened, all 4 of them.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning to you, Rancher. Did you sleep well?”

“I guess I slept about as well as can be expected under the circumstances. How about you?”

“Well,” he said, “I guess I got just about as much sleep as any man plagued with nightmares and visions is gonna get.”

He shuddered and blinked hard his eyes a couple of times, then continued:

“They were awful. Every one of them was about looking into the sky and seeing these airplanes. There were a couple of guys who were going to bungee jump from ropes tethered to the wings.”

“Foolish idea.” An obvious point.

“Yeah, maybe, but I’m looking up into the sky and you can't miss 'em, They seem to be higher than I should really be able to see.

“They jump out of the plane and everything looks fine until BOTH bungee ropes break and they fall to the earth to die horrible deaths. I watched them coming down, falling to the ground, one hitting so close to us that you could hear the body’s harsh “thump” when it met the tarmac.”

The Rancher watched him intently, admiring him, thinking of how cool it was to have someone who tells you his dreams and nightmares every morning. It had become a ritual between the two of them, this daily sharing of dreams. They were fresh and still real, untainted by forgetfulness, immensely enjoyable and sometimes enlightening.

“I don’t know why it frightens me so,” he went on. “Witnessing a tragic accident…I don’t know…I guess…maybe it’s just the idea of seeing someone die, witnessing a stranger’s last moments of life…being one of the last to ever see him alive.”

“I think I understand,” said the Jolly Rancher.

“Oh you do, do ya?” he thought to himself. “Well that makes one of us, because I don’t personally see why such a thing could be so horrifying, so mind-bending.”

A moments tense silence, then JR broke it by telling her own dream.

“It’s like the 3rd day of school, 9th grade, maybe 10th. I’m walking down the hall when I realize I’m lost, that I have no idea which room I’m supposed to be in. The principle has given me a schedule with class hours and room numbers. But for whatever reason I still can’t seem to locate the damn rooms.

“I read my locker number, 405, and I go to look for it. I see a 404. I also see a 406. But no 405. It freaked me out, like ‘what the hell happened to my locker?’

“Im still hopelessly lost…and then I hear…the BELL.

“Which is the exact moment in which I realize that I’m wearing only my bra and panties…nothing else…butt naked 'cept for bra and panties. I am consumed by embarrassment…it just seemed so real.”

“Oh, I can tell you what that means,” Eddie broke in. “You know I've read several books about dream interpretation and I think I've got a pretty good handle on it.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I wouldn't shit a shitter,” he joked.

“You’re so original”

“Maybe so…but that dream you had this morning, it ain’t all that difficult to understand.”

”Okay,” said the Rancher. Silently she screamed, “Fill me in! I’m interested in knowing!

“Basically, the fact that the dream takes place in a school hallway tells me that you stand in need of a spanking. You’re lost, stumbling through the halls, like a blind man whose had his cane stolen. Of course, you’re lost. You’ve left a home and a family thinking all you'd ever need to find was a man who could dominate you. The missing locker just tells me that I could damn well be that man. It could sure enough be me doing all the spanking.”

“Oh, really?" Asked JR, incredulously.

“Yes indeedy. And when you realize you’re unclothed, it is at that moment you submit…all your desires have become invested in me and you will willingly be my virtual sex-slave . That dream of yours means you need a good fuckin'. It means you will achieve orgasm a total of four times before I've even mounted ye.”

“Ha! You know what the funny thing is?” The Jolly Rancher giggled…”That’s the exact same meaning you gave for the last few dreams you've “interpreted” for me."

"I'm damn good, ain't I?"

The second act of Handel’s “Xerxes” moved on to the third without either Eddie Tubbs or the Jolly Rancher even noticing. The beautiful music had become, to them, little more than a mantra chanted over a helicopter whirlwind---the sound of a ceiling fan rattling on it’s highest setting, blowing warm wind in a vain attempt at cooling their perspiration-soaked bodies.

A television sits directly in front of them. Next to the TV, a dusty old guitar, it’s pick guard scuffed by years of strumming by countless players (talented and otherwise). The strings have seen better days, they've gone from bright and shiny to dull and rusty.

Yep, a change of strings would have done that old guitar a world o’ good. A pretty good piece of wood. Not the best but probably as good as Eddie deserved, and he wasn't half bad. He'd played in countless dive bar bands throughout his life. He was pretty good by the time he decided to throw caution to the wind and serenade the Jolly Rancher.

Oh, but that was a night to remember…who could forget the sight of him bowing to her and asking, “My dear, I would be much obliged if you would allow me to play you a song. May I?”

The Jolly Rancher was in the mood for music. “Sure. Pick it and grin a little!”

“Yes, ma’am.

“Oh Suzi Q…O Suzy Q
O Suzi Q baby I love you
Suzi Q”

For whatever reason, he could never remember the other verses, but it didn't matter. The Rancher, by that time, had already fallen deep in love with a raving maniac named Eddie Tubbs.

Yes. THE Ernie Tubbs. You may have heard of him.

More likely you haven’t.

THINGS THAT TERRY HOPES TIMMY NEVER FINDS OUT, part 1
(also known as Thought Directory)


You are not the most supportive husband that you could be.

You often tell wicked lies.

I hate it when people whistle.

Something about it just grates on my nerves.

You are a cruel human being.

What the hell are you waiting for?

I’m not moving so long as I know that you’re just gonna do those silly neopets



Grammar checked 9/21/14