Saturday October 16, 2009
The sky attains its later fashion. A vibrant blue transforms into hues of cultivated violets and passionate reds, diving slowly into the western hills of the valley. The evening ballet occurs once more. This particular night holds the promise of a sleepover. A few drinks. Maybe even a few laughs. Changing moods and changing skies check this blithesome eventide. Welcome to tonight.
Ding-dong! The assembly arrives, returning from a Great Mall - a misnomer, no doubt - to a corner house marked 613. Courteous smiles appear accompanied by introductions delivered upon entry of the front red door. Brody and Jess are no strangers to this place and are the first to walk through. Behind them stand Neil and a rather amicable fellow by the name of Nebo who has driven them here. Among these few is a resident of house, J. Norman, chief of the gathering.
It is not too long before another troop lands. Their purpose? To ask the 613 group in joining their 4-member gang on a trip to traverse haunted grounds at San Felipe. On the driveway they discuss, joke and shoot the shit beneath a now twinkling firmament. The streetlight glows its lucent purpose, a yellow splendor splashing upon the youth who ardently speak of the night's potential. Who will go? And who will stay? The ghosts, they wait for the eager tender age.
Those of 613 opt not to go. They bid farewell to their friends. Nebo too has departed, restricted by the 23:00 curfew set upon him. The ones who remain make way towards the backyard to partake of a herbal treat. Once done, they head back to the computer room to drink a drink admittedly not legally allowed them. The cheers soon run high.
Giggles emerge from the computer room. Sobriety has left and said "Goodbye!" and in its place a tipsy awkward stumbles forth. Huzzah! A pronouncement! Neil has to go home. A curfew on his head, his current state of mind only increases the bounty. The parental posse will be on the lookout; of this, Neil is most certainly aware. Paranoia, paranoia. He no longer believes in the sureness of his step.
He looks at his comrades and asks with bizarre worry, "Am I walking straight?"
Neil steps after step step, each audible sneakered tap on the floor exposing the forced control.
"Am I walking straight?" he asks again.
"Yeah" his friends respond with a chuckle and a smile.
"No, really, am I walking straight?"
Anxiety is the orchestra that fills his voice but you can not tell by the look of undeniable calm on his face, almost a complete uncare, yet the band tunes up and again Neil asks,
"Am I walking straight?"
Another cautious stride.
"Yeah" his friends say assuredly, amusedly. It's enough to go home with.
Neil, the aspiring trapeze artist, supplies directions from the backseat. The sunless ride home acquires a soundtrack thanks to the nebulous tunes of 89.7 KFJC. The lyrical drones jive like court jesters to wasted kings and a queen. Brody. Neil. J. Norman. Jess. They're all here. So is Neil's favorite query.
"Quit playing around, do I really walk straight?"
"Yes."
Still rootless on the matter of his march, Neil decides to stop by Nebo's to show him his recently obtained circus act skill. A detour is made. The vehicle rolls into a neighborhood and out steps Nebo. One need not hear what transpires between the sober and the stoned. Eyes upon them easily see a one-man sidewalk parade as Neil takes step after step in front of his friend. Neil returns to the vehicle, the strangely aloof look still on his face and he proclaims, "Nebo says I'm walking straight. I can go home."
Inside the apartment complex is a street one long way down. Street lamps line either side the entire length through. Behold and marvel at this alien sight, an imposing funeral procession of the day now gone. Cars quietly whisper their way through, careful not to disturb the mourning of a lost sun. Be wary of the speed bumps, for they are frequent and guard the solemnity of this long way down, simultaneously opposing the booze-dope tempered.
Neil lives at the other end. For all the speed bumps littered across like a tar and gravel minefield, navigating this straight effectively replicates - on wheels - the difficulty of the Neil predicament. Too much or too little put hesitation on the driver. Appearing foolish is a no-no. Bump. Drive. Drive. Bump. "I'm not feeling well" says Jess. Drive. Drive. Bump. "I need to throw up." Jess opens the door and upchucks the evening's liquor dinner onto the bump just passed. At first it just looks like a quick spit, but no, as soon as this is mentioned Jess finds herself opening the door. Bump. "That was definitely vomit" someone says.
Drive.
Bump.
Vomit.
Drive.
"Just open up the window."
Bump.
Jess pukes toward a glass window that isn't supposed to be up.
"Too late" another person says.
It continues on the long way down. The liquor regurgitate mostly ends up outside. One attempt fails. The faint sound of booze-dope retch hitting vehicle interior floor is heard. "I don't feel good" says Jess. If a giggle hit the air, it wasn't apparent. Nobody takes delight in feeling that ill on a proposed night of mirth.
The long way ends and the vehicle turns left, leaving behind a bump-ridden road painted Pollock style in tints of hurl. Jess is spent, her form sunk in the rear seat but tells everyone that she's feeling better. Neil steps out and is left to his fate under stars and streetlight in front of his home. "Good bye" and "good luck." Heavy on the good luck. A couple more laughs are traded as he takes one more practice walk on the tight rope. What becomes of Neil upon his friends' farewell? Who knows, who knows, such is the story of a youth and his first toke.
