Savage warriors from Christmas attacked me on the day after Halloween. They carried sharp hooks and dull beats as weapons. The dull beats came from drum machines that were only a small percentage human. There were no questions allowed from non-believers. Surely, that included me. I know I never signed up. It was a hot day, I remember that much clearly.
The sexy electronic device hanging from the hip of the model on display only demanded obedience, not more or less. Who could resist that? Blindness was optional under most worldwide plans of hegemony under most conditions. A mere background check was a minor requirement that would never end. One size fit all body types so there could be no worries. Countless throngs signed up enthusiastically. Soon, the line became long enough to grow fangs. The rules were simple enough for any nitwit to understand, any pint size, wild card, wannabe, joker. Lie down. Spread ’em. Give it up. Got it?
Also: Don’t stray, don’t wiggle, don’t turn your head away when you’re supposed to be tightly bound. Stay in line or be damned, or else fucked. Join the team, the league, the movement. Wipe hard. Don’t spread habits and germs. Belong, by any means, belong. Wait your filthy turn behind the line. Bite your fucking tongue. Lines are supposed to be straight. Everyone says so, that’s who. Listen harder to everyone who tells you what to do. Who do you think you are? Don’t believe a word otherwise. Don’t fuck up a good thing for those who are ahead of you. Who are you again? Fuck you, too. Who says so? Santa says so. Don’t fucking fuck with Santa. He knows where you live and he won’t forget.
I said, “Keep moving, don’t look back.”
The yang twin said, “This is so retarded.”
The cutting edge model looked like she needed to learn where to fit a square meal into her neutered short pants. It was hot but not that hot. Her cleverly tailored ass was barely covered. She was not in charge, however. A bitchin’ babe in a fruit hued polyester pants ensemble twirled without access to harmony or rhythm, and a slippery dick in tightly contoured cowpoke garb looked like he was itching to bust out and scratch his privates in public. His pearlescent buttons glowed with what appeared to be the dusk from Hades. Felt tip pens were uncapped and passed out with reckless abandon. They were then deployed smoothly. Signing while standing in line was maximal tasking. In tandem, the tittering mannequins smiled like stalactites. Or was that the other creepy kind of icicle that clamor at your feet in dank caves and are hard to keep straight? There was so little to accomplish and so much more of the same still to come. I tried to shield my eyes.
The yin twin said, “You’re not supposed to say that anymore and don’t ask why because I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m not asking. I know retarded when I see it. Like…duh.”
I had no cause or purpose to do so, but I interjected a simple minded non sequitur in my role as a means of diversion that came out flat and too sing-songy to be seriously swallowed. Flexibility in the hips is best for maneuvering inside of a crowd, or something close, if I’m not mistaken. Not that either of the tweens was paying attention. Then I pretended I was only choking, and turned my head while coughing, although the tween twins were too hip for that and it fooled no one. In the end, it sounded a lot like, “Ugh.”
Unless that was an, “Ach.”
The yin twin said, “Whatever.”
The yang twin said, “You got something better than my freedom of speech?”
“What you’re all about is the freedom to be a pain in the butt?”
“Good point. I”m all in.”
“Except for the part that sticks out while it’s sagging.”
I was only there to aid and abet by driving the getaway car. It made me feel right at home, where I first learned to keep my mouth shut. As my contribution to the discourse, I said, “Who’s ready to leave now?” Then I added, “I forgot what we’re supposed to be doing here.”
Some people don’t realize when they look at the monkeys in the zoo that the monkeys are looking back at them. I did realize that. I remember that much.
First, however, the tween twins had to purchase sex wax for their surfboards and new booties for growing feet. I abetted plenty. Then there was street food that was easy to come by for street kids who are little more than growing savages. I abetted more. It was still morning, but barely light enough to see what we were chewing.
We were next forced to bypass a pinkish man in a pinkish tutu who was aiming for cute and ended up creepy. He blocked the sidewalk with his sodden bulk. There were crumbs in his beard that attracted lazy pigeons. Nothing new there. We had all avoided him before. As a fanciful Santa of a sort, a fixture in the needy community at large, he spread his cheer by twirling a pink parasol for affect. I know it affected me deep down in my sagging bowels. Gravity is something to really believe in. Unless that was only early onset indigestion.
“Are you going to tell me that’s not retarded?”
On the Central Coast of California there is a wet season that is cold and a dry season that is hot but no day is bound to behave accordingly. A very typical day may be hot in December and cold in July. Waves come and go on a different schedule and are subject to change without notice. The fog that rules Monterey Bay adheres to no bounds, ever. All predictions about life and life only are iffy. Optimal conditions will be fleeting, absolutely. So, why pretend? When the surf knocks, you better answer. Have a job? Fuck it. Go to school? Play hooky. It’s the least you can do. If an entitled local tween is unprepared to take the plunge then the waves may go to someone else, perhaps a snarky withered old longboarder from way back when who no longer deserves to exist.
Or worse, a Val.
I followed a line of cars as Junior Walker urged me forward. No one ever honked or cried better than Junior Walker. I knew where I was going as if it mattered deeply. I did not understand how so many others knew as well, though. Did that mean the obvious end was near?
The yin twin said, “Right here is good.”
I idled at the edge of a crumbling cliff in front of a newly seeded and sprouted McMansion. The surf below was shaped like a ripe papaya, and ripping. The misshapen McMansion was draped in a mosaic of yellow crime scene tape. It appeared as if all of the McMansions that had been popping up in Pleasure Point like chemically enhanced boners getting ready to spew had been likewise swathed in the same yellow scourge. A tattooed surf punk with a sweet smile who previously resided in one of the beach shacks that had been leveled for progressive yuppification on a sliding scale watched as his Great Dane unloaded a big shit on the lawn. It was hard to be sure but it looked to me as if there was an astonishingly large portion of hay in that shit.
Once the tweens had slipped into wetsuits, donned booties, grabbed boards, all that remained were nagging words of parental advice that were neither needed nor appreciated from me.
“Don’t forget to curl your toes.”
“Why do you still think you’re so funny?”
“And mind your deep figure-eights.
“Funny is only funny the first time.”
“And roll your hips as if you are rocking.”
“You’re only embarrassing yourself, you know.”
“And most important of all, strive to be fluid.”
‘Well, yeah, like…duh.”