The porridge was smoking. No use crying over spilling it. The teen twins fled the scene as the back door went flying off unhinged. Just like that melodramatic back door to overreact. The tree frogs responded with a chorus akin to Bob Marley’s Wailers. I’ll bet all the chirpy birds high in the redwoods were beaming.
I found I was force-filled beyond bounds with all kinds of false get-up-and-go. I had to be. I had a job to do in service to worldwide freedom and I was getting ready to report for duty at an office.
I called out with nothing to say to the back door and went unheeded. The teen twins ran down the hill. I’ll bet they were laughing. I’ll bet the yang twin had snot hanging that he’d wipe all over. The public schools had no choice. They had to take him. Then the front door butted in with a bang.
I announced, “What the fuck.” That meant I had to wear pants. One leg at a time. Maintain balance. Have courage.
I had never seen the man at the front door but I recognized the arrangement of blocks and squares he featured. If you don’t believe rectangles rule, bro, you must be a backwoods rube stuck with dial-up and cable. He knocked at the hollow core of that door as if he possessed it. He carried a cute box. I’ll bet it was hollow at its core.
“I brought dumplings. I thought we’d have a chat over dumplings.”
“Fresh steamed and still moist?”
“Fresh from your major proponent and mine of the Adult Use of Marijuana Act, AUMA, Lt Guv Gav Newsom.”
“Pork and shrimp. Banh cam too.”
“What about banh mi?”
“Banh mi for later.”
“Come on in.”
The bottom of the box was graphically lined with yellow scraps from torn newspaper archives. The thin writing, slick and gooey, ran like mushy gruel. A serial spinal defect passed on in evolution by the human species radiates from a preference to eat meat above deep breathing. But I didn’t need to be hit over the head by powerful imagery. Please, don’t show me Sarah Palin shooting a dumb moose again. I bit into a hot banh bot loc that stretched a single into a home run. It was no secret I would go far to maintain my upstanding as a lowly carnivore. It’s not that I forget to breathe but I get hungry. My handler at the door proved to be a pro. All politics is us against them. It’s a big mistake to think of it in any other way. Whose side are you on, boy?
“I want to make one thing perfectly clear.”
“Of course I believe you’re not a crook.”
“I’m going to level with you. Trust me on this one.”
“My eyes and ears are propped open like Venus fly traps.”
“Lt Guv Gav Newsom is operating from principle on this one. His support for the Adult Use of Marijuana Act, AUMA, is based upon merit. It has nothing to do with any ambitions he might cherish to be Governor.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“Trust me on that.”
“Tell me what you want me to do.”
He said, “It must get awfully dark and creepy deep in these mountains.”
I said, “That’s perfectly clear enough.” Unless that he was a she.
I felt a troublesome brain tumor coming on, though likely benign, so it was okay to continue bravely. I had vowed there would be no shirking from my duty to write speeches in favor of freedom to be twisted by the tongue of Lt Guv Gavin Newsom. Not even a qualified professional handler could alter the trajectory of my political purpose. The gravity of worldwide freedom tugged at my groin as we eyeballed. Passage of the Adult Use of Marijuana Act, AUMA, was that vital to the debacle of worldwide freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles long suppressed by pious jack-booted thugs.
I observed his smirk turn snide to fill his void. Before I concluded it was hers. She probably bet he had me. As if I was going to bend over like some political hack for a penis like that. She did not know that I spit on much funny stuff and monkey business. I’ll bet he probably never felt the tremors from a feint before. We were practically straddling the San Andreas Fault like a pair of strap-ons. He/she, whomever. I wanted to make my position on the issues of the day totally clear in my own head foremost and first, after all. The process requires deliberation to get ahead. After first, next. I stayed courageous.
I said, “I’m paying every other week for medium sized teen twins who get hungry and need banh mi too.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“As long as you know.”
“First things first.”
I said, “Smart.”
When the game is us against them, as it was, is, and will be, for keeps, it’s important to know who is playing. And paying. If I can’t know who, how can I know what? In the best of all possible worlds, I prefer to go up against an unworthy opposition that breathes short shallow breaths that suck. That allows me to stack my own deck high, and bet big on a sure thing. If not, then I’m forced to wing it, strike hard at the vulnerable knees of a low down enemy dumb enough to bow. Knees tend to be instruments of low consciousness. That’s another truism of politics. Religion, too. Or else, I quit. Because I refuse to lose. After that, I want to have a peek at who is dealing. Then, who is cheating. Next, who is trying to cheat. And whose turn is up next.
He asked, “Do you have any napkins?”
I said, “No.”
She said, “Smart.”
Once I have a feel for what’s what, I become best able to maneuver my groin into defensive position for blocking outcomes. Stay centered in the here and now to rise high and be free. After that, I try to find out where. And where next.
When he showed his hand, I said, “That’s a good deal.”
What I didn’t say was, “I would have settled for a lot less.”
She said, “Trust me. I know.”
I tend to resolutely shy away from rectangular brutes with penises who often ask to be trusted. Where’s the irony in that? It’s just so not done anymore. I’m so over it.
I said, “I’ll need collateral.”
He said, “I have proof.”
I said, “I’ll need collateral.”
It turned out to be a glorious win-win for my side, all of my sides. Sort of. The unappreciated campaign workers in the basement on Polk St. where I was due to be stashed were no more enthusiastic about having me on site than I was over being seen and had. I don’t know why everybody’s always picking on me, but it works. My professional handler assured me I could stay incognito in the mountains and attain the same results invisibly. The megabucks gurus from Silicon Valley were used to that. Banh-mi would be delivered on a flexible schedule from a kitchen in San Jose on a need to eat basis, daily.
“There’s a discreet cave near the top of Mt. Umunhum in the Santa Cruz Mountains where no one goes.”
I said, “I know that cave well. .”
“Lt Guv Gav Newsom will meet you there in secret when the time is right to discuss advanced strategy. I will be in touch to give you the signal.”
“What about the banh-mi?”
“You won’t have to worry about the banh-mi ever again. The banh-mi are in the bag.”