Last weekend I was visiting my good friend, T— and arrived at his domicile in the wee hours of the afternoon shortly before he usually awakes. I had not yet broken my fast, and I searched through his cabinets for any semblance of cereal, eggs, or pork flesh, but found nothing but a half-empty bottle of raspberry vinaigrette and a bowl of spinach leaves. As I had recently flown the “Ganja plane”, as some of my colleagues euphemismically call the smoking of marijuana (a ritual I engage in every morning, afternoon, and evening), I was quite hungry and prepared for myself a bowl of salad. I was savoring the combination of bitter leaves against the slightly sweet taste of the vinaigrette when my friend stumbled into the kitchen.
“Good sir, why are you eating all my salvia divinorum?” T— exclaimed.
“What?” I said, “I thought this was spinach!”
T—- would later say that I dropped the earthenware bowl and fell to the ground staring into the ceiling and gibbering, but at the time I experienced none of this. Instead, the room became void, and I could see the end of the Universe as a pointed singularity. It approached and I could now see that it was not, in fact, the end of the Universe and Everything As We Know It but rather the weekend, hurtling towards me at incredible speed. It hit me like a wave composed of the fat from Roseanne’s thighs, and around me I could see the
Naacho Spring Show Buyakasha
Thurs. Feb. 14, Fri. Feb. 15 and Sat. Feb. 16, 8:00 pm
The smell of curry was overpowering, slicing through the membranes of my nose in sinuous strings of yellow and burnt sienna stretched into forms far removed from Euclidean geometry. I tried to pay attention to the dancers but the variously colored pantaloons and scarves were a prismatic attack that split my mind into the seven colors of the rainbow. Just before I was forever schizzed, Fortune smile upon me (the breath was pushed from my lungs when I recognized Fortune’s face as none other than Vanna White) and my soul was instead sucked into the chest of a swarthy, hirsute man, who chanted in Hindi as he lifted large-breasted images of Lakshmi into the smoking, writhing sky, where I could see the words
Men’s Basketball vs. Yale
spelled out in the constellations. The orange of the vest of the man who formed my soul’s prison warped into a sphere and I sank through a hoop like our current win-loss record. My consciousness warped over to the lone fan in the stands, who stood with shoulders slumped as the ball wrapped itself around Yale’s basket in an infinite loop. When the final buzzer sounded, a weeping vision of Freddy Flaxman appeared at center court. His visage was as a god, and I could not bear to let my gaze linger. I turned around and found Noah welcoming me onto the gangway of an ark. Savage waters swirled around us as we sailed away to
Sat. 8:00 pm
where a figure named Wyatt Yankus filled a fizzing pitcher with a gallon of Yuengling and forced me to drink it until I died. I lay down softly in a coffin made of cherry wood, and the band played a solemn rendition of Green Day’s “Basket Case” as I was carried on the hunched backs of six chemical engineers to the
29 Greenview Ave.
Princeton, NJ 08542
Here the external world disappeared and I walked through a hallway whose walls were dripping with images from my past. There I saw myself as little Charlie, age 12 and a half, abandoned, my mother leaving on a jet plane for a new life with the curator of the Louvre, my father lost in a maze of stock reports and ticker symbols. I was forced to hustle just to make enough money to buy caviar, and even then I could only afford Ritz crackers.
“No! Away!” I yelled, desperately reeling back from the images.
But still they came – the first time I tried the product, the second time I tried it, the twentieth time, all over a period of four days, until I spent my last hundred-dollar bill and was forced to snort through a McDonald’s straw.
“God, forgive me!” I yelled as an image of me blowing the butler sprung into view.
“God cannot hear you here, Charles,” someone said.
I turned around, and before me was a fastidiously-dressed Amish man, the brim of his hat stygian-black and covering his eyes.
“I only desired that they love me,” I cried, curling up into the fetal position, my voice condensing into tears.
“Follow me,” the man told me, and we walked over the face of space and time to
The Ferry House
February 14, 7:00 pm
“I’d like the grilled chicken, rare, with a pile of multi-colored beans and some vertical garlic bread on the side,” the man told the waiter.
The waiter retired and the man lifted the brim of his hat and stared at me, plumbing the depths of my soul.
“Your unresolved Oedipal complex is taking control of your life. The latent desire to replace your mother’s petit-maître has resulted in a love for the artsy and the liberal, which has led you to drug use, which has led you here. And you have expanded your hatred towards your father into an attitude of insolence towards all parental authority figures, including God. Which is why I have been sent to you.”
Recovering from my shaken state, I attempted to allay his psychological profiling with light conversation and I enquired his name.
“I am Zebadiah Blackwell,” he said, “Now, before we deal with the important issue, we’re going to have to deal with your mother and why you are sexually interested in her, which is why I’m taking you to the
Fri. February 15 and Sat. Feb. 16, 8:00 pm
Immediately I felt the cold hand of despair fingering me, and I fled. As I disembarked from the restaurant, I stumbled and discovered that I had stepped into thin air. Terrified and naked as an uncouthe jaybird, I fell from the sky onto the cold linoleum of my friend’s kitchen, a string of raspberry-flavored drool lolling out the corner of my mouth.
“Good sir, are you alright? You’ve been absent from consciousness for quite a measure of hours,” T— said.
“I, I believe I will be fine,” I said, attempting to stand, “I only require a hand here.”
He lifted me, and we set out for the Street, where I found the intoxicants much more to my liking.