Fiction: Tin Foil Times

By Demond J Blake

 

I’ve always believed in having a schedule—a routine. It gives me focus and keeps me on the crooked, narrow path, if you will. I’ve always functioned best that way.

When I first became homeless, I was like an untethered raft drifting wherever the current carried me. At first it was fun waking up with no idea where the day would take me. Eventually it started taking me places I didn’t want to go—like playing lookout for tweaked-out madmen trying to hustle money from other tweaked-out crazies.

I decided that even though I was homeless—and supposedly free from schedules—I needed some kind of structure before I wound up in low-rent bisexual porn or, worse, Bum Fights.

I’d already established my primary source of income: plasma donations. You can only donate twice a week, never on consecutive days, because your body needs time to replenish itself. So, Monday and Wednesday became donation days. Afterwards I’d spend the rest of the day reading and napping at the RCC (Riverside Community College) library until closing, then head downtown and do the same until that library closed. Then I’d grab dinner at Tia’s Tacos, pick up a thirty-two-ounce King Cobra, head to the fountain, tune into Coast to Coast AM, and call it a night.

Tuesdays I’d head over to my pal Bruce’s to be his “Alfred”—shower, do laundry, and generally play butler. I wasn’t thrilled about being his bitch, but Bruce’s had a decent place to take care of basic hygiene. Usually, if nothing else was going on, he’d convince me to stay over, get drunk, watch The Sopranos or some other gangsta shit, and listen while he waxed philosophical.

Fridays were free days to let whatever happened happen.

Today was Thursday, which meant I’d head over to Jai and Ally’s house to watch his band, Faux Pa, rehearse. Not that I cared much about the music—it was post-math-rock shit. At least that’s what they were going for, which I had to admire, even if their songs mostly sounded like the constant noise of failure. What I was really there for was the herb, the use of Jai’s kitchen to make huge pots of mac ‘n’ cheese for everybody, and, of course, the inevitable liquor-store runs for tall cans. All in all, it wasn’t a bad way to spend a Thursday.

But all that ended when Jai and Ally broke up. Practice moved to Simone’s place out in Mo Val on Tuesdays because Ally didn’t want Jai’s friends hanging around her house getting faded into the night. I hadn’t been over in a few weeks, especially since I’d started hanging around with my buddy Marge instead.

Then after a run in with Ally, I was heading back over there on a Thursday like old times—minus the mac ‘n’ cheese—with no idea what to expect.

I got to the house and heard laughter coming from the backyard. When I walked around and found Deadbird—Jai’s oldest friend, Donnie Hakusho—and Jai strolling down memory lane, fucked up on E with a chest full of beer.

Jai spotted me and hollered loud enough to make my entrance awkward.

“What’ve you been up to? Where the hell you been?”

“I’ve been taking shrooms with Marge.”

His eyes lit up.

“Shit, Jim, why didn’t you ever bring her over here?”

“I don’t know. There was never really a plan. Whenever she’s in town, I tell her a couple places she can usually find me. If she does, we grab some wine and drive around looking for somewhere to drink without getting hassled.”

“Oooooh...sounds romantic.”

“Yeah, right. We’re like two drugged-out little kids shoplifting wine, yelling dumb shit at strangers from her car, playing hide-and-seek in the orange groves...it’s like I’m finally getting to do all the fun stuff I missed out on growing up y’know. My parents were either working me like a dog or dumping me at some relative’s house.”

Jai laughed.

“It wasn’t like that when I’d hang with her.”

“How was it?”

“She’d fuck with me hard. Right in front of Ally, too, back when we all had photography at RCC. Marge would shove those perky-ass titties in my face and be all, ‘You like that, huh, Jai? You want this, don’t you?’

“And I’m over there trying not to yell, ‘Hell yeah,’ rip her shirt off, and start sucking on ‘em while getting Ally involved, too. Hell, she’d messed around with girls before.”

I laughed.

“So instead, I had to be all, ‘Marge, you crazy,’ and play it off. Then later Ally would be pissed, asking why I let Marge do that. I’m like, ‘Hey, you could’ve pulled her off me.’ Damn...you see those things in your face and you’re trying to push ‘em away while secretly taking mental pictures for future spank material.”

He grinned.

“I didn’t tell Ally that part.”

“...Because...”

“...you never know...”

“...if it’ll be your last woman,” I finished.

We were paraphrasing something Richard Pryor wrote in Pryor Convictions—about how your next piece of pussy could be your last. We were probably mangling the quote and definitely missing the point, but we understood the feeling even if we couldn’t explain it.

Deadbird still hadn’t said a word to me. Instead, he nodded hello and tossed me a beer. The best greeting anybody could give me.

While packing a bowl into his ridiculous elephant pipe, he and Jai drifted into stories about the Hip-Hop Maniacs—their old crew—and the time they played a festival with Del the Funky Homosapien.

“...Del’s running backstage carrying this giant pitcher...”

“...Shroom tea,” Jai corrected. “It was a huge-ass pitcher of shroom tea.”

“...Right. And he’s running around filling everybody’s cups.”

“I didn’t even want to drink it,” Deadbird said. “Only did it out of solidarity.”

“Solidarity?” Jai snorted. “Man, when Del the Funky Homosapien rolls up with a pitcher and tells you to drink, you drink.”

“For real.”

Deadbird finally looked at me.

“Worm...you doing drugs or what?”

Deadbird packed me a patronizing little baby bowl while I tried to prove they didn’t have that much more life experience than I did. Instead, I just proved how young and dumb I was.

I smoked my bowl, shut the hell up, and listened.

They kept talking about the show with Del, then drifted into stories about their Wai-Ching days—doing acid, going to raves, and occasionally getting into actual gangsta shit: beating guys with pool cues, defending turf, running small-time drugs. I was fascinated and almost forgot Deadbird was supposed to hook me up until the conversation finally circled back.

“Deadbeezy...what’s up with that E?”

He looked over and laughed.

“Look at Worm over there all quiet and shit. You do drugs or what?”

“When in Rome...”

Deadbird handed us each a pill. He and Jai swallowed theirs without even looking. I studied mine.

It was purple with a peace sign stamped into it.

Immediately, I didn’t trust it.

“What’s his problem?” Deadbird asked.

“Jim gets self-conscious about this stuff.”

“For once, that’s not it.”

“What then?”

“It’s the peace sign.”

Jai laughed.

“Hey, what’s so funny about peace, love, and understanding?”

“I hate that damn song. You know I do.”

I sighed, washed the pill down with beer, and settled in while Jai and Deadbird started talking about the music they wanted to make together once Jai got his life straight.

Meanwhile I watched Mona—Jai’s pet chicken—wander around the backyard before hopping into the trees like she owned the place.

Honestly, I was amazed she was still alive. Jai and Ally had two cats, and her coop looked like it’d been built by a drunk with leftover lumber.

Eventually the guys wandered into what remained of the music room.

Deadbird fired up his MPC and drum machine while Jai bounced between his keyboard and acoustic guitar. Together they made this glorious racket that sounded like folktronica crashing headfirst into underground hip-hop.

I actually liked it.

For a while.

Mostly, though, I drank beer and watched the chicken.

By the time darkness settled over the yard, I didn’t even realize I’d started rolling.

It finally hit me during a beer run.

The liquor-store lights were painfully bright. If I stared at one too long, it burst into a thousand smaller lights that floated across my vision. When it came time to pay, I couldn’t even count my money.

Jai quietly took over.

For some reason, that struck me as hilarious.

Not funny “ha-ha,” funny...strange.

Back at the house, Jai and Deadbird slipped into conspiracy theories.

Normally I’d have jumped into that conversation headfirst. I was a devoted Coast to Coast AM junkie. Instead, I just listened.

Deadbird had gotten obsessed with Bill Cooper after reading Behold a Pale Horse and eventually passed his copy to Jai. I never thought Jai actually read it. Every time I picked it up, his bookmark was still sitting in the table of contents.

Ever since 9/11, though, everybody seemed to be getting into conspiracies. People who used to dismiss Coast to Coast as “that alien show” were suddenly asking if I’d heard last night’s episode.

Part of me liked finally having people to talk to about it.

Another part felt like I’d lost something by letting everyone else in on the joke.

Maybe I was just high.

Deadbird finally got tired of Jai’s backyard.

“You want to sit around here tripping all night, Jim?”

“Not really. I was gonna head back to the fountain eventually. Preferably before Ally gets home.”

“Exactly. This isn’t Jai’s place anymore—it’s Ally’s. So, screw it. Let’s grab more beer and check out Fairmount Park. I’ve never been.”

Jai and I looked at each other.

Deadbird had a point.

We loaded up on tall cans and hit the road.

Once we were in the car, Deadbird threw on Tool and started explaining Maynard’s philosophies like he’d been personally ordained to translate them for the rest of us. I leaned back, drank my beer, and let the words wash over me.

Fairmount Park was nearly empty.

A few teenagers wandered around.

Some homeless people slept on the grass while others stared into the darkness.

Cyclists tore through the park because Fairmount after dark wasn’t the place to screw around.

We drifted through it without saying much. The E had pushed us into that quiet, introspective place where nobody feels like talking.

Eventually we settled onto a bench overlooking the lake.

A couple of transients were fishing with homemade poles.

I secretly hoped they didn’t catch anything. I’d heard everything in that lake was contaminated.

Then Deadbird noticed the island.

“What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know,” Jai shrugged. “It’s always been there. Covered in feathers and bird shit.”

Deadbird stared across the water.

“That’s incredible.”

“Incredible?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Take a picture,” I said. “It’ll last longer.”

Deadbird ignored me.

“How do you get over there?”

“You rent one of those paddle boats.”

“They’re closed.”

“Guess you’ll have to wait till tomorrow.”

Deadbird shook his head.

“No.”

He pointed toward the dock.

“We’re stealing one.”

“It’s padlocked.”

“I’ll steal it.”

“You still think you’re some master lock picker?” Jai asked.

“I don’t think,” Deadbird smiled. “I know.”

By the time I reached the dock, the lock was already lying on the ground.

“How the hell did you do that?”

He grinned.

“Pure skill.”

I looked at Jai.

“You know how to do that?”

“Hell no. He’s been promising to teach me for ten years.”

“I’ll get around to it.”

Deadbird started pulling the chains loose.

“Now help me with this.”

The boat was a two-seater.

Jai and Deadbird pedaled while I straddled the middle like a confused gargoyle.

“Worm,” Deadbird laughed, “I know living at the fountain’s been rough, but screwing a paddle boat?”

“I hear boat-fuckin’s the new thing.”

“But what about the splinters?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Ask me tomorrow.”

“If you two don’t shut the hell up,” Jai said, “I’m gonna bleed both of you on that island.”

Mercifully, we did.

Finally, we made it to the island. Calling it that though was generous.

Jai’s old backyard had more square footage.

The ground was completely white with feathers.

The instant we stepped ashore, hundreds of birds exploded from the palm trees, shrieking into the night.

I froze.

Then immediately climbed back into the boat.

One thought kept repeating itself.

Never get off the boat.

Chef’s panicked voice from Apocalypse Now echoed in my head.

“Never get off the boat.”

I looked over.

Jai had somehow beaten me back.

“How the hell did you...?”

“Forget questions!”

He pointed frantically.

“Deadbird! Bring your ass on!”

No answer.

“Never get off the fucking boat!”

Still nothing.

“Donnie!”

Deadbird wandered deeper among the birds as though he couldn’t hear us.

“Come on!”

His voice floated back.

“It’s...wondrous.”

He stood beneath the swirling birds, trying over and over to photograph something his phone simply couldn’t capture.

“Tell you what,” Jai yelled. “I’ll bring you back tomorrow.”

“No.” Deadbird never turned around. “It has to be tonight.”

Jai sighed.

“Aw, hell.”

He marched across the island, threw Deadbird over his shoulder like a sack of laundry, and hauled him back to the boat.

I was already seated.

There was no way in hell I was straddling that thing again.

Jai climbed in beside me.

Deadbird stood on the shore for one last moment.

The birds had gone quiet. That somehow made the island even creepier.

Against the moonlight they were nothing but black silhouettes circling overhead while everything else glowed dimly like a computer monitor.

Then one bird swooped close enough to brush past Deadbird’s head.

Whatever spell he’d been under broke instantly He climbed aboard without a word.

We pushed away from the island and pedaled into the night. The three of us silently agreed that only time you ever get off the boat is when you’ve finally reached home.

 

 

 

 

 

Demond J Blake is an African American writer who has traveled the country working odd jobs, writing and meeting various artists, musicians and nonconformists living life on the fringes of society. He lives in Colton, CA with his wife. Demond is currently seeking publication for an essay collection entitled ‘The Spiritual Matrix’, ‘Slackass’ his first novel and ‘Pay Me the Penny After’ his first collection of poetry.