Wanna hear some Zeppelin?
This one story home with a fire blazed in the backyard, a bonfire pile of flames just flickering to thee country night from way at the end of the road, outlook, and we could smell in the tiny shivering wait coasting over wafers piled ageless and indeterminate from each anymore oh the road to knock knock on the front door after miles in the Fairlane went straight for an hour turned and went straight for one half of an hour until we could see the lighthouse by bonfired flames in the warmest hole of the precious blizzard pouring from the ether; and inside from peered the windowlight, yelled a being “who is it?” a voice behind the beige linen the curtain nylon lamp layered world inside that Carlos responded, “let us in you dumb son of a bitch if is fucking cold out here!” he half flinched, winced and I almost puked with anticipation of the gritty houselight that mingled seconds with the warmth and the transition from our scene into theirs the older crowd of 30 year olds anyway that habitated the little bubble clear globe’s home in the sprinkle, “hey mono, grab some beers, get in here and get grab some beers, Sarah, little primo,” since they hardly used Mexican or Spanish but still the intricacies of our family and the tense realm fell into the quiet penchant accents that passed in the way they all called Carlos Carloz’ but so naturally as if the ywere saying mono or hombre, miho; yet used in such affection in the way a husband might say dear to his wife it was unnoticed, just blended into the warm communication and general magnificence of salutation as the roll of the ‘z’ went extremely slight and plural from the throats of their noses it made the whole group together invincible (and if they were gathered all night here last night Carlos would be still be alive I guarantee it); yet it is the way they had no idea, no concern that I was just outstanding and fascinated by these little imperfrections that separated a strange jealousy in me to be Mexican, which only evaporated when they addressed myself in similar tones and mannerisms exactly the same, inviting undertones of extended primo’s and strong handshakes that jerked me into firm eyes congenially amorous in every sort of family way but bonded into hugs with that handshake gripped between into depths as if true nature rather than science of relation made our blood one in the same.
Without attention another chorus of mumbles became clear and these lyrics took on a deeper beauty as the song ‘ohpilotofthestormwholeavesnotrace-likethoughtsinsideadream’ filtered so discernible in that least bit of awareness as Nine, sweatered and grinned then greased Carlos too and the sharp aftershave held as he gripped a brown beer bottle from his brown hand off the fake wooden speaker box that stood to his waist, knuckled over a sniff and this telemarketing grin focused real concerned with those black Indian balls of eyes caste as far as they would go into Carlos then Sarah, and finally myself, “how is it getting out there?”—“Nine?” Carlos disgusted, “there’s a two foot level of snow for miles in every direction out there, what do you think? I mean, have you been outside in the past hour heh?” He gaffed at the house as the soft bubble rained flakes, specks and the knickknacks of America warmed them eternally with looks from details of history with famous pictures of their black obsidian eyes, the canals, solid pupils looking upon the natives “ewwwwbabeh-Ibeenblind(Ibeenblind)’ and then Jose holding throttled corners out the kitchen like he only can, stole the show by standing in the center amidst the party circle and cutting people off to get his thoughts in. A taller Mexican, boyishly cute with high puffed cheeks and a fine black goatee trimmed ever so slick, all shoulders in a collared shirt, Jose shares that same grin Nine has, Carlos gets, even the soft-natured Rudy will slice, the spics the family of mine there, the happy without eyes grin, joined to all these round obsidian eyes that can remain ever so perfect when that grin comes on like the way Carlos could wriggle in his face and not be tripping anymore.
Mental note collages in the back of my head made these moments back here -phoom! infinite in life that meant nothing when it mattered, “where you guys come from,” Jose demanded details, “…home TJ. Where do you think we came from?”—“Yeah, but which way did you take, Metamora? Britton? Which way did you guys come up from?” Jose got real serious, lost the grin and became intense like Carlos who’s smaller than him was about to get his ass whipped had he make one more smart-ass comment to anyone. As Carlos explained half intimidated and half respectfully, Johnny ambled over from out of the circle around Jose and his big appealing eyeballs spotted Carlos grand secretively, displayed with high brows ‘follow me kid after your done,’ then retracted his arms as the one held a bottle normally but both the feminine fairy flanges bent up like a dog perched on its hindlegs; they always tapped and nudged to exaggerate situations to see if people who had not reacted were paying him any attention and they nudged Carlos talking with TJ, “look Tone, (since his full name was Tony Joe, though Jose was the most effusive as it was the name of our grandfather, whom we had never met), I think you need to understand. It don’t matter which way you head home. Shit’s everywhere. Listen, you’re just a little too intense right now talk to me from a distance, alright.” Johnny nudged Carlos again who jabbed him back at the shoulder.
Before we even go deeper in the bubble than anyone has ever been or thought possible, here these two squared up at their feet unconsciously feeling the endless fever the snow’s endless blanket weighed upon the mutual feeling within them; we neglected and pondered the whole quandary whereas Johnny, who’s taller then Carlos and mostly everyone there was, even the women and the few white guys, all except for Nine, but Johnny, scrawny, drug thin and threat, arose, “boy, I’ll knock ya into next week Tuesday,” real country-like, hick, with a mesh hat of bold swoosh numbers—91—slanted and swoomed, –“just don’t touch me John. I aint playing. I am right here. why are you guys so insistent on being right in my face.”—“c’mon, c’mon man,” and Johnny tapped him again with a fragile backslide of his hand that tried to ease the tension and exchanged places with Carlos at the opening to the steps that lead into the lower level, a weakness magically exposed from him, Johnny; yet one reason to follow him united the radio rolled over ‘thereyoustood-that’llteachya’ sort of interrupted as Carlos leaned at the notion Johnny hinted towards and he went to Johnny invincibly, “hold on let me hear this song then we will be down”—“what? C’mon…!” Johnny tangled with 80s slams too that reflected off Carlos, “I’m not kidding, Johnny, hang on I like this song”—“alright you can stay up here but I am heading down hon. Want to come Elliot,” Sarah persuaded and I just retorted, “sounds good”—“you want to get on a threesome with the two whiteys, there? A scrawny farmboy and..well shit they both are gonna have thin peckers. That what you want?”—“oh yeah, you know I want it.” And Carlos mumbled some derogatory comment “finger cuffs eh?” about taking it up both ends at once and her ass bumped under his hip with the family members all dashed off to the fire and depleted, Rudy too so Carlos danced along behind Johnny downstairs as he rolled his eyes and Carlos sang exactly along, “we were high before the night started—kickin innnn”.
“C,mon c’mon, how much you got? All of it?”—“Sure did, but maybe I shouldna given it to you considering the way you acting tonight, Carlos”—“aw don’t be like that John,” then Jonny nudged me so I flinched some gesture to not encourage myself to have to speak as the preoccupation of uneasy pain made me look foolish and shy, turned toward his hands, “just messin with you guys. You know I’s looking out for you kids. Check this.” He set his beer bottle aside after a long wobbly spill gulped the rest into his real wide blinks, “gdaaaah” he gassed then onto the folding card table down there where the plastic blue straw and ceramic plate situated alongside the bottle he unclearly powdered entrails in the slick reflective coat, slipped one giant white wad of the corner of a bag then another and he went through about 5 pockets of them and finally goes, “there’s yours, I think,” which was minuscule yet tremendous to the eyes that would consume the coke. Johnny pushed a dead butt out of the ashtray to hit it, but when the arm fiddled to bump some one’s shoulder he held the fist shaking, the black ashed, lips lifted, twirled and went, “where did my smoke go now?” and he snorted a wrist across his nose with La Bamba blasted through the basement ceiling, “I am back upstairs now kids have fun,” gone. Carlos went down to the table with the plate thrilled by the size of the thing he left on top of the bag, “holy crap,” he went, “he never took money off us.”—“let’s blow it all up our noses,” I exalted—“just put some down on the plate and crush up three lines, you know, enough to get started,” Sarah guided herself into a seat enxt to Carlos—“yeah, but that would take forever, we should just blow it all right now. I like how you think Elliot,” and Carlos upturned that eyeless grin, leaned in at me and stole my thoughts, “why, it would be nice if we all had money to get our own bags”—“well I want some now, but I want some later too and we only have enough for one bag,” Sarah cleared the tension see we were struggling living together at the moment in the apartment, and I never seemed to have as much money as they had I guess I spent it all on food, eating like four meals a day that provided no energy or weight. Just then, someone came back down stairs; so Carlos scrambled to chuckles as he hid the little powdery corner of plastic up into his armpit. That person was Johnny who fumbled back but would not speak until he was close enough to nudge Sarah and the pressure of being stuck there swallowed me underneath the snow in that bubble; compressed thoughts to just go poop the anxious saliva swelling up in my throat listened as Johnny went, “that coke in front of you aint chors til I see some cash by the way,”—“oh don’t be ridiculous,” Carlos nudged Johnny mockingly then continued to dazzle time in his dark eyes upon the coke baggy; then from out of his armpit the concealed gem revisited our sights too. Thoughts pained more sleeplessness, the pleasure, the good numbing throat jubilation turned away and squeezed ever so bad so I wanted to leave the room just to flex out some of the panic tightened; just to loosen the knot; then the music loudened again as someone else came down, some girl who called for Johnny and he swiped the money from Sarah after she counted it, then took off to marvel in the embers I assumed.
#writedrunk_postsober @A