Learning to play the congas...
"Stopping to smell the roses", dwarfed by the massive hands of a craggy lumberjack from Pennsylvania, who I suddenly realized towered over me like a California Red Oak on steroids, settled any future courtship I may have entertained of - literal poetic translation and psycho-tropically induced knee-jerk reactions.
Looking up at the angry lumberjack, his enormous hands clinching the fragile bouquet my face was buried in just seconds before, fear quickly replaces the notions of holy redemption that caused my knees to jerk toward the rosy vision.
A surge of adrenaline and any traces of dopamine, the scurrying neurotransmitters could squeeze from the corners of my well worn pleasure track, reset my faculties to their last known operational configuration.(apparently sometime in 1978) As each of my chemically dulled sensory rejects come online, the faint beat of archived disco ringing in my ears, I realize only four of these "retro-configured" misfits could be accounted for.
In my infinite flash of heightened awareness, where time frolics in the valleys of quantum oblivion, I was reminded of my wager with the Jewish Wicca the night before. The Neo-Pagan in beet red Rastafarian dreadlocks, came to my door promising perpetual harmony in an utopian consciousness with his paper magazine and a two dollar donation.
The magazine he held in his hand, the "Watchtower" logo clearly protruding from the corners of a yellow post-a- note bearing a crude drawing of a Jewish Mezuzah, along with the "Vote for Ike" badge pinned to his lapel, should have alerted my suspicions. But what the hell, the "shrooms" I wasted my last four quid on were obviously duds and I was bored. Besides, no neo-liberal, zionistic, oracle of perpetual contentment, in a Shirley Temple mullet, ever murdered anyone... right?
So the lanky semitic guru, who addressed himself as Ramachandra, sat at my kitchen table and babbled on about: fulfillment, contentment, and utopian consciousness. Offering the magazine for a two dollar donation and assurance of everlasting contentment, Ramachandra in his beet red dreads, and a distinct Canadian accent, concluded his exhortation.
I gave my last four quid to Santo for an eighth of shrooms. The slippery Puerto Rican swore on his mother's life they were "killer" shrooms smuggled in by his cousin. The only killer effect of his cousin's shrooms was the pulsating headache creeping up the back of my skull. I apologized to Ramachandra, explaining I kept no cash in the apartment what with all the druggies loitering about the place. I was certain the killer headache, pounding through the top of my head, was going to cause it to explode any second.
Ramachandra, without saying a word reached slowly into his black lapel and produced a small bag of green herb and laid it on the table. In his Canadian accent, he asked for two cups of boiled water. I boiled some water in the little tea pot my mother bought me when I first moved here. I keep my stash in the tea pot when I have some, although it never stays there for long.
I sat the two cups of boiled water in front of Ramachandra just as another wave of killer pain slams into the top of my skull, and retreating to its fortitude at the base, unable to break free of its cranial prison. Ramachandra pinched two small leaves of the green herb from the bag and placed one in each cup of boiled water, the tiny green leaves with six symmetrical points curling up under the heat. The juice of the green leaves tinted the boiled water producing a slight musky hue. Ramachandra slid a cup in front of me nodding in the direction of my cup, as he picked up the other cup and sipped the musky tea.
My head pounding a Puerto Rican symphony of congas and bongos, I drank the herbal concoction, cursing on Santo's mother's life. The green tea is surprisingly sweet, and in a matter of seconds the first wave of euphoria courses through my head, taming the band of wild Puerto ricans and cloaking them under its utopian umbre. Ramachandra smiles from above his cup, as he slowly sips the magical remedy.
In less than a minute I've soared past cloud nine on direct course for destination Utopia. The Puerto Rican migraine a distant memory, surges of euphoric giddiness envelope my inner core, the walls of my dingy apartment melting into glistening crystal, and the nappy floor turning to gold. Angelic voices sing euphoric lullabies in the halls of this enchanted kingdom. Looking down on the table, I see a huge pile of Coca Negra, or "black cocaine". I bury my face in the glorious substance and fill my nostrils.
Ramachandra sits upon his high throne in white robes and golden crown, ruler and master of his utopian kingdom. I run across the golden floor and, looking up at Ramachandra from the foot of his high throne, I beg him for more of this mystic tea. Ramachandra, looking down from his magnificent throne, reminds me I have no money.
Desperate for more of his majesty's holy beverage, I offer him any of my meager possessions. Growing more glorious with every second passed, Ramachandra considers my wager for a moment and decides he will accept one of my five senses.
The fit of desperation consuming my every thought, I count each of the five senses on my fingers, making sure I don't miss one: Sight... sound... touch... taste... and of course... smell. When all are accounted for, I carefully consider the value of each one. The choice is easy - "SMELL!" I shout up to the king. Ramachandra nods in acceptance of my wager, and in one wave of his hand, my sense of smell is gone. He then points to a small room to my left, where I see a bed with satin sheets and four large pillows resembling the octangular pizza boxes from Pizzatos
Ramachandra tells me to sleep and when I awake he will take me on the long journey to the field of green herbs. I lay down on the bed surrounded by the four pillows and drift off in dreams of Ramachandra's green tea.
The sun, piecing through the shaggy curtains of my apartment, blinds my eyes as I wake. My head is pounding again, the Puerto Rican band has returned for an encore. I scan my apartment and see no sign of Ramachandra. Jumping out of my bed filled with empty pizza boxes from Pizzatos, I run through my apartment calling his name. Passing through the kitchen, I see a paper magazine with a yellow post-a-note lying on the table. I stop and pick up the magazine looking for a message from Ramachandra.
The Jewish symbol is no longer on the yellow slip covering the Watchtower's logo. Instead a message in blue ink is written:
- Bobby, I'm having your brother drop this magazine off to you hoping you'll read the article on page twelve. I worry about you Bobby and those crazy drugs your always taking. Much love, Mom -
On the table next to the magazine sets two empty cups and between the two cups lies a plastic bag. Had Ramachandra left the remainder of the powerful plant that soars beyond cloud nine and to the glorious kingdom where he rules upon his mighty throne? Picking up the bag, the congas and bongos pounding louder inside my head, I check the contents and bring it to my nose. I chuckle and shake my head, reminded of the fact I can not smell.
A sudden knock on the door startles me out of my confused haze. I answer the door and there stands my little brother Ricky grinning from ear to ear. He sees the plastic bag in my hand and shakes his head. "About time you come back to the living, you've been out for three days solid" he says. What? I think to myself... "Yeah dude, I came over on Friday night to drop off the magazine mom sent - you were drinking some tea you made from Santo's shrooms." Listening to my little brother, I try to piece together what he's saying, but it was not fitting.
"Man you were flying dude, I had a cup of coffee and you kept calling me Ramachandra" my little brother continued. "Dude you were zonin! - at one point you poured the black pepper from the shaker on the stove into a big pile on the table, and bet me you could snort it all." I shake my pounding head in disbelief. "You just about did it though, but man you won't be able to smell for a week"
"Oh and by the way, Santo says he told you those were some killer shrooms" Ricky says, as hands me the container of soup he's been holding. "Here this is from mom, she's worried about you, she says you need to stop and smell the damned roses." My little brother turns and leaves.
My head pounding harder with every passing second, I look for some aspirin but I have nothing. I look at my dingy apartment, cluttered with empty pizza boxes and beer cans, the place is a disaster area. I head to the store to get some drugs for my head. It seems I've spent a good part of my life getting drugs for my head. I think about what my mother said about the roses. Maybe it is time to slow down, I think to myself - the incessant pounding of congas, drowning out the oldies station on the radio of my 93' Toyota.
I make it to the store, grab the aspirin from the shelf and head for the checkout. In my foggy haze, still full of Puerto Ricans desperate to break out, a bouquet of beautiful red roses catch the thin slivers of eye peeking out through my perpetually drooping eyelids Certain it must be a sign of holy redemption from God himself, and forgetting my olfactory nerves are rendered useless, I dash up to the roses and shove my whole face into the glorious pedals.
...and here I stand, looking up at an angry lumberjack, whose about to offer the Puerto Rican percussionists freedom from their cranial prison. In this most awkward predicament, in my drug induced haze, I can't help but ask: What would Hunter S. Thomson do? JM
