I was completely out of money, living like it was the way to live, thinking that, believing it—eating stale chips squirted with fast food hot sauce and disposable dashes of pepper, ripped baggies, landfill waste for paradise islands. Ramen noodles eaten straight from the hot water boiler. No need for dishes here, it is ready already.
The house was trash, but I liked it there. Alex lived in squalor, thrived from it. I had been spending too much time in Portland, preparing to drop out of college for the second time. This was the second strong bout of crazy, this was during the Collapse.
Charlie was coming through town later. I talked to him and he told me he could lift me back to Bellingham. I could get to classes I would be dropping. I had one single dollar. I crumpled it and folded it, thinking that with finesse and creativity I could origami it into more money.
It didn’t work, we were out of ramen, Alex smiled his angular toothy smile at me, eyes wild, teeny fans struggling to push out the poison smoke snaking up from his soldering work. Alex was making inventions. He took toys and combined them, mutilated them into Frankenstein art forms, he made them make weird noises, light up.
Charlie was selling Worm Bins. “The solution to the world’s problems,” he said with conviction. Charlie is convicted with an intensity regarding anything he speaks of, “Don’t you roll your eyes fucker. I am serious.”
His worm bins were rectangular little shacks that housed a plethora of happy little worms who ate what you placed in their fraternity. Egg shells scraps, newspaper—whatever. There was a little valve on the side. “The shit they shit is basically liquid gold.”
“Like really hot gold?”
“Idiot. Like a godlike mixture that makes plants grow, flourish, instantaneously.”
“That is probably impossible.”
“Figure of speech. Idiot.”
I tried to avoid talking about the Worm Bins. His enthusiasm was too strong, and I was too bored by the content. I didn’t care about plants. Sure, food, maybe, but really just food that food eats.
Charlie wasn’t in Portland yet. He was bee-lining north on the I-5 in a van he described as a “death trap”, loaded with worm bins, guarded by his tiny dog.
I was still hungry, though. I walked a dozen blocks or so to a Wendy’s. Dollar menu, I had scraped some brown coins off of saturated carpet at Alex’s place, but forgot I was in Oregon and wouldn’t have to pay tax.
Outside the Wendy’s was a weathered look old black guy, propped up against the fake brick exterior, smoke drifting up lazily from the tiny stub of a rolly pinched between his galvanized fingertips.
“Hey buddy, you wouldn’t have a dollar a guy could get a sandwich with by any chance?” His southern drawl was residually still pleasant after escaping his practiced smile.
“Actually man, I Honest-To-God have only once single American dollar to my name. I am broke, waiting for a friend to give me a ride back home.”
“Home? Where is home for you?”
“Bellingham…Washington. It’s right near Canada, on the coast.” I still always vibrate with pride when I talk about my part of the world. My Pacific Northwest.
“Well sir, safe travels to you and your friend, and just make sure to treat yourselves well, ya’hear?”
I thanked him, expressing similar regards.
“Hey!!” He exclaimed right when I was nearing the door, my hand out—about to grasp metal.
“Yes?” I turned around to face him. He was rolling another cigarette—TOP brand, yellow packaging.
“You know what I get when I only have a dollar?” His smile was tainted with fool’s gold coloration, bits of dirty brown.
“What do you get?” This was said without my usual injection of sarcasm—I actually wanted to know.
“I get me a chicken sandwich from the dolla’ menu. I ask for lettuce and tomato. Mayo on both sides.”
“Mayo on both sides?” I had never thought of this variation before.
“It’s reallllll good.” He smiled at me again, took a long blink—the type that people blink before sleeping.
“Thanks man, I’ll try that.” I felt warmed by the encounter. I had years before decided to not give money to people begging, unless they were amputees or unable to work. This was one of many side effects of spending a good deal of time in South East Asia. Again, like I have said before, that is another story.
As the advertisement blasted glass door scraped open with its veritable inhalation noise of swallowing another customer, I remembered my debit card. I had six dollars in my account.
I ordered seven chicken sandwiches—mayo on both sides, with lettuce and tomato. The gourmet delicacy was prepared and delivered within an origami bag—thin, almost translucent paper—wrapped with delicate folds and intricate angles (which much be representative of the formations of the stars) and the bag discharged a faint smolder of perfection as I carried it like a torch outside.
I slumped down next to the old man. He eyed me with jaundiced colored eyes, yellowed with time, smoke, tobacco, lycanthropy—something. I gave him four of the wrapped magnificents. He gave me this look—all yellow dissipated from his eyes—clouds cleared to reveal beautiful thick nutritious soil. Deep, brown soil. I wished to plant seeds in his eyes—they would grow beautifully. I then considered the imagery of plants growing out of someone’s eyes and removed my prayer to the universe.
“These got mayo on both sides? Letts and mato?” He seemed incredulous. I had stolen his order. The customer service servers knew who it was for when I ordered. I think they liked him. They had smiled.
“Yeah man, just like you suggested, I forgot that I had a couple bucks in my bank account. Thought I should get you something. I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t told me. It seems like a fair deal, no?”
“Awww, dawg! This is godly! How perfect man?! Sit with me a second and let me tell you about my home. I from Louuussssiana. Nah-Aw-Leens? You know?”
“Yeah. I know. It got hit by a hurricane. Destroyed thousands of lives…”
“Yeah. It did. Before that though, it was like Havana. There was music on every corner. People were always smiling through der poverty. Everything, the sunlight, the reflection of a raindrop, was beautiful. Deez people knew how to enjoy life. Howjda grow up?”
“I grew up rich, at some point, and I know it sounds stupid but I wanted to feel my worth, so I made myself poor.”
“Boy. That’s fucking stupid.”
“I know it is sir. I know.” We ate, masticating loudly through a number of sandwiches, and I said, “It was wonderful talking to you, sir.”
He squinted his eye at me. A deep squint, vision between eyelashes refocusing many a time, “Boy, try to find a way to make yourself happy, but first ever’one around you. Be well.” He swooshed his hand at me, I—the mosquito—was brushed away politely. He smiled, teeth colored like I would imagine malaria would have a sports team decked out in, but beautiful and kind—I left.
Alex burned poisonous vapor coils as he integrated machines together as I waited for Charlie to show up. Dear Reader, if familiar with the movie Toy Story, Alex is the quintessential villain. To the rest of us, he is an innovative genius.
Charlie rolled through in the “Death Trap” van. I clambered in. He sought friend-talk and whatnot. I was exhausted.
The remainder of the drive was a nightmare, no one’s fault but my own. I would doze off—as Charlie rocketed north to Bellingham—but my dreams did not coincide with Global Positioning. I would blink—seeing the road ahead of us as a long streak of highway with occasional slight turns—but I kept slipping into a dream world.
Although I saw the road as they were, my closed eyes slipped into nightmare. I imagined curving roads, coming closer and closer. We didn’t turn. The roads weren’t turning. I would convulse, nearly screaming, Charlie would be upset.
“Stop that.”
“I really am sorry. I am trapped in a nightmare.” I tried to explain—no point.
Although I love doing it myself on occasion, I begged Charlie to not sip on beers on the way back. He agreed, I think. I felt bad, but the nightmares had stronger feelings. For once, Charlie was understandable. I found myself dropped off at home—the Mountain. I would be leaving soon—I hadn’t told anybody yet.
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