Doolittle by the Pixies playing constantly in the background…a chorus of “Heys” and “La las”…sprinkling in and out of the din of noise of fiery traffic squalling by….lights flashing on and off…drunks yelling…noise. The air around smelled like burnt sugar, melted plastic, singed cloth…heavy and thick…sick and it barely stirred, except in gusts and then would wildly toss our long hair into our eyes. We sat on the side of the road next to Turley Park on the far east side of town. We watched the passing people for any sign of our missing friend. Doug battered and bruised stood outside the car, leaning against it, smoking, his arms folded. His black Dragon Ball Z t-shirt torn in the middle, right though the face of Goku. He watched as the perfectly clean dirty blonde SIU students walk by and stare…stare at us…Doug flicks his ash down at their feet.
Silence. They just walk right by us.
“Read a Clockwork Orange…fuckers.”
“Doug, leave those Dickholes alone. Look for Dover.”
“What the fuck do you think I’m doing?”
The sky above looks too blue to me as I struggle to write lines down in my composition book/notebook. I try to discover meter…rhythm…construction. Every word I write worse than the last. Black ink smudged up my hand, up the side up to the brown-burnt thumbnail (from trying to relight a very small roach). A small book with a big red star (“Spark of revoltion. Selections from Iskra”) on the cover keeps slipping out of my grasp and falling on the floor of the car. I put it back behind the notebook to steady my writing. I barely look up at the others. The sky waves with heat lines, making everything look like a mirage. Everything an illusion. Dark bruised black, inky, with a thick blue stain around the edges, street lights interuppting the flow of the void from one shadow to the next. Yellow streaks of fake light illuminating cracks in the concrete and brown dying sidewalk grass. Jeff is looking hard in the other direction. Dan is still reading the articles in the old “Wizard” magazine repeatedly.
“Hey Doug, go ask those kids over there by the benches if they have any weed.”
“Fuck you, man. They are probably cops.”
“Yeah, 15 year old cops…with fuckin’ skateboards.”
“Yeah, well they probably work for the cops.”
“Oh yeah, a whole fuckin’ team of 15 year old skateboard riding undercover cops…like 21 jump street…sure.”
“Well fuck it dude, I ain’t goin’. Beside, Dover has our weed.”
“We lost Dover.”
“I have our weed. Dover doesn’t have our weed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am fuckin’ sure. It is right here in my pocket, I can feel it. Dover doesn’t have it, we are good.”
“Then why did I think he had it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because he was talking about it earlier.”
“Oh yeah, he said he was going to get acid didn’t he?”
“Yeah, well…he said his cousin or something was gonna start making it, I think but I mean, if you want some acid that his cousins made…well that is up to you.”
“No thanks, hey what is that up there? Is that him?”
“Where?” Jeff’s head turns quickly around and looks hard in front. He fiddles with the keys getting ready to start the car.
“Up there, that blonde head going into that alley looking thing…right up there.”
Dan looks up from his magazine and Looks between the figures moving around the car.
“Either it’s him or someone going to give BJ for some crack…could be both, I guess.”
“No, Dover doesn’t smoke crack anymore.”
“Dover, never smoked crack, dammit. Let’s go check it out.”
“Doug, all this talk about BJ makes me remember, where is that BJ you owe me, bitch.”
“Fuck you Dan.”
“Get the fuck in the car, man…lets go.”