I had been dreaming of riding a Fatboy across the ribboney blacktop stretch of desert road in Indian country again and it was good.
The cell phone rang.
I had both my hands on the Fatboy's handlebars. I hadn't remembered bringing my cell phone along with me on this trip through Monument Valley, but if I DID bring it, I would've stored it in one of the saddlebags over the rear wheel.
Somewhere in my dream, I realized it was earth calling again. If it was my roommate's ass, I was going to stick my size 10 biker's boot up its yawning mouth this time.
I pulled myself out of Monument Valley and sat up in my bunk bed again.
"Yeah?" I answered.
"I've got that info you need," my homeless attorney said, "Are you STILL asleep?"
"Yeah."
"The number is 11/25 . . ."
"AAAuurrrrrrrrrghhhhhh," I yawned, "Wait, wait, wait. Let me pull over somewhere and get a pen."
"Okay," the old man said but didn't wait,
"Eleven twenty five . . ."
"AAAuurrrrrrrrrghhhhhh," I said over the numbers and swung my legs over onto the floor of my little dorm room full of computer equipment and electric guitar band equipment.
I already had my jeans on so I walked out the room's door, through the quad and out on to the balcony, my cell phone in hand but held loosely down at my hips. I could hear numbers coming out of the phone's speaker.
I looked around at reality. A middle-aged veteran in a wheelchair was sitting outside the Vietnam Veterans room three doors down the hall from me, waiting to get his random drug test done. A Resident Assistant was carrying a DVD player out of the R.A. office two floors down. Two more floors down two middle-aged men were sitting at the conversational benches having a conspiratorial conversation.
I lifted my cell phone to my ear.
"You got that?" the old man asked.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Where are you?" the old man asked.
"I'm on the unshaven edge of madness," I answered.
"What?"
"I'm on a Jackson Pollack binge," I answered.
"Hahahaha. Unshaven edge. Jackson Pollack. You have such a way with words you know."
"Nobody's ever told me that. Wait a sec. I can still hear the 'baRUMP rump rump' of my Fatboy. Let me cut the engine off."
I walked back in to my dorm room, grabbed a pen a searched around for scratch paper and found it in the form of a raggedy-edged envelope. I took the numbered dictation from the old man and promised him that I would have this project done before his next court date.
The old man, my homeless attorney, a man who has lived homeless on the streets in a raggedy camper with two raggedy dogs for as long as I've known him, rattled on some more about how many more court-ordered community service hours he's got left, the brand new Mitsubishi Spyder convertible sports car that was given to him yesterday by his new girlfriend and about his new office in the back of an Inglewood storage facility that had been given to him to take up the practice of law in again, but I was already slipping back in to Monument Valley again.
The cell phone rang.
I had both my hands on the Fatboy's handlebars. I hadn't remembered bringing my cell phone along with me on this trip through Monument Valley, but if I DID bring it, I would've stored it in one of the saddlebags over the rear wheel.
Somewhere in my dream, I realized it was earth calling again. If it was my roommate's ass, I was going to stick my size 10 biker's boot up its yawning mouth this time.
I pulled myself out of Monument Valley and sat up in my bunk bed again.
"Yeah?" I answered.
"I've got that info you need," my homeless attorney said, "Are you STILL asleep?"
"Yeah."
"The number is 11/25 . . ."
"AAAuurrrrrrrrrghhhhhh," I yawned, "Wait, wait, wait. Let me pull over somewhere and get a pen."
"Okay," the old man said but didn't wait,
"Eleven twenty five . . ."
"AAAuurrrrrrrrrghhhhhh," I said over the numbers and swung my legs over onto the floor of my little dorm room full of computer equipment and electric guitar band equipment.
I already had my jeans on so I walked out the room's door, through the quad and out on to the balcony, my cell phone in hand but held loosely down at my hips. I could hear numbers coming out of the phone's speaker.
I looked around at reality. A middle-aged veteran in a wheelchair was sitting outside the Vietnam Veterans room three doors down the hall from me, waiting to get his random drug test done. A Resident Assistant was carrying a DVD player out of the R.A. office two floors down. Two more floors down two middle-aged men were sitting at the conversational benches having a conspiratorial conversation.
I lifted my cell phone to my ear.
"You got that?" the old man asked.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Where are you?" the old man asked.
"I'm on the unshaven edge of madness," I answered.
"What?"
"I'm on a Jackson Pollack binge," I answered.
"Hahahaha. Unshaven edge. Jackson Pollack. You have such a way with words you know."
"Nobody's ever told me that. Wait a sec. I can still hear the 'baRUMP rump rump' of my Fatboy. Let me cut the engine off."
I walked back in to my dorm room, grabbed a pen a searched around for scratch paper and found it in the form of a raggedy-edged envelope. I took the numbered dictation from the old man and promised him that I would have this project done before his next court date.
The old man, my homeless attorney, a man who has lived homeless on the streets in a raggedy camper with two raggedy dogs for as long as I've known him, rattled on some more about how many more court-ordered community service hours he's got left, the brand new Mitsubishi Spyder convertible sports car that was given to him yesterday by his new girlfriend and about his new office in the back of an Inglewood storage facility that had been given to him to take up the practice of law in again, but I was already slipping back in to Monument Valley again.
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