“Howard, they’ve tapped the lines and they know where you are. Come meet me and my friend and we’ll do this the right way. I’ll help you out.”
“I don’t know, Duff. I don’t like cops. You have no idea what I’ve been through.”
“Then you’ve got to tell me, Howard-I don’t like this guessing what’s going on stuff.”
“Meet me today in Jefferson Park by the bridge when the sun goes down. I’ll tell you what I’m going through,” he said.
“Look, Howard, I’m not a cop. I-” Before I could finish, he hung up.
What the hell had I gotten myself into?
What I wanted to get myself into was bed. The Schlitz/Marquason hangover was brutal and all I wanted to do was close my eyes and sleep for a week. For once, Al seemed to agree and he jumped up on my bed, did a double 360, and lay down in the center of the bed. I tried to push him to one side, and it was like trying to move a growling sack of sand.
After a Herculean effort stopping just short of a hernia, Al flopped over on his back, immediately fell asleep with all four legs in the air, and almost instantly began to snore. His snoring was proportionate to the size of his nose, so my bedroom sounded like a Southwest Airlines hangar. An IV of Valium wouldn’t get me to sleep.
I tried once again to get Al to roll over, but there was something about him being on his back that perverted the laws of physics and made it impossible for him to right himself. I tried to get my hands underneath him to roll him when I was interrupted by a banging on the door. The banging made Al blast off the bed like a black, brown, and white space shuttle, and he headbutted me during his takeoff. Al ran to the door, barking the whole way while I grabbed my head and repeated the word “fuck” loudly.
When the pain subsided enough for me to get to the door, Al bounced up in his excitement and kicked me in the nuts, which normally I’ve trained myself to parry, but because I was still rubbing the knot that was forming on the side of my head, I didn’t see it coming. There were to be no miracle hangover cures for Duff on this blessed morning.
Peering through the curtain of my trailer door, I realized the morning was getting absurdly painful. It was Billy and he had on a brand-new Bad-Breath Karateka pajama set, this one bright red. He also had two new pimples, one on the corner of his mouth and one on the left side of his forehead that appeared to have two heads.
“Billy, it’s Sunday morning. What are you doing here at… what time is it, anyway?” I said.
“It’s 7:21 a.m., sir,” he said and then bowed.
I sort of nodded my head to bow because I didn’t want to violate any ancient karate rules.
“Billy, did I say anything about training this morning?”
“No, sir. That is why I am here.”
“Uh-”
“I’ve been practicing a new technique and I wanted to show you my progress as a surprise.”
“Great-let’s see,” I said.
“Permission to demonstrate, sir?”
“What?”
“Permission to demonstrate, sir?”
“Fine,” I said.
Billy backed up onto the little front lawn that I had and got into a formal stance and bowed. He stared at me motionlessly until I realized I hadn’t returned his bow. I bowed in his general direction and felt the blood rush to my throbbing head.
“WASABIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!”
Following his enthusiastic tribute to Japanese horseradish, Billy ran toward the Moody Blue, leaped into the air, threw a front-leg kick, and landed uncomfortably on his shoulder and head. Then he started to scream in pain.
I ran down the stairs to make sure the goofy bastard was all right. He was rolling around in the gravel of my driveway, getting his new outfit all dirty.
“Sorry, sir. Sorry I failed,” he said.
“Kid, you did fine. Don’t worry about it,” I said.
“I failed you, sir. I won’t again.”
“Kid you didn’t fail, you established the wrong way to execute the flying front kick.”
He sat up and stopped grimacing.
“Sir, your wisdom knows no bounds-it is clear you are a master.”
He jumped to his feet, bowed formally, and thanked me again. Then he started his run home.
I began to wonder if I was hallucinating.
Al interrupted my introspection. He barked and looked up at me and then down between his legs where he had captured my newest TV remote. The life expectancy of my remotes was measured in hours, and I didn’t feel like spending my hungover day watching Lifetime because for some twistedly evil reason it was the only channel I got when I had no remote.
I ran toward Al who became Barry Sanders in the open field of the Blue, darting through the living room, to the bedroom, back out, and into the kitchen. He zigzagged like a crazy hound but as he went to go through the living room a second time, he made the mistake of jumping on the sofa. I had him cornered and I went to box him in when he shifted in midair. I tried to cut back but he went right under the coffee table. I made the mistake of trying to shift my momentum in that direction and I went full force into the coffee table, shin first.
I fell to the carpet, holding my shin, and listened to Al chew his new electronic toy. I repeated the word “fuck” over and over.
I spent the day in bed, hovering over sleep-the kind of state that actually makes you feel less rested than if you had just gone on with your day and forgot about getting rested. I began to think that getting punched in the head, followed by greater than moderate consumption of Schlitz may not be the way to a holistic lifestyle. Whether that axiom was true or not, this was a lifestyle I took years to hone, and I didn’t really see the utility in trying to move away from it.
I did feel like moving toward AJ’s before my rendezvous with my new best friend, the alleged serial killer, Howard. A few Schlitzes and the intellectual stimulation of the Fearsome Foursome was just what the doctor ordered.
“It was in some medical journal,” Jerry Number One said.
“Bullshit,” Rocco said.
“Let me get this straight.” TC tried to add some sanity to the discussion. “If you light up a cigarette from the wrong end it stops the flow of blood to your wiener?”
“Exactly, and if you do that once a month, in about two years you won’t be able to get it up at all,” Jerry Number One said.
“I wonder if this qualifies for the seven-second rule,” Jerry Number Two said.
“I swear, if you start counting I’m going to whack you with this glass,” Rocco said.
“There’s some sort of chemical in the cigarette that has an anti-Viagra effect,” Jerry Number One said.
“You mean you see a color other than blue?” Jerry Number Two asked.
“I’m still thinking of tits-that’s all I can come up with,” TC said.
“What’s the name of the chemical in the cigarette, Jer?” Rocco asked.
“Let me think… it’s something like limpfadoraphyl… no that’s not it. It was woodrowdeflatus, I think… hold it, it was micoxaphlopin,” Jerry Number One said.
“My-cock’s-a-floppin’? That can’t be right,” Rocco said.
“Nothin’ right about that at all,” Jerry Number Two said.
“Tits-it’s all I get ever since Jerry Number Two put this seven-second thing in my head,” TC said.
I didn’t interrupt the brain trust and instead took my seat next to Kelley who was staring at a retrospective featuring a replay of the time Havlicek stole the ball. The Johnny Most call was probably great the first thousand times I heard it, but now it was getting on my nerves.
“I’m hoping there’s no micoxaphlopin in Coors Light,” I said.
“Hey, Duff,” Kelley said.
“I talked to Howard this morning and promised to meet him tonight. You wanna come?” I somehow thought if I just blurted it out, Kelley would take it easier. I was mistaken.
