People are wary of grown men that sleep on cots. Mines a good cot. Its sufficient and when you sleep alone, what’s the difference?
I once had a friend who had an African King Sized. the bed covered the whole room and i wondered how he got it through the front door...or the kitchen...or the bedroom door...no matter.
I wake. I have a hard time remembering my dreams.
I’ve heard that smoking weed would do that. There are lots of names for strains of marijuana. Cali Cush, Kreeper, African Tutti Frutti 5 Some are real and some are fake. They should call the strains what they really are, ambitionless-alicious, spent-the-rent-cush, dream murderer... The terror, the absolute bong rips.
I sit up on the cot in uncle Donald’s basement. I’ve put up a couple posters on the wall since I’ve moved in.
One is from Randy Moss’s rookie year. It shows him long and stringy, flying down the left sideline against the Packers. Man, i remember how they killed the Packers that year on Monday night. 1998 was a heartbreaker.
The other is a Ronald Reagan/George Bush Sr campaign lawn flier from 84’. I got it from my friends grandmother. We used to sell schwag out of the attic of her house and she gave it to me one day as I left the house red eyed. I don’t know much about Reagan, I don’t think I’d like him if I did. I know he was an actor and a politician. Evidence enough that he was a heartless robot.
“Steve!” Uncle Donald yells from upstairs.
“Your friend is on the phone.”
“What does he want?” I ask dick-headed-ly.
He says something I can’t understand so i yell for him to repeat himself. He says it again but I still can’t understand. I decide to go upstairs though I didn't plan on leaving the basement tonight.
Uncle Donald is waxing a saddle in the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m waxing a western style saddle.”
“Uh, ok. What were you saying before?”
“I was saying ‘that last time I checked I wasn't your secretary’” He said.
I’m pretty sure Uncle Donald dies his hair. His mustache too. It seems unmanly, cowardly. But sleeping on a cot and playing Galaga for hours on end seems a little ‘something’ too.
“I apologize. I know your not my secretary. I would never hire you as a secretary.”
“Oh, you’re out hiring people. Good, your poetry blog must be going really well.”
“Ha.” I say, not laugh, just say, like “Ha.” with a period afterwards.
I watch him wax the saddle for a while. I remember now that he’s into horses and shit. I know he he doesn't own his own horse. He can’t, his house is ranch styled.
I open the fridge and grab a string cheese. There’s milk and I know there is cereal. There is salami but I don’t know if there is bread. I do this at the fridge. I always open it to eat something but with that comes a decision. How much work am I willing to do?
If there was a sandwich I’d just eat it, a steak I’d fry it, some salsa - I’d dip in it (though I do prefer Tostitos cheese dip). But if a meal or a snack needs to be chopped, washed or (god forbid) thawed I might as well take a nap.
“Arent you going to answer your phone call?” Uncle Donald asks.
Shit I forgot. “Shit I forgot.” I pick up the phone. “Hello?”
“Steve, It’s Parker.” he said very officially.
“Oh hey budday. Hey I got a joke for you...What’s the difference between Jelly and Jam?”
“I don’t know” Parker said.
“I can’t jelly my dick up your ass all night.”
“Wow.” The other end was silent for a while. "What you up to today?"
"McDonald's put the four piece McNugget back on the dollar menu...I was gonna check that out." I said and got excited thinking about it.
And another long silence...
“So what’s up?” I said.
“My dad told me something incredible today. What happened was...”
And Parker bored the shit out of me with a story.