Standing in line with a 6-pack of Heineken®, waiting on this fucking asshole buying lotto tickets to get the fuck outta my way. Nothing to do but sit here and look at all the bullshit behind the counter. I need to hurry up, get home, and type some shit. A few forms to get caught up on. You know. Important shit. I’m a very busy man. Fuckin’ stuff they sell back there is so weird though. Like this place has—cigarettes, condoms, bandages, phone chargers, pills, lots of fucking pills. Boner pills. Shit like RHINO XL3000, MAGNUM FORCE X86, and LONG DONG JOHNSON’S SPECIAL: RIB FLAVORED JIMMY HATS.
Finally, I get to check out.
$13 as usual.
Cashier leans over.
“Seen you lookin’ at them pills. You gotta see the real special shit I got in the back.”
I don’t need boner meds.
But it was Saturday, I was bored and don’t have many friends anymore since I’m getting old. Unless you count derelict trucks and Harleys.
Fuck it.
In the back he has an old 1940s Frigidaire, one of those white enamel colored sumbitches that’ll freeze your balls off.
“Now check this out.”
He hands me a clear glass bottle with neon blue liquid, looks sorta like Gatorade but carbonated. The label is a pen drawing of a wizard on a chopper with lightning and stars.
In jagged pitchfork font like the AC/DC logo—
Dr. PsychoSexSoda™.
Neat.
“How much?”
“$5.”
“Alright.”
I walk home with my beer and the good wizard (I assume Dr. PsychoSex himself).
Sit down at my IBM Wheelwriter.
Crack open a Heineken®.
Drink it all in 30 seconds.
Never write without it.
Judge myself a little.
Then a lot.
Then as usual, the clicking begins.
As I’m working I keep looking over at this goddamn blue stuff.
Wonder if it’s any good.
I pop the cap with my ring and smell.
Hmm, blue raspberry.
Smells good, man.
I sip it.
Blue raspberry!
Fuck yeah, this shit is good.
Halfway through typing up some bullshit memoir my step-dad wanted done. He pays good money cause he likes to see it in Prestige Elite 12p.
I keep drinking.
Damn, this stuff really is good.
The font looks a little off.
Goddamnit, maybe the plastic tab that holds the roller is getting weak. The font really looks fucked now. The hell?
I hear my refrigerator kick on.
It sounds like a nuclear bomb.
Scares me.
Fuck it, I just need music and to hydrate. More beer. Shit makes me a fucking genius and not doubt a goddamnit thing. I have one more. Cool guys like Eddie Van Halen drank Heineken®. Why not have one more as I adjust the stereo. Volume: Almost illegal.
Foreplay/Long Time by Boston—Tom Scholz’s Polaroid-bred, MIT-trained, genius electrical-engineer band. That’s why I got my degree in EE. Goddamn right. I sip the doctor, crack a new Heineken®. This song kicks ass, it hits, then it reaches the quiet part. Just the Hammond organ grinding.
Then the kick drum starts…
My keys have become bullets with the rhythm of the bass. Each press is a Winchester 1200 12 gauge with 00-buck slam firing. The guitar is soaring. It’s an eagle and I am a falconer with leather gloves. Each Wheelwriter spin is a roulette wheel that can’t lose. The Hammond organ is my perfecto leather jacket, nothing can touch me as it plays. Not even the keys can. I can’t type anymore. I gotta take some time. Maybe take what I find. Dammit, maybe it is indeed outside my front door. The fan is behind it all. This bastard ceiling fan spins off of its base and turns into a Ferris wheel of neon and chrome. It’s a Kenworth W900. I’m going to be killed by a fucking K-Whopper in my goddam living room. I’m having a heart attack but I’m fully conscious. I’m having a panic attack but I’m not scared. I’m feeling so good I feel no pain. The diesel smoke is suffocating yet I breathe easy. Breathe deep. The carpet has become a brown sea of Spaghetti O’s and red leather straps. The straps are cables. They are ¼” TS mono cables. They are guitar cables.
My stereo switches to Any Colour You Like by Pink Floyd—the live version from Pulse.
The JBLs are on fire. It’s cozy. They are a fireplace and I am a fireman. No matter. My Telecaster’s neck has become a serpent and I am its master. I bend it to my will. I cast mighty X-Rays into all the teles on the block. There are Marshall stacks everywhere. My old Hammond B3 is back in its spot from years ago. The Leslie speaker is a disco ball spitting out visible notes and ground beef. It’s 1960s London, man.
“OI, WHERE’S YA FOOKIN’ TELE LOOICENSE. CAN’T HAV ANY TELE IF YOU DON’T HAV YE LOICENSE. HOW CAN YOU HAV ANY TELE WITHOUT YEE LOoOoOICENSE?!”
I’m David Gilmour. I’m Richard Wright. No, I’m fucking beautiful. I am the captain of a ship. A Constitution-class NCC-1701. The motherfuckin’ USS Enterprise babyyy…
Yeah.
When I woke up in the hospital with a sweet $42,279 bill, they informed me I had driven my truck into a pole in the lot, stumbled in, and declared I was Gimbraltar the Destroyer of Fords.
Drug test showed nothing but methamphetamine and salvia. There’s some real sick bastards out there at the gas stations.
Still, pretty good blue raspberry flavor.
Wade Harris is a Texan banging out 93-octane tales on his hot-rodded IBM Wheelwriter in the garage. His work has appeared in numerous literary magazines. More: @TheWadeHarris • substack.com/@wadeharris
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