“Hi, Mr. Tree. My name is Rippy, Jake Rippy.” I extended my
hand to shake. Not only did he not shake my hand, but he didn’t even
look at me. He didn’t speed up to try and lose me either. It was as if
I wasn’t there. No one that I could remember had ever acted this way
to me before, and I found it unsettling. I stopped walking. Anger shot
through me, and I spat, “Hey! What’s your problem?” as he
continued to walk and ignore me. As I stood there on the sand, I
realized that I was an asshole. He didn’t have to talk to me if he didn’t
want to, so why did I react like that?
I decided to try again, running up behind him. I said, “I’m sorry
Mr. Tree. I really have to try to switch to decaffeinated alcohol. Say,
I heard you’re a poet, and I, uh, well I’d love to hear some of your
poetry. People say its pretty good and all…maybe I could buy you a
drink and you could read me some?”
Finally, he stopped. He looked at me with his intense violet eyes
and flashed a humorless expression. Then, he spoke in a clear
baritone that seemed to come directly from within his chest cavity:
“Fuck off.”
As he walked away I called after him, adding lamely, “I’ve read
that one before.”
That got his attention and as he turned around, I saw him smile
for the first time. He glanced at me, the way someone glances at a
cockroach before they crush it with the heel of their boot, and
bellowed:
Sweeter than figs,
Stranger than fiction,
Suck on my dick,
And practice your diction.
He shot me another sardonic grin and continued on his way. I stood
in my place and clapped appreciatively. He had a poetic license to
kill. Without looking back, he raised his right hand and gave me the
finger.
A few days later it was Hugo’s birthday and we all decided to
celebrate at Dee Tok’s with an array of different visual aids. I was
sticking to a specially-brewed hallucinogenic mushroom tea and a
few joints, all washed down with a little Mekong whisky, which I was
fast becoming convinced had hallucinogenic properties all its own.
BIG AMERICAN BREAKFAST
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