Coffee Nips Anonymous

My eyes scanned the vicinity. I was hoping that I would happen to find a nickel, and I would get my nip. But alas, all that I found was a few gum wrappers, a crumpled up fast-food takeout bag, a pair of Micro-Ninjas™ fighting over the crust of their Ninja pot pie, a Tony Blammo™ religious tract, a fifty dollar bill, a plastic six-pack ring (what are those things called?), bits of broken glass, and some cigarette butts.

No luck.

Something went 'ping' in my head as I realized (Homer Simpson style) that fifty dollars was considerably more than 5¢, and that I would be able to get quite a lot of nips with it. Snatching up the fifty before anyone else saw it, I rushed into a nearby Kwik Sak™. I was in luck! They had that which I sought!

I grabbed a box of nips (which should have lasted a week, if things went well) and ran to the checkout counter. I slapped my fifty down and waited for the cashier to ring up the purchase.

"I'm sorry, man," said the guy behind the counter, "but I can't take that."

"What!?"

He pointed to a sign on the register, which read, "NO BILLS OVER $20 ACCEPTED AFTER DARK".

"I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!!!!!" I shouted, banging my head on the counter, "I CAN NOT FUCKING BELIEVE THIS!!!!!!!"

I must have been a sight, because he said hastily, "But... but... The sun's not all the way down just yet. This shouldn't be a problem at all! Here's your change, sir! Please don't kill me!"

Walking out of the store, popping a coffee nip and counting my change, I was smacked in the shins with a stick. I tumbled to the ground, and I was face to face with my assailants. They were seven of the meanest prairie dogs I'd ever laid eyes on! Wasting no time at all, they grabbed the money I'd dropped and made good their escape. I hadn't the time to pursue. I flew into the parking lot to recover the coffee nips, which had spilled from the box. Kneeling on the asphalt (oh, how my shins ached!) frantically stuffing nips into the pockets of my bathrobe, I barely had twelve of them when I heard the squeal of the truck, as the driver attempted to stop it before turning me into RoadPizza™. I might have had time to avoid injury altogether, but I had to get just one more nip. Grabbing the fateful thirteenth nip, I made a leap. The extra time that I took to nab the nip, and the fact that my shins felt like they were attached to the business end of a pit bull, resulted in disaster. Just as I was lifting off, I felt something hard connect with my left temple. I kept flying, and I know now that this was a mistake, because my head was reeling. I was already well above the ground when I blacked out.

****

While I was unconscious, I think that I dreamed. Or perhaps it was a memory. I can't really be sure, but I was, once again, One With the Universe. My awareness expanded to touch all of Creation, and I knew peace.

I also knew loneliness. Not the whiney, "I don't have a girlfriend" sort of loneliness (not that I haven't been known for that from time to time), but the "there's no one to talk to around here" sort.

So I sought other souls traveling the Cosmos, and my search was not fruitless.

Most of the Travelers I found couldn't, or wouldn't, communicate with me. Some ignored me to concentrate on their search for God, and many more were too hopped up on goofballs and other recreational drugs to pay me any notice. But some were quite willing to talk.

One soul in particular, touched me like no other. A spirit of immense intellect and great love; she came to me in the shape of a beautiful woman, with pastel butterfly wings, seemingly animated in space. She enfolded me in the loving embrace of her psychic wings and made me feel safe.

She came to me often, but our time together was all-too-brief, as soon my awareness was released from the Cosmos. I shrank down upon myself, and I was once again a flesh and blood Hippie.

I'm pretty sure that this has nothing whatsoever to do with the rest of this story, but it was not the first time, nor the last, that I would have this dream, and it really made an impression on my mind.

****

When I woke up, my head felt like it was filled with Jell-O™ brand instant pudding. The damnable thing was that I couldn't determine whether it was butterscotch or pistachio flavored. I also couldn't determine where, or who, I was.

I quickly took stock of myself, and my surroundings. The sky had grown quite dark, and I was standing on a rooftop about eight stories up, wearing nothing but the aforementioned bathrobe, with a pocketful of the aforementioned coffee nips, and carrying the aforementioned towel and the aforementioned doorknob. My stomach was rumbling like distant thunder.

Absently popping a coffee nip into my mouth, I looked for a way off the roof, all the while pondering over my predicament. Perhaps I had needed to change the lock on the bathroom door and I'd needed a screwdriver, which I happened to keep up on the roof, and not having had dinner, I'd stuffed my pocket full of candy? Unlikely.

I spotted a small shed-like structure and guessed that the door led to a stairwell. I tried the door. For whatever reason I came out onto the roof, I had locked myself out. 'Damn,' I thought, pounding on the door. Eventually, a thirtyish woman cautiously opened it.

"Hello," I started, "I was wondering if you might..."

She cut me off with a blood-curdling scream. The stairwell filled instantly with people carrying baseball bats, crowbars and Ping-Pong paddles. They had menace in their eyes. "What is it, Betty?" asked a burly man, a twinge of panic in his voice.

"Jehovah's Witness!" she screamed, and the angry tenants were upon me with a fury, wildly swinging their makeshift weapons.

I ran, but there wasn't anywhere to go, except over the side. Glancing about frantically for a possible exit or shelter from this onslaught, I spied a bucket of water in a corner. As I paused to dip my towel into the liquid, I got a sharp wrap on the Gluteus Maximus from one of the Ping-Pong paddle-wielding vigilantes. Ooo! That stung! But then I had my towel at the ready. I snapped the moistened corner at one of my assailants. A tag on his knuckles relieved him of his crowbar, and the mob was temporarily cowed. But they still blocked the stairwell, and I was still trapped. I couldn't possibly fight through all of them and keep my bathrobe closed. Beginning to sense my helplessness, they advanced on me once again. Hastily back stepping, I tripped over the low wall surrounding the roof.

It occurred to me, as I began my eight-story descent, that I should have told them that I was not, in fact, a Jehovah's Witness. Ah well, live and learn.

****

A polite knock at the door interrupted the young punk-rocker known as Cat, who was arranging his favorite refrigerator magnets on his head. The refrigerator magnets were given to him by his good friend and partner at PBU last Christmas, after Cat got hit in the head the previous October by the inside of his light-blue Chevy Impala, due to a run-in with a drunken old lady in an ugly truck, smuggling stolen pumpkins. The magnets were a perfect complement to the shiny metal plate the doctors replaced that particular portion of his skull with.

Cat was still trying to decide whether to go with a formal symmetry by surrounding the plastic grapes with the plastic watermelon wedges, or scrap the whole ensemble and replace it with a single bunch of plastic bananas, when the knock came a second time.

He got up, skipped merrily across the room, and called through the door, "You're not a Jehovah's Witness, are you?" as he cautiously palmed his trusty Dukes of Hazzard™ laser pistol.

"Heaven's no!" said the voice from the other side of the door, "I'm a Libra."

"Good," said Cat, relaxing, "they've been shoving crosses up people's butts all over the city recently. So, if you're not a Jehovah's Witness, who are you?"

"Cat, it's me, Evan."

"Who?"

"Evan E. Evans. My friends call me Talisman or Mr. Bouncy or Apricot Jones or Whatsisname or Reverend John or Camouflage or Jasper."

"Did you say 'Apricot Jones'?"

"Yes. Yes, I believe I did."

Cat flung open the door, and outside on the porch was a scruffy-looking man with a scruffy red beard, scruffy orange-red hair, scruffy camouflage pants, a scruffy T-shirt with the legend 'SPAM' printed on it and a scruffy knapsack slung over one scruffy shoulder. Cat noted that his shoes, however, were impeccably neat and polished to a high military gloss (which must have taken some doing, considering that they were high-top canvas sneakers). "How are you, man!?"

"Doing quite well, now that I've escaped the armed forces," he said in a voice that was neither scruffy nor polished. They talked for hours, getting reacquainted, and finally Cat asked him what he was doing now that he was out of the army. Talisman explained that Animal had sent him to Cat to show his work and to apply for the writer/cartoonist job. He then described the events as he witnessed them back at Polar Bears Unlimited Headquarters.

"Well," commented Cat, "that sure puts a crimp on things. But I'm sure Animal will work it out. Okay, let's have a look at your portfolio."

Cat was duly impressed by the work within and offered his guest the job immediately. "You've got some really good stuff here, and a couple of things will fit right in to our next edition. That is, if you'll take the job."

"Sure thing, Bo. Now I just need to settle in, and find a decent place to stay. Or vice-versa. I've been apartment-hunting most of the day with no luck, but I've got one more place to look at nearby. I should probably get a car, too. My legs are pretty sore after all the walk—."

"Hold still," warned Cat, in a low whisper.

"What is it?"

Without responding, Cat leveled his Dukes of Hazzard™ laser pistol and let off a blast of hot light, which missed Talisman's left ear by about one quarter of an inch.

"CHEESE AND CRACKERS!" exclaimed Apricot Jones. "What was that for?!"

"This," said Cat, holding up the tiny body clad in black, still clutching his tiny sword. "Darn pesky Micro-Ninjas™! The place is crawling with them, and the Orkin Man doesn't help one bit."

Just then, the phone rang.

"Hello," began Cat as he picked up the receiver, "Brady Residence. Alice speaking."

"Greetings Cat. This is Newton," said the voice on the other end, not believing for an instant that he was speaking to any character portrayed by Ann B. Davis. "Have you heard from Animal today?"

"No, but Reverend Whatsisname told me what happened at your place this morning."

"Well, he was supposed to stop by the Emporium, to let me know how he fares. I'm probably worrying over naught, but I've the sneaking suspicion that something has gone awry."

"He's probably watching Unsolved Mysteries in his hat."

"Can't be; the hat's buried under a ton of brick and lumber."

"Hmmm. I'll let you know if we hear anything at this end."

"I'll do likewise. Oh, I have customers. I'll speak to you anon."

Cat hung up the phone and flushed the Micro-Ninja™ down the toilet.

"What's up?" asked Evan.

"Animal is missing. Newton seems worried that he is, anyway."

"Should we file a report with the police?"

Cat gave Apricot an odd look. "You've been away awhile, so I'll let that one go. Believe me, Animal would be better off missing than found by the Metro Police. They have a tendency to shoot first and issue jaywalking citations later. I'll check around, and if he hasn't shown up by tomorrow, we'll comb the city for him."

"I'll do anything I can to help."

"That's mighty non-poopie of you," said Cat. "Hey, which magnets do you like?" Cat showed off his collection of fruit-shaped refrigerator magnets.

"I'm kind of partial to kumquats myself, but I think the bananas set off the color in your cuticles very nicely."

"Grapes and strawberries it is then!"

****

Usually an eighty to ninety-foot fall is nothing for me to worry about. However, in my all-but-complete state of amnesia, I hadn't a clue as to my ability to fly. So, suffice to say, I was worried.

Approximately halfway down I resigned myself to death, so I quit worrying. I relaxed for a split second before realizing that my death would be quite painful (not to mention sloppy), so I tensed up and closed my eyes, hoping for some small miracle, like a bale of hay in the alley below, or a bunch of thick mattresses, or a stack of marshmallows, or a sudden reversal in the force of gravity; anything to save my hairy butt. Hairy butt? Who has a hairy butt? Do I have a hairy butt? I opened my robe to check. Hey, I didn't want to die not knowing how hairy my butt was!

Suddenly, my downward momentum halted. I felt no pain at all, and I didn't seem to be splattered on the pavement. I noticed, also, that I was moving kind of backwards, and that two huge talons were clutching my robe, just above my shoulders. Looking up past the feet, I noticed that they were connected to a pair of thick legs, which were in turn connected to the large feathered body of a giant condor. I decided not to struggle or attempt escape, because if I were successful, I would then face an eight to nine hundred foot fall. Not to mention the fact that I'd be naked.

In due course, the condor landed. I was placed on a ledge on a large lone mountain (which stands in East Nashville, near the Cucumberland river), amidst a pile of twigs, string, newspapers, tweed jackets, bailing wire, hay, glad bags, sad bags, twist ties, Christmas paper, aluminum foil, marshmallows, socks on sticks, TV Guides, soft fluffy teddy bears, Kool-Aide™ drink boxes, Nike Air-Jordans™, Wrestling Buddies™ and anything else one might build a condor's nest out of. And before I could say 'Calgon, take me away!' the condor had fashioned herself a mighty fine bird abode, using the aforementioned list of supplies.

It's really not so bad, you know. It doesn't hurt a person to be part of a condor's nest. Actually it was quite soft and comfy. I settled in for a good night's rest, enjoying the panoramic view of the city below.

****

It was still quite dark when I awoke again. I felt refreshed, but my stomach was complaining something fierce. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had something to eat. Of course, I couldn't remember anything that happened before the incident on the rooftop. I absently popped a coffee nip, which did nothing to stop my angry stomach from rumbling and grumbling.

I glanced about. The condor was still sleeping, obviously tuckered out after its hard labor the night before, so I could easily slip away, if I was quiet about it. The problem was getting down off the ledge. Struggling out of the nest I peered over the edge. I couldn't see very far, but I was sure there was no climbing down. Looking up, I noticed that higher up the mountain was a tree root sticking out of the cliff wall, which meant that we had to be close to the top. If I could get up there, I might be able to find a better place to climb down safely. But how? There were no handholds between me and the root, and it was much too high for me to reach.

Hey! I still had my towel and doorknob! With this revelation, I quickly tied the knob to the bath towel, and tossed the knob toward the root, while clutching the other end of the towel. It fell short by a good three feet. What now? I needed something to extend my reach. Slumping down against the nest, I felt utterly defeated. The nest! Of course! Quickly and quietly, I started pulling bits of string and bailing wire out of the nest and fashioning a makeshift rope. A short time later I had the reach I needed, and after three more tries I had the doorknob slung around the tree root. Shimmying up the rope, I found some good hand and foot holds just above the root. I climbed as quickly as I could. Which, I suppose, wasn't as quick as it could be if I wasn't also trying to keep my robe closed. I know, there was no one around to see me but the giant condor, and the condor was asleep. But that chance that she would wake and see my John-Thomas was a very real fear. 'Well,' I thought as I got to the top, 'I'm not a nude model, that's for sure.' I adjusted my robe and set off in search of food. Unfortunately I had to leave the towel and doorknob behind in order to make the climb. Hopefully I wouldn't need them again.

Making my way down the mountain wasn't exactly easy, but I managed without incident. At the bottom of the massif was a set of train tracks leading off towards town. Figuring that a train depot might have a snack bar, I followed the tracks and hoped the next depot was within walking distance.

Just for the record, I was feeling worse than ever. My shins still ached, making the walk that much more tiring. A loud roar from my stomach kept reminding me that I needed to eat, badly. And my head was still filled with Jell-O brand pudding. At least I now could tell it was not butterscotch. I wasn't sure if it was pistachio, but I could be comforted in the fact that I'd eliminated butterscotch.

Then there was the question of my identity. That really had me bugged. It had me bugged so much that I hardly noticed that I was crossing over a river on a very high bridge. And I barely noticed the train that was coming towards me from the other side. A quick glance down told me that jumping was a bad idea. It was at least a hundred foot drop, and even if I didn't break every bone in my body, I could never swim to the bank against the current. I never was a strong swimmer. Well, at least I now knew that I wasn't a water ballerina. Fortunately, that particular bridge was an old-fashioned kind with a lot of metal grid-work above the tracks. Presumably for support, but in this case it was for life preserving. With barely a second to spare, I grabbed the girder above me and hoisted myself up and out of harm's way.

Before the train was fully past me, it slowed almost to a halt. I didn't ask why; I just took my opportunity and hopped on top of one of the boxcars. It was just the break my aching shins needed. Soon I was speeding merrily towards breakfast.

As misfortune would have it, the train stopped at a lumberyard instead of a passenger depot. No snack bar in sight. I climbed down off of the boxcar. Some men were unloading the cargo, so I approached to see if I could get directions to the nearest soup kitchen. I would have offered to help, and maybe earn some money to buy a meal, but my condition wouldn't allow it. One of the burly gentlemen spotted me as I walked into the lighted area.

"Hey, yew damn hobo!" he said not so politely, "Git the Hail outta he-ah!"

"I just..." I began.

"Wanted to borry a quarter," he interrupted incorrectly. "Well I ain't got no quarter for ya, so jest piss off!" With this, he swung a long two-by-four towards my head. I ducked it just enough to make it a glancing blow. It hurt like Hell, but I was conscious and able to fight back or run away if necessary. I chose the latter option. I was in no condition to fight one man, let alone ten.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon, as I collapsed next to a neatly stacked pile of bricks. There was enough light to see that I was on the outer fringe of a brickyard. Apparently a closed brickyard, since no one was working on it at the moment. Good. The two-by-four didn't feel very nice; I was sure a brick would've felt even less nice.

My speculations were interrupted by a strange yet familiar odor. Sniffing the air, I tried to separate the new smell from that of mud and brick. It was an Italian dish of some sort, I was sure. Another sniff. Spaghetti-Os™! Spaghetti-Os™ with franks! Okay, it was a pseudo-Italian dish, but it smelled great! I followed the scent as best as I could. It led me to a campfire surrounded by five or six figures dishing out food to a larger group of folks who were as down on their luck as I was (if not more so). I wasn't really concerned with who they were. My full attention was on the large pot full of 'O' shaped pasta, tomato sauce and almost-all-beef-franks! The White Bengal Tiger with the black beret looked up at me.