17. lemon groove
Micky Hill leaned back on the one material object he cared to
possess, a second-hand Ford Galaxy 500 that he had purchased from
Jolly Jack’s Used Car Lot on Franklin, off of 50. Dependable as it
was, it also retained a stylish air of originality. The Galaxy 500
still had its original tan paint job and red vinyl seats. Other than
the cigarette lighter, everything else still worked fine. The dents
in the hood and chrome front fender had been there when he had driven
it off the lot. Now broken and rusted over, the dents provided an
element of organic character that appealed to Micky.
He had removed the back seat and installed a foam mattress.
Toiletries hung from the coat hook in a plastic Clinque cosmetic bag.
He had adorned the interior with postcard-sized works on paper and
Fotoroids he had created while living in the Galaxy, and had glued
the street map of sacramento onto the roof. Stuck in the cracks were
a large scrapbook that he used to chronologue his creative endeavors,
a music case containing an alto saxophone, beer cans and a jumbo-
sized box of tortilla chips.
Kept within reach in the glove compartment were his Fotoroid camera
and packages of teriyaki-flavored beef sticks, in case he wanted to
capture the moment or needed a little snack. For home entertainment
there was the car radio. Sparse surroundings for a year. Micky was
reduced to the max.
“Micky. Hey Micky! Look what I found.” Denver had stopped to read a
flyer stapled to the telephone pole next to the mailbox. “Hey. Look!
It’s the Art Angles.”
“What?”
“The Art Angles. You know, that Art Mayor campaign at the SoToDo last
year.” He tore the flyer off the pole. “Remember those flyers from
some chick who said she was the Art Angles. You know, the ones that
called for a revolution against the show.”
“Oh yeah. Is she still revolting?” Micky asked.
“Apparently. Maybe this is an old one, but it looks new.” He read the
title out loud walking over to where Micky was leaning.
The Art Angles pleads: “Eat the Rich!”
“Go on.” Micky took the last puff of the cigarette he had found half-
smoked in the Galaxy’s ashtray, and flicked it onto the black-tarred
street. “Read what it says and I’ll tell you if it is an old or new
one.”
Denver stepped up onto the sidewalk, raised his fist and boldly
proclaimed:
The self-proclaimed Art Angles announced today:
Stop licking the roseta clean of the ultra-rich.
When reached for comment,
the Art Angles explained in a tired and worn voice:
“The message came down last night when I was awakened
by a two meter high apparition of Martha Spitz
She was rantin’ and ravin’ about corporate crime
and must’ve been beaten up, ‘cause she didn’t look too good.
She told me that she is running for the Art Queen next election
and not to feed the elephants and donkeys anymore.
When asked how she planned to live without meat,
the Art Angles plainly stated:
“By helping others to cook for themselves.”
What’s her recipe? What’s she got cookin’?
And are you going to be invited to the table?
Send your cooking suggestions to:
Citizens for a Savory Tomorrow.
Poste Restante, Sacramento, Ca. 95814
The coals are hot, don’t wait another moment!
Heil Peace!
“Heil Peace! That’s brilliant. I’m goin’ to start saying that. It’s a
new one. I still can’t believe in this pubble of a town that we don’t
know who’s doin’ it. But we sure had fun namin’ everybody the art
this or that.”
“Yeah. It was fun spinning out on it. Let me see, I was the Art
Martyr, for obvious reasons. And Grant Hughs was the Art Grant
because he tells us about every fuckin’ grant he writes. How he
budgets everything, even pencils.”
“And don’t forget Joe Ramsy, the Art Stud, and of course the Art
Natty, who I think would be a great Art Mayor.”
“But, you know, it’s funny how a name sticks, sometimes,” Denver
folded the flyer and put it into his back pocket. He then walked
behind the Galaxy to get to the passenger’s side and stopped,
noticing that the concrete jesus statue was missing from the rear
window. “Hey Art Shit. Where’s that icon of human abuse I gave you?”
“I am not the Art Shit, I am the Art Hole,” Micky grumbled, and
unlocked the Galaxy. “Steve’s the Art Shit ‘cause of his poop clay
sculptures.”
“No he’s not. He’s the Art Fuck because of his last name. So where’s
jesus?” Denver pointed.
“Oh man. I forgot to tell you.” Micky sat down behind the wheel. “You
see. I had a problem, a space problem. So, I left it at Roger’s.”
“You gave it to the Art Pharaoh!” Denver retorted.
“Yeah. The Art Pharaoh.” Micky laughed. “That is a good name for him.
Get in the car!”
“Okay. Art Hole.” Denver entered head first into the Galaxy and
started clearing off the seat. “You know, my dad had a Galaxy. Same
color even. Did I ever show you the picture?”
“Yeah. You said you were goin’ to make me a copy. I still would like
to have it.”
“I will, when we see jesus again. So, what’s it doin’ at his house?
Why are you dealin’ with trash who’s always shooting off his mouth to
no one’s benefit, including his?” Denver shook his head. “You know, I
think we lost jesus forever.”
“Go easy on him. His wife just got beat up for buttin’ in line. He’ll
give it back. Jesus is like that. He keeps comin’ back,” he said to
reassure Denver.
“Jesus, Micky!” He pushed him on the shoulder and went back to
throwing artifacts into the back seat bedroom. “You know how he is.
Why did he need a jesus all of a sudden?”
“To pray for a miracle? I dunno know. I think it has somethin’ to do
with the film he’s makin’. He got that crazy chick Belinda Johnson,
the Art …” he looked at Denver and pointed.
Denver thought for a second and finished the sentence, “… Diva.”
“Right, the Art Diva, workin’ with him.” They slapped their hands
together in camaraderie. “It’ll sure be interestin’ to see the end
result. They asked me to play sax. I’m sure you’ll be involved
somehow, you know these intra-grid projects.”
“I dunno know. I’m kinda over Roger. I don’t think I want to go
there,” Denver snorted. “On top of being delta trash, he’s catholic
delta trash. He’ll grow fond of that little jesus statue and he’ll
want to keep it. You mark my words.”
“Okay. Art Martyr. Always complainin’ about something. You are an Art
Anal. Now stop cleanin’ and get in the car.” He inserted the key into
the ignition.
“So what was the trade?” Denver insisted, and pulled the door shut.
“I know you, Micky. Roger got jesus, so what did you get?”
Micky started the car and the revving engine made it difficult for
Denver to hear his reply.
“Say it again,” he demanded.
“I said,” Micky said raising his voice, “I needed a place to store
that neon shit we took from the Crest Theater.”
“Oh my holy shit!” Denver slapped the palm of his hand against his
forehead. “I forgot about that. And now it’s all at Roger’s!”
“Yep.” Micky tapped the wheel. “They’re all at Roger’s, neatly stored
away.”
“So it is said, so shall it be done. Thus spake pharaoh. Oh. Bad
day,” Denver whined. “Why didn’t you store it at my place, at the
commune? That stuff is precious, that neon.”
“It was a matter of linguistics.” Micky revved the motor again.
“Logistics.”
“Logistics. Yeah. I’ve got enough stuff stored at your house. The
neon and some of my other stuff were stored at Wendy’s house, and
Roger lives across the street. I was payin’ Wendy a visit and she
asked me to move my junk. Typical. What did we baptize her?”
“I think we named her the Art Goddess.”
“Yeah. That sounds right. She is the Art Goddess, paradin’ around in
her new age robes from the Outback sales catalogue. Anyway, so Ms Art
Goddess needs more space for something, another set of congas
probably. So, like Roger, who happens to be wanderin’ around outside
his shack, scratchin’ his balls, says he’ll take them in. Maybe
that’s why I forgot to tell you, ‘cause it was like done in a jiffy.
So like when I’m leavin’, Roger sees jesus lying in the back of the
Galaxy and we make the trade. I store, he worships. I got more space,
he’s got more gods.”
“Well, ain’t that something? What a drag! Goodbye jesus. Boo Hoo.”
“Get over it, Art Anal,” Micky said, and shifted the car into gear.
“So do we do the Art Boo in Stockton?”
“You know what? I don’t feel like visitin’ Vella in her valley.”
“Me neither actually. So how about checkin’ out a suburban
condominium complex in the foothills, with pool and all the amenities?”
“Okay. How ‘bout Lemon Heights? I feel like sunbathin’ and checkin’
out some babes, or dudes in your case, and readin’ their fridge.”
“C’mon Micky, that ain’t goin’ to happen. I am a sexual minority. Us
minorities don’t meet in suburban condominium complexes with communal
swimming pools. We’re particular. We only congregate in dank churches
called discos and do the love dance. This is Sacto and there’s
nothing but dumb trade with gooey romantic love on the brain. All
they want to do is get married and assimilate into the banal hetero-
world.”
“Okay then. Where do you want to go? To a gay bar and play pool?” He
paused a moment and then inched the Galaxy away from the curb.
“Nah. Let’s do Lemon Grove. Take I-80.” Denver pointed east towards
the freeway. “I don’t feel like dealing with gated communities and
neighborhood watchdogs at the pool side. You got enough gas?”
“Check bitch. I told you I filled up last night at the Little Cheaper.”
“Oh yeah. The babe, the casabas, the smell of a cat’s ass on a hot
summer night, Luv-to-Suc.”
“Libations and treats?”
“Yeah, we need Pap’s, Lucky Puffs, the Sutters Weekly. Let’s stop at
the Kwicky. I got enough money for about a third.”
“Here’s some more money.” Micky pried a few dollars out of the small
right-hand pocket of his jeans and handed them to Denver. “We’ll do
the Bum ’n Burn first and get some coffee-to-go and maybe a couple of
stickybuns.” He smiled at Denver suggestively. “And then, we’ll swing
around and hit June’s Choice instead.”
“Whatever.”
“Hey,” Micky asked, “could you do me a favor? Somewhere here …” He
gestured to the dashboard with both hands. “… is a piece of paper
with that chic’s address written on it. Look around a bit, I don’t
want to lose it.”
“Yeah. Right Micky. There are billions of pieces of paper in this
car. It’s a driving fire hazard. What does it look like?”
“It’s about the size of a postcard and’s got a drawin’ of a light
bulb on it.”
“Oh wow. I remember seeing something like that when I was moving
stuff around before. I think I put it up here.” Denver sorted through
the bits of paper that were tucked in between the windshield and
dashboard. “Hey look. Is this it? There’s just a net address.” He
turned it over. “Hey. Look Micky. Look what’s on the other side. It’s
Preacher Dan.”
“Wow. I didn’t see that. Holy poop! Another one. Why am I always
meetin’ believers of Preacher Dan’s?” He stepped on the gas. “What’s
the attraction?” Micky turned the steering wheel, maneuvered the
Galaxy east and locked coordinates onto the Bum ‘n Burn.
“ Sure lookin’ forward to a cup of java. So, I’m putting the card
back where I found it. Look.”
Micky glanced over to see where Denver had filed the card. There was
a pause in the conversation as Micky pulled the Galaxy onto the open
road.
“You know who’s got a great madonna statue?”
“Who?” Micky looked over to Denver inquisitively.
“My parents.”
“That’s good to know. Do you think they’re ready to give it up?”
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