True Story

“Two six packs, please.”

“You got ID?”

“Yeah,” the purchaser produced his Pennsylvania Identification Card, clearly stating that he was nearly 26 years old.

“Okay, what kind?” The sale continued on and after the clerk had bagged the beer and the purchaser’s credit card had been cleared, he was given the ticket to sign. The clerk was still holding his ID. He signed the slip and returned it to her.

“Wait…wait just a minute.” The clerk inspected the signed slip and the ID card, held close together. “Nope, sorry, these signatures don’t match.”

The audacity! The purchaser grabbed the slip and looked at it for himself, began explaining to the woman how many things were wrong with this situation—the fact that he had already paid, his face clearly matched that on the card, and the impossible nature of the electronic signature pad they provide you at the Department of Transportation—and finally just grabbed his ID and beer and walked out. She didn’t pursue, so he rejoined his companions, Ray and Bud, in their vehicle.

The Purchaser was well acquainted with Ray, as they were roommates, but barely knew Bud, having only been introduced to him that day. Bud was leading them to a house, a large villa of sorts, up a steep but short driveway, with a winding stone staircase going all up around it and into the mountains behind. The Purchaser parked his car and they extracted several of the beers and made their way to the door. When they reached said door, the Purchaser expected Bud to knock. He, however, did not. So the Purchaser did it himself, but there was no answer.

“I know someone’s here,” said Bud, as he proceeded halfway up the stone stairway, sat down and began to enjoy a beer. The other two joined him, both in position and activity. The Purchaser found the furniture, sitting on the cobblestone driveway where it butted up against the flower garden full of wilted buds, just next to the villa was all comprised of bean bags and chairs with no legs.

“Hippies,” he thought to himself, which was no derogatory term in his mind. Just then Bud looked over at the Purchaser’s necklace.

“Man, look at your beads,” referring to seven small beads, laced together with a hemp string French braided to form a loop around his neck.

“Uh, yeah.”

“I’ve got a ton of beads on mine,” said Bud, flittering his fingers through his many beaded necklaces as though he were demonstrating his superior caliber over the Purchaser.

“Okay.” The Purchaser was inclined to defend himself but then saw the pointlessness in it all, and was distracted anyway. He noticed that at the top of the house, in a very awkward position that would have been difficult to reach for anyone other than a giraffe or perhaps Aladdin and his magic carpet, was inscribed the words “Jives says ‘Smoke your drugs outside.'”

For some reason the surroundings instantly became familiar to the Purchaser, as though he had been here before but had forgotten all about it. No, he certainly was here before, and he remembered that “Jives” was a butler of sort. Actually he was just an old homeless guy who the inhabitants took in, cleaned up and gave him a job as butler, in exchange for no money, but simply a place to sleep and food to eat. The Purchaser couldn’t remember anything else about the people who lived in the place though.

“Fuck it, I’m going in,” said Bud, and he proceeded into the house. The other two followed. They hung around in the doorway for awhile, then proceeded to sit down in the living room, and as the beers emptied found themselves more and more relaxed.

“So who lives here anyway?” the Purchaser inquired.

“Not really sure,” he opened another beer, “there’s supposed to be a party here.”

“Holy shit!” The Purchaser stood up and made for the door, “I’m leaving.”

After some argument and attempt at persuading him to stay, finally the other two gave in and got in the car with him. Just as they were pulling out and down the nearly vertical driveway, a holy host of cars, more than could be counted with thirty fingers and all thirty toes in their presence, pulled in, overwhelming them like locusts at a Bible signing.

The next thing they knew they were at the slam damminest party in history, the Purchaser separated from his friends and with only a single beer to his name, he sat on a stone fence and was approached by a plethora of woman, all petite and blonde, wearing different color shirts as though they might all sleep together in a large box marked Crayola.

One in particular came up to him and said, “If you’re here at the end of the night, you’ll be coming with me.” She was invisible thin and her backbone must have protruded like stairs rising up to her neck, the thicks of her eyes giant black and beaming with a false sense of innocence masking whatever it is you might want to cover up with such an alluring gaze. The Purchaser hopped down off of his post, picked her up and set her on the stone wall with the accuracy and delicate nimbleness one would use if placing a glass of champagne on a toadstool and proceeded to find the solution to his empty beer.

He could find nothing to drink among the droves of drunkards and eventually decided to jump in his car and go get something for himself. He drove off, leaving the party, full of hippies and gurus and a certain amount of beautiful creatures previously unknown to man since the writing of Paradise Lost and disappeared into the heavenly night to find himself a drink.
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I, back in the real world and outside of this story, had set my alarm for 5:30 two nights ago in order to wake up and get into work extra early (and feed my renewed passion for blogging/gmail.) I forgot to change it back again last night, and was rudely awakened from one of the best moments of my sleeping existence due to this.

All those kids are still partying somewhere up in my head, and that little sliver of sleepy amazing is probably still waiting up on that stone fence. How ignorant of me to create such a time and then leave it all alone.

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