Arte del (late)Noche

Yes it’s getting to the hour of slumber, around 4am or so EST, alas the need for sleep has become an unobtrusive biological urge. “Sure” you say ,the sleep deprived often exhibit a manic edginess of mental dissapation and psychosis, and if you’re typin’ true then you cant be teetering far off the seat of the rocker, the thought of being a transcendent sleepwalker is bout as silly as as a dog that says “I love ye” Right?

Mayhaps, but I knew a dog once that smiled. He was a huge black lab of irrational disposition and for him the uninitiated came a sloggin down the stairs on a cold morn and the bastard sat there baring teeth with the exuberant ferocity of a trained killer and the half awake victim would see shining teeth and flinch quick with self preservation instincts flingin’ coffee to the ceiling and puffing faintworthy cries from their lips before collapse….but as ye guessed the pooch was honest to Jesus smilin at ’em in the typical hominid gesture of hopeful friendship and only wishing well to a friend, he had learned to smile just like you and me and sometimes uncle by marriage pillhead Mike.

Of course there are moments when lack of sleep is the pristine opportunity to take advantage of the uninitiated in the greediest of human endeavors, namely: garulous gambling. And for me this happened one rainy night I reckon about eight or nine years ago. But it wasn’t my fault..really.

An old pal of mine named Chris. Well let’s call him Chris S. now ‘fore you get to thinkin Chris Seibold let me tell you it’s not Chris Seibold cause Chris Seibold is an upstanding member of the community and the local Etruscan Friar’s lodge and would never be involved in the death-spiral of evil shenanigans antithetical to the mindset of Chris Seibold. Comprende?

Whatever, well this Chris S. had neighbors of the uber-redneck variety; a ten foot by ten foot backyard full of thirty five point four dawgs and their associated vermin along with a self installed sewage drainage trough flowing Ganges-like into the flats between houses and a crow shooting range pointed directly into Chris S.’s backyard, discharging uncounted pings of high powered air rifle pellets into newly installed Belgian White vinyl siding.

“Not pretty “you might utter silent-like to yourself and how true and unfortunate for the victim. The only resolution was confrontation ‘“ redneck style-ass whoppin’ if need be the situation was boiled over but pacifist introverts have gaps in executable knowledge tracts that define appropriate action.

Chris S. and me were drinkin heavy one night and playin the Nintendo for hours; Friday, his wife was outta town shoulda been fun and relaxin but resonant thuds caught our attention, Pellet gun tremors embedding deep into vinyl and we knew it.

So Chris throws down the controller to the Nintender and slides quick out the door the rain was slapping the concrete hard but he didnt give a whit and I tried to follow fast but before I was out the door the confrontation had begun in the sideyard with motion so animated I saw the drops in the streetlight slingin back and forth as their heads were furiously pronating heated discussion pursed lips in a strobeish perplexion.

I wanted to duck down cause it seemed certain shells would fall in forty five caliber flashes and my Colt was upstairs lodged in my packcase, silly and unprepared for the situation animate beforehand.

But Chris plodded back through the deepening mire knocking me aside crouched as I were, “it’s on boy, it’s on..” plunging past the unhinged storm door disappearing to the dark a faint glow of a barely lit wet cigarette trailing.

Shocked and drunk sullen I followed obediently as Chris made haste to the ’68 Ford LTD the headlights staggered light in the torrent of rain showing muddy concrete. Inside I asked what is the deal but there was only a slightened smile and a tossing to my lap of one bone white can of Weinstertraubers beer appearing grayish ashen in eclipsed lamplight, this is bad and i knew no more questions.

Five minutes of driving and we reached the airstrip of Powell community, built for small planes for a tiny community but laid low and flood prone and nearly sunken with brackish floodtide sparkling in headlights against the moondead ridgeline appearing deep.

The neighbors slid tight in the rusted Chevy whale near nicking the Ford Chris jumping out and amid the water saturated cries I heard the gambling proposition: First Chickenshit to jump out fore the cars hit the deep drink of the creek. Hell though this is MY car I shiverthink the submergence of the old Ford 390 cubic inch gnarled to twisted branch madness depths of Beaver Creek..

I lilt out rainthunk on my skullcap yelling NO FOOL it’s MY car but beerslothlethargyapathy admits my slamming backwards as Chris wheels quick back to the car popping Warsteinhauber beer and letting pour down his face I do the same no chance to pray salvation the end is nigh pour again the engine is revving to explode NASCAR bereft this is Johnny Cash train madness gone sane I cant open my eyes now.

No vision ahead jetlike we thrashspeed down the airstrip corroded and ancient setup for retirees in their Cessnas but not for us in negative visibility the Ford lunges ahead easily I see the Chevy behind headlamps straight then suddenly twisted disappearing “Chrisst man i mumble they’ve crashed! SLOW DoWN, SLOW DOWN” but no relief silent cigarette glow heavy smoke exhale, this ride is to the end i think i hear mumbled fetish this is the end.

Runway must terminate clocking in my mind distance is equal to to velocity times um time we’re going 140 down a eight hundred yard strip Suddenly Chris throws his whole weight to slap the steering wheel hard slide the car whips one eighty mud flying coats the windows smelling burn rubber Chris sips yet another Warstenheinermeier; cigarette glowers ember soft is all I see car slinks to preordained stop and my mind is as shiftless as Kerouac.

Gruff laughter muted by rainfall wavering ember shifts vertical as the tension dies and I hear directly: “won that bet did we, a case of Bud apiece. heh heh…”

Motionless I sit until salvaging the last Warstenhalmirer from its clingy plastic bag then kicking the door open to a waisthigh flooded lowland promising a dark cold swim home.