Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Minuard Foundation 6: The Tour/DJ Tucker

We headed out of Norman and drove back towards the city, stopping only for Bob a soda and for me to switch places with him. I dozed (which is ALWAYS what happens when I smoke dope) for most of the way up to DJ Tucker's place, and woke up (disoriented and cottonmouthed) after the third circuit of a massive apartment complex on the city's south side. Bob was lost, but I was recovering well, so we hit a gas station and called the guy's number. Miracle of miracles, we were in the right place. I grabbed a quart of beer and soon we were knocking on another ratty apartment door.

Tucker was a skinny white kid of about 18 years, who looked like Moby with rickets. The boombox was playing some Nine Inch Nails stuff, and two other skinny kids were sitting in a corner arguing about who got to play the next CD.

"Hey, man," said DJ Tucker, "you're the Minuard dudes, right?"

"That's us, sir, fresh from our tour of points south. You interested in the Minuard?"

DJ Tucker tried to focus for a second, then waved us inside. He gestured vacantly at the floor, and I looked down to find piles of...poo...dotting the carpet like a minefield. Little piles of poo, everywhere.

The smell was oppressive, as you might guess. Bob and I sidled carefully in the door, and Tucker headed for the kitchen. "Babe, we got any beer?" he called, as I looked for a safe place to deposit myself. No response. Sound of fridge door opening, beat, rattle of cans on rack, beat, sound of fridge shutting. Sound of 18 year old ravers arguing about Prodigy vs Lords of Acid. Smell of poo. Inkling of a doubt about whether we'd wasted our entire Saturday afternoon.

DJ Tucker returned, still slumped in around his sternum like someone had caved in his chest during high school gym class, but holding two beers. Bad beers. Beers we knew all too well: The Beast. Light.

I heard movement from the next room, but his lethargy had overcome both my own determination to make something happen and the Prodigy that one of the other kids had succeeded in putting on the box. The smell, the leftover pot, and the beer all combined with his utter lack of personality or enthusiasm to suck all the color out of a room that was already drab. I began to feel a little dizzy.

A swatch of some slightly less faded color caught my eye, which I clung to despite my strange fatigue. It was blonde hair, I saw. I sat down.

The blonde hair was attached to one of the sweetest looking girls it's ever been my pleasure to lay eyes on. She was short, with sleepy blue eyes and a (dare I say it?) pouty little mouth. Her body was swathed in an ancient tshirt, washed out gray like everything else in the house, and a pair of boxes that offered hints of soft curves below.

One guy argued for a little bit, then noticed his partner wasn't paying any attention and turned around. She looked at me, and pursed her lips before gently parting them. I was entranced by the way I could see the suggestions of breasts beneath the tshirt--small holes offered oh-so-tiny glimpses of her skin, retreating from light to shadow, and back again as she moved through the room and into the kitchen.

The boxers were silk, red and black paisley. It was the most perfect ass I'd ever seen, half hidden by the hem of her sleep shirt.

Sound of fridge door opening. Beat. Another beat. Sound of fridge door closing.

She turned and looked at me again, for a second. My heart faltered. I couldn't believe such soft innocence, such beauty could exist here in this feces infested, devoid-of-color apartment.

She glanced at Bob, then looked at Tucker. She said:


In a second, I understood what had happened to Tucker's chest. He'd been mauled by that voice, that horrid, horrid voice, and flinched until his chest had become concave in appearance.

A flash of blue told me Bob was downing his drink. I was still somewhat stunned by the whole disconnect between sylph and harpy, but at Tucker's implicit urging I choked mine down as well. She continued to berate him. The kids in the corner sat with their mouths open, as if they'd never seen anything like it before.

Bob drove to the nearest store, and we got two quarts of Budweiser and made for home. I kicked back the seat, unable to shake off the doldrums of that washed out apartment, and looked up at the gray ceiling of the car above me.

"Bob, you ever read Watership Down?"

"No, but I think we watched the movie a few years back."

"Yeah. You remember when all the rabbits get to this huge warren, with fat, sleek rabbits who seem to want for nothing, but don't really have any personality or rabbit instinct? The one where they basically give up their little rabbit souls to achieve what appears to be heaven? Only it's not?"


"You too?"


"Will you stop and get me another beer? I can't open my eyes."

"Too bad. I'm going home and getting a shower."



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