Take the Lead, Kimo Sabi

He didn't know what else to do. It seemed to be the only course of action. He was perfectly willing to do whatever he deemed necessary. His sweet-tooth was callin' the shots, though, so what HE deemed necessary was heavily influenced by the munchies.

So, this being the case, he hoisted himself from the couch and put his shirt back on. It was a cool shirt, at least he thought so. Swan Song label, man! Zeppelin, eh? Yeah, cool as fuck.

He grabbed his car keys after slipping into his worn-out flip flops. With no small degree of swagger he strolled out to the ratty 1990 Toyota Celica he called his own. The ignition fired up on the first try…the Celica may have looked like it barely survived a nuclear war, but it was reliable…damned reliable.

His destination was not far from home. Walking distance, actually. It probably would have turned out better for him had he just walked. Only two blocks to his favorite grocery store, which also doubled as a psychedelic utopian oasis when his head was in a good place.

Al & James Grocery. That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. He knew that store like it was his own grub filled mansion. Every aisle was memorized. As you walk in the store, he would have told you, you’ll see the produce section. Lettuce, broccoli, cucumbers, a vegetarian’s dream. Fruits, too. Enough fruit to make a man sick of fruits in general.

“To your left”, he would continue, “is the soda pop aisle. I love this aisle. I drink it all, perty much, except for that nasty diet shit. Pepsi, Coke, I don’t give a fuck. It’s all the same to me. Motherfucking Sprite, that’s some refreshing swill. Hell, if I’m broke I’ll substitute one of the other “doctors”, the cheap-ass store brand, for the king of soft drinks, Dr. Pepper. Dr. Thunder, Dr. Shasta, Dr, This and Dr, That. None of ‘em tasting much like the Pepper. But hey, if you’ve only got 50 cents, well, they’ll do.”

Aisles, aisles, long aisles, crowded aisles. Aisles that smelled like spices. Aisles that smelled like coffee, a delicious, familiar flavor. Aisles, chilly from the frozen food showcases to either side. Aisles, clumsily stocked by the graveyard shift, already fucked up before the day’s half over.

Miles of aisles to choose from, but on this sunny Oklahoma afternoon the man in the patchouli-stinking Led Zeppelin shirt had only one aisle on his mind.

Ice cream, baby. “This is what it’s all about”, he says, talking to an investigative reporter sent by the “In Your Corner” team of do-gooders from the channel 4 news crew. ”This is the serious fuckin’ shit! You think I couldn’t eat me 3 or 4 gallons at a time? Just watch me. I do it up every which way but loose…I’m gonna get me a belly-full of Rocky-fucking Road. Make me a hot fudge sundae. That be a good idea.”

The reporter’s camera crew had shut down and moved on, but Terry, who was also the main anchorwoman at KFOR , hung around in an attempt to introduce herself to him on a less-professional level.

“That was a beautiful soliloquy you gave about those bomb pops. Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Sylvester Stallone in profile?”

“No”, he answered, a certain gleam in his eyes, “But it has often been remarked by those who know me that I bear an uncanny resemblance to Richard Gere”.

“So what’s your name?”

“Richard Gere.”

She giggled…”I would never have placed you…you look too much like Morgan Freeman; I could never have mistaken you for Gere.”

“Okay”, he conceded. “My name…no, my REAL name…uhh…that would be…”

“Yes…surely you’ve not forgotten it?”

“Timothy. That’s it…no, really. It’s Timmy Carver. You can call me Jim, if you want to. If I can call you Terry…”

Terry replied, “Oh, I would not have it any other way”.

“Has anyone ever told you, Terry, that your beauty shames the Venus de Milo? That your elfish eyes seem stolen from the Mona Lisa? That the very scent of you makes me swoon and stagger?”

“Yes”, Terry said. “I’ve heard all of that before… A couple of guys used that Mona Lisa line on me, one right after the other…but somehow it seems like when YOU say it…well that makes all the difference in the world. Now, Mr. Ice Cream Expert, what have you to say about the Blue Bell brand ice cream sandwiches?”

He smiled. “By God, you’ve made my mind up for me. What have I to say about ‘em? I say they are the shit. I say that they are on my top-20 list of favorite ice cream confections. Yes, ma’am, I’ve got a lot to say about them, but truth be told, I got Willie Nelson on the TV at home right now, and this grocery store visit has already lasted 3 times longer than I wanted it to. I’ve probably already missed ‘Whiskey River’…and that was the only reason I was even watching. So unless you’re wanting to come home with me, where we can enjoy what’s left of Willie’s show in private. Then move your bulk and girth., I really need to get these ice cream sandwiches paid for and skee-daddle before they melt on me. I hate that..”

“Oh, but yeah…I should have known you’d go for the sandwiches. And I would have thought that, had you found me half as attractive as I find you, you would have already asked me to go with you,” her lips moist and red, pouting… “…and I’d go. Yes, indeed I would take your grubby hand and go with you. Baby., you take me away to a world I never knew…what else can I say? I wanna go with you”.

She knew those were her own thoughts. But she hadn’t realized that she had actually spoken them out loud. She caught herself, but it was too late.

She looked away, and he watched her awkwardness. “If that’s how you feel, Terry…” he said, “well consider yourself invited, but I’m warning you…my house is a wreck. Now grab another box of Blue Bell brand ice cream sandwiches and let’s get the fuck out of Dodge.”

“Take the lead, Kimo Sabbi.” …and he led her down a path of murder, sabotage, prostitution and perversion. A shadow land of jealousy, envy, pride…His strange desires held sway, and she knew there was no way back now that she was in so deep. Her years were wasted, tossed away like empty beer bottles thrown through the windows of a speeding cars. He took the lead, alright. He led her straight down his own long and winding road to hell…

…But that’s not what happened…sorry.

What DID happen was this:

They got to the car and embarked upon the short journey. They spoke to each other in the tentative tones of people falling in love. They locked eyes once or twice, and saw hope there, as strong in her as it was in him. A smattering of laughter and even though hers was an intoxicating sound, he was surprised to find that some of it was his. They went on and on and on…and they would have gone on a little further if Timmy had not realized that he was completely lost. Two measly blocks from departure to destination and he is hopelessly lost.

Terry laughed it off…in fact she found it quite endearing, much in the same way his passion for ice cream sandwiches made her WANT to love him. “Here I am,” she managed to keep this thought to herself: “prepared and willing to offer my body and soul to a man who can’t even find his way back, less than 2 miles from his own house…What the hell am I doing here?”…but she liked it.

She led him back to Al & James, His mind had cleared up a little bit. He figured his short term memory would kick back in and the way home would become clear.

It was with a great degree of sadness when, after making it to the right address, they found that Willie Nelson’s “Austin City Limits” performance had given way to an installment of Nova, in which the phenomenon of black holes was being discussed by a panel of astronauts, rocket scientists, astronomers, movie critics, Satanists and carnys.

“Oh well”, he apologized. “I was really hopin’ to munch on them Blue Bells to the rhythm of ‘Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground’ or maybe ‘Always on My Mind’…something real smooth to get you in the mood to pitch a little woo.”

“Yeah, it’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Somehow he found Terry’s usage of such course language very sexy. “But hey, I like black holes. I think black holes are fascinating. Just think…a portal to another dimension. Or the entrance to transcendence. What does it feed on? Is it an intelligent life form? Does it prefer French fries to tater tots? Does the fact that it’s a ‘black’ hole signify that it’s white on the other side? Naw, dog, K-momma can hang with the black holes!”

“Okay…I’ll grab us some sandwiches. I always eat two or three, so how about you?”

“I’ll take two.”

“Good girl…that’s a good girl. What was that name again?”

“Terry.” She replied. “But you can call me Terry.”

 She snuggled up next to him on the love seat. “Nova” was wrapping up, the consensus being that the Satanists’ theory of black holes was the most plausible one. “It,” they say.” is the work of the devil”. The movie critics also chimed in, making obligatory references to many of the classic motion pictures of yesteryear. The critics’ idea of a black hole, however, was markedly at odds with that of the rocket scientists, astronomers and the astronauts. Not only that, but furthermore, it was roundly denounced by not only the Satanists but the carnys as well (the carnys had the most bizarre black hole theory of them all).

…None of it matters, of course, because the couple we have already come to know and adore, Terry and Timmy, were too busy pitching woo to notice that the program had even ended. Their kisses tasted like chocolate and vanilla, cool as ice cream. Even their hands were sticky from it.

When it was all over they were covered in a light sprinkling of gooey sugar. Terry didn’t waste any time getting out of the bed. You’d have thought it would be the man, the insensitive schmuck, who would bolt first. But Terry had good reason for making a hasty exit. She was scheduled to anchor the morning news show in about 6 hours. She figured she’d be lucky to get 30 minutes of sleep. She hated having the make-up crew put through so much trouble so early in the morning.

“No, baby, no…” he said, rising from his seat. He hastily threw on some clothes…it looked as if he was going to be wearing that Swan Song shirt for a second day straight…”Don’t go just yet. One more hour, please? Who needs sleep?”

“I do.”

He rightfully ascertained that these two words signified the end of the discussion, period. It would be utter foolishness to describe them as anything less than authoritative. He did not try. He just lay there and admired her lithe figure putting her clothes back on, bending down to pull each garment from the pile she had made the night before. Then she walked out the door.

It was enough. He closed his eyes and ran the memory through his brain for a few minutes while they were still fresh in his head. He freed his own memory to fly away into fantasy, let go of the grip he was losing on the waking world, and he fell into sleep. The big sleep. The big fuckin’ sleep. Deep down swimming in shimmering pools of sleep.

And lo, did he dream.