Cosmic Banditos

by Weisbecker, A. C.

  The probability that the story conveyed in Cosmic Banditos would actually happen is probably very small; but it is not impossible. Cosmic Banditos might be an improbable story but not an improbable one (sic).21 It is a humoristic work, with psychedelic ingredients. But it is also a philosophical work about human knowledge and the perception of reality. You could call it a postmodern pulp “tzeuberg.”

  And so forth.

  I feel no shame in admitting that the “postmodern pulp ‘tzeuberg”’ bit left me in the dust.

  Just one more example of this sort of thing, but one with potentially distressing implications. In 1991 I bought 100 copies of Cosmic Banditos from its original publisher, Random House, at a much reduced price. Something like a buck a piece. This was possible because the book hadn’t yet caught on22 and Random House was desperate to dump the stacks of it that were cluttering up its warehouse.

  I’d love to be able to claim that I bought the 100 copies because I suspected that my book was on the verge of rising from the ashes of the remainder bin to become a cult phenom, and that I could then make a killing (100 books at $300 a pop—you do the math), but (again, in the spirit of nonfiction, etc.) alas, such was not the case.

  The Gulf War had just started and my plan was to send the 100 books, in separate mailings, to “Any Soldier” over there. (The U.S. government supplied an address for this sort of thing.) This was to be my way of supporting our troops23—the troops themselves, not the hypocritical, greed-driven slugs who had sent them off to war. I’d written a note on the title page of each copy, requesting that the book be passed along to a comrade when the soldier was finished reading it. I stamped my mailing address under the notes, sat back and waited to see what would happen.

  The results were spectacular.

  Over the next few months I received stacks of letters from our Gulf War troops—more than 100, all told—proof that the troops had done as I asked: The book had been widely circulated.24

  This came as a shock, but what took me even further aback was the fact that no one said anything negative about the book. I was in fact prepared for some severe hostility from folks who are in theory the very epitome of the establishment mind-set. You see, aside from being a nonsensical complete crock of shit, the tale I wrote in 1982—in order to make sense of things, of my life—is riddled with drug usage, rampant criminality, blatant and unapologetic nihilism, and all-around chaos and destruction.25

  But apart from some gentle chastisement from a few devout Christian types, the reactions were uniformly positive. Possibly a nonsensical complete crock of shit riddled with drug usage, rampant criminality, blatant and unapologetic nihilism, and all-around chaos and destruction is exactly what human beings who are waging war need, to put their situation in its proper perspective.

  One letter stood out, however, as an example of something. Around 20 pages, handwritten in a minuscule scrawl, it made the Marxist/bandito manifesto excerpted above look like an archetype of brevity, style and clear thinking.26 My initial thought was that the author was some poor, disoriented grunt who had slipped through a crack in the system and been accepted into the armed forces by unfortunate accident.

  Not so. Based on the return address at the end, the guy was an officer, a captain and a military lifer. Interpreting the implications of some of his gibberish, it became evident that he was in command of a bunch—a veritable shitload-of Patriot missiles. 27 My tale of drug-ridden random chaos and destruction had apparently struck a deep chord in the fellow’s psyche.

  From the day I received the letter until the troops came home, I watched CNN’s coverage of the conflict with some trepidation, fearing that if something untoward happened with a shitload of Patriot missiles, I would have been somehow responsible. Listen: I’m not kidding.

  Indeed, on several levels, the episode is a perfect example of something.

  One more thought about this Gulf War business and how it may be directly affecting your life, at this very moment. The thought goes back to how widely the book had been circulated among the troops. My theory is that it had been very widely circulated. How else to explain my receiving more reactions than the number of books I’d sent? And, obviously: Not everyone who read it would have taken the time to respond. In fact, given that the folks over there were somewhat busy dodging bullets and artillery fire, ducking Scud missile barrages,28, avoiding poison gas attacks, yelling at reporters to get out of the way so they could return fire—all the neat stuff that goes with waging modern war—it’s likely that only a very small percentage of people who read the book contacted me.

  What if thousands of Gulf War troops had been subjected to my nonsensical crock? And what if my nonsensical crock had, for a high percentage of those troops, put their situation in its proper perspective? In other words, had a positive effect, essentially perverse though it may have been? And then, those troops having come home, what might they have told their friends and loved ones about this book they’d received out of the blue? And what might have then happened, in terms of demand for the book?

  Do you see what I’m getting at?

  The timing would have been right. As far as I can figure, in 1991 Cosmic Banditos had not yet begun its rise to pop cultdom. People were not yet clamoring for copies. Proof of this is the fact that Random House had gleefully coughed up a bunch for a buck a throw.

  Yet, soon enough, people would be clamoring for copies.

  Paying hundreds of dollars for copies signed by the author. 29

  The direct upshot being that the powers-that-be in the publishing business would see fit to give Cosmic Banditos another shot.30

  What we have here is a convoluted, ridiculous chain of cause and effect, for the moment terminating with you reading these words.

  By the way: As you will likely soon find out, convoluted, ridiculous chains of cause and effect are what the fucking book is about.

  Speaking further of what the book is about, any or all of the following concepts may be occurring to you at this moment : creeping epiphany, arrow of time, bizarre twist of fate, enigmatic, vújà de, Motozintla, Bolivian burrito (or Bolivian bandito), clownish, postmodern pulp “tzeuberg,” you’re out of luck, kaput.

  And, need I say it? A complete crock of ...

  This book is dedicated to people who stick together31

  Traveling back in time to 1979 ...

  1

  Exiled

  I am very poor right now.

  Yesterday I had José bring me a box of Milk Bone Flavor Snacks for Small Dogs. My dog—High Pockets is his name—weighs well over a hundred pounds. I didn’t want to worry him unduly, so I had José borrow a handful of Milk Bone Flavor Snacks for Large Dogs from one of his cousins in town who has a large dog (a stroke of luck since Milk Bone Flavor Snacks of any size are difficult to get in Colombia).

  I got High Pockets into a Canine Feeding Frenzy with the Flavor Snacks for Large Dogs, then started slipping him Flavor Snacks for Small Dogs.

  If High Pockets noticed that his Flavor Snacks diminished in size, he kept it to himself, but every time I look at that goddamn Pekinese or whatever it is looking out at me from the box, I get depressed.

  High Pockets has taken our drastic change in lifestyle in relative stride. He is easily lifted from depression by a pat on the head, a kind word or even one of the above-mentioned Milk Bone Flavor Snacks for Small Dogs. He has displayed amazing resilience and compassion. He probably saw our downhill slide into financial oblivion coming and prepared himself for it. His optimistic Worldview is a constant source of comfort to me in these troubled times. I suspect that none of High Pockets’ ancestors had much in the way of doggy possessions, and this may account, at least in part, for his devil-may-care attitude about money. He also doesn’t have an affluent look to him. He is quite sizable, as I have mentioned, and has the largest tongue of any known mammal. It always hangs out (even when he’s sleeping) and his ears are out of alignment, giving him a clownish appearance. His hair is medium in length (as is min
e) and is sort of a reddish-brown with asymmetrical white patches here and there (my hair, by the way, is dark brown). All in all, High Pockets represents a wild night of crap-shooting at the Canine Gene Pool.

  Occasionally I enjoy lying on my bathroom floor listening to my primitive toilet leak. High Pockets is always there with me, his Flavor Snack breath and wet nose providing a certain perspective, a sense of serenity, that would otherwise be lacking. The sound of running water, the companionship of a Contented Canine Soul and the comforting feel of damp linoleum frequently send my mind reeling into the most delightful of reveries.

  When we are not on the bathroom floor, High Pockets and I like to stretch out on the thistle- and rock-strewn front yard and listen to my sad little radio play the one station that reaches this far into the Sierra Nevadas de Santa Marta. Sometimes I turn the radio off and we don’t listen to anything.

  The other day High Pockets and I decided to do some work on the shack, what with the rainy season only three months away and all, so I had José bring us up a hammer and some nails. We dismantled what was left of the porch and used the lumber to patch the roof. Then I went out back, set up some cans and bottles and shot them with my M-16.

  As usual, Legs showed up soon after target practice, slithered his way up the M-16 and wrapped himself around the barrel for his afternoon siesta. Legs is a small boa constrictor who lives under the shack. He likes the warmth of the barrel after a few hundred rounds have been shot through it. If I’ve been shooting the 9mm José gave me for my birthday, he’ll wrap himself around that. After about a month, Legs had it wired as to which gun I’d been shooting and would go right to it without having to sniff around with his little pink tongue like he had to do at first. Snakes are supposed to be deaf, but I guess Legs gets vibes from the air or something. Anyway, he can tell the difference between a 9mm and an M-16. I know that for a fact.

  High Pockets doesn’t care much for Legs and Legs doesn’t care much for High Pockets, but they’ve reached an understanding of sorts. High Pockets has agreed not to harass Legs and Legs has agreed not to bite High Pockets on the nose and make little tiny holes that leak blood.

  Problems occasionally arise at night. Sometimes Legs gets in late from a night of crawling around in the jungle. If he’s had a bad night, if he’s lonely or whatever, he likes to come up and sleep in the bed with me, especially if there’s a nip in the air. High Pockets sleeps with me also.

  Legs is a feisty little guy and High Pockets doesn’t like to be awakened from whatever weird dreams dogs have, so late-night confrontations occur maybe once a week. I’ve noticed that Wednesdays are popular, though I have no conception of why this should be the case. I consulted José about it, and he promised to check with some local dude who knows an Indian who knows a lot about snakes and their Worldview, but the Indian has been on some kind of crazed fast and won’t talk to José’s buddy about snakes or anything else.

  Since we have no electricity up here, the nights are a little dismal, but we have oil lamps and a small kerosene stove. Sometimes José comes up and we play cards or dominoes while High Pockets watches. On these special occasions José and I usually get very fucked up on drugs and alcohol and pass out.

  One night José brought up some of his cronies and we all had a great time—except for High Pockets, who had the runs and spent most of the night outside squatting on the lawn.

  José says that in a couple of months, when things cool down a bit, High Pockets and I will be able to go into town once in a while and shoot some pool and get drunk with him and his Bandito Buddies.

  José and I have a lot in common. We’re both in our mid-thirties (José looks a bit older) and we’re natural leaders. I am a little taller than José and José is a little heftier than me, but he definitely isn’t fat. He’s as strong as the proverbial bull and just as quick to anger. Our recent problems have cemented our already close friendship into a fraternal bond. José and I are, in short, blood brothers. Spiritual brothers. Bandito Brotbers. I trust José with my life every day, he being the only human who knows my whereabouts. He brings his Bandito Cronies up only when they’re too drunk to remember how they got here. If I never have another friend, I shall consider myself fortunate to have known José. High Pockets feels the same way, and his taste is impeccable.

  José and a couple of his cohorts went into Santa Marta last week (a long trip by donkey and Land Rover) and mugged a family of American tourists at the airport. Amongst their spoils were a camera and several books. José gave them to me, which was very nice of him. So I’ve taken up photography (he didn’t get any film, but I’m working on my composition nonetheless) and reading. José also gave me an assortment of their personal effects including unmailed postcards (he had peeled off the stamps) that were apparently written on the doomed travelers’ flight from Aruba. Having little else to do, I took a somewhat Sherlock Holmesian interest in these artifacts of José’s victims.

  According to bits and pieces of ID, they’re a family of four from Sausalito, California. A father, a mother and two teen-age daughters. One of the daughters-Tina is her name—had written her boyfriend, Tom, informing him that Aruba is nice and that she hopes they will be able to get together when she gets back. She then claimed that she loves him and added about a thousand little X’s all over the card, almost obscuring the address (also in Sausalito).

  To tell you the truth, I think Tina is full of shit. The tramp had also written to some guy in San Francisco—Gary is bis name—and dropped a few innuendos that led me to believe that old Gary is going to see some serious action when Tina returns home. She also claimed that she loves him and did her little X’s routine again. For my own amusement I counted the X’s on both cards. Tom got the nod as far as numbers was concerned, but Gary’s were neater and more symmetrically arranged. I am contemplating dropping both of these assholes a note to let them know their situation ,as far as this little slut is concerned. I spoke to José about it at some length, and he thinks I should do it—adding that if he’d known about the situation at the time of the mugging, he would’ve knifed Tina on the spot. José was so pissed off that he threatened to go back to Santa Marta in order to avenge Tom and Gary’s masculinity, but I doubt that he’ll go through with it.

  The other daughter, Ruth, wrote about twenty postcards, none of which are worth going into. As a matter of fact, Ruth’s correspondence depressed me. She wrote mostly to relatives and girlfriends, and from her choice of pictures on the fronts of the cards I suspect that Ruth is a troubled young person. José confirmed my suspicions that she is overweight and introverted. He claimed that while the rest of the family was screaming and trying to escape, Ruth just stood there looking down at the ground. José mentioned that even in the heat of the moment he felt a twinge of sympathy for this morose and chronically lethargic young girl.

  The mother’s name is Kimberly and she wrote only one card, to her doctor. She assured him that her infection had cleared up, then signed off.

  The father either didn’t write any postcards at all or else managed to mail them at the airport before José and the boys descended upon them.

  Their diverse personal effects didn’t offer much to go on except to confirm my suspicions about Tina. The underage nymphomaniac had brought her diaphragm along on the trip. I knew it was hers because it was carefully concealed in the lining of a makeup case with her initials on it. Apparently the little pig didn’t want some customs official whipping it out in front of her parents. She was obviously prepared to sexually terrorize the population of whatever country her parents turned her loose in. I will not fail to mention this fact to Tom and Gary in my forthcoming notes.

  I don’t intend to say anything about the concealed diaphragm to José, however. He has a very short fuse and, when he is agitated, his behavior is unpredictable.

  Amongst the family’s reading material was a current issue of Seventeen magazine-Tina’s, no doubt. I read it cover to cover and was completely disgusted by nearly every article. I have
n’t spent much time in the States lately (for reasons I will go into presently, I may never go back), and I had no conception of how far downhill the moral fiber of America’s young people had slid in my absence. As an exile, I feel I have a certain perspective that gives me the right to make a moral judgment on this matter. Based on Seventeen, I have come to the conclusion that America’s pubescent females have completely run amok.

  After reading the goddamn thing, however, my attitude toward Tina softened somewhat. She is obviously under incredible social pressure to subject her barely developed genitalia to copulatory or self-inflicted stimulation as often as possible.

  I made the mistake of translating one of the articles for José. He went berserk, scaring the shit out of High Pockets, who bounded out the door and disappeared into the jungle.

  The rest of the reading material obviously belonged to the father, unless Tina counts Subatomic Particle Physics and Cosmology amongst her other, mostly biological, interests. I suspect that her knowledge of nuclear physics consists of no more than idle gossip about the Big Bang Theory.