Me & Mr. Cigar

by Gibby Haynes

Talking to him? Can’t even describe it . . . Definitely a feeling but not an emotion, almost an involuntary reaction, instantaneous, at the speed of thought, in the most efficient manner possible. He is literally my right-hand man; he sleeps when I sleep (I think). And in terms of my needs, he simply does what needs to be done without judgment but at the same time with a certain gentle wisdom so as to add a layer of respect or at least kindness to my assorted nefarious activities.

  He can run for five minutes and stop motionless without even breathing hard. He never eats. I can almost see through his eyes, and I swear on several occasions I’ve observed him communicating with insects. He’s white with a blackish head, he weighs twenty pounds and right now he is jogging thirty feet in front of me with five thousand dollars’ worth of MDMA in his mouth. He is my dog. His name is Mr. Cigar, and this is the mellow part of our afternoon.

  I would say sketchiest—but what is sketchy is the fact that five thousand dollars’ worth of MDMA is going to turn itself into twenty thousand overnight. Even sketchier, thousands of kids and a DJ are going to kick in an extra who-knows-what, and all I had to do was make a few phone calls and figure out who to pay to get fifty Porta-Potties and a killer sound system to a ten-acre pasture on the edge of a stunning limestone sinkhole/cave complex locals call Honeycomb Falls. Tonight is easily the biggest of our Why Party events and, with maybe just a taste of guilt, it is easy money. My partners in crime and business, Mr. Cigar and Lytle Taylor (aka the clown), just sit back and watch while our staff basically does everything.

  I kind of do the planning and promotion. Our staff and other production expenses are provided for by girl genius Carla Marks and her company, IBC. It’s hard to summarize Carla with mere words—other than to say she’s like the most important person in my life now and probably the coolest person I’ve ever met. That’s the taste-of-guilt part. Three thousand tickets are presold for this one, and there’s nothing left to do but walk a hundred yards out of this ghetto apartment complex, pick up the DJ at the airport and drive out to the event to set the wheels in motion for yet another profitable evening. Basically a bunch of money for doing nothing.

  But hey . . . isn’t that what owning a business is all about? And: not bad for a couple of high school kids. Right? Guess it helps when you have a magical dog—and the accompanying respect a magical dog most certainly engenders.

  SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE A NUT

  As Wikipedia states (and I trust them on this one), “Magicicada is the genus of the thirteen- and seventeen-year periodical cicadas of eastern North America.” Curious creatures, to say the least. They live underground for a variable number of years, depending on their particular variety, as large, grub-like worms. Then, for one summer only, they emerge, transforming into an exceptionally loud flying army. The seventeen-year brood is out this summer. They are big and orange and black with red eyes and glistening membranous wings. They are noisy, they look like Darth Maul and the last time they crawled from their underground lair was the summer I was born. Seventeen years without a clue then above ground for one glorious flight-born summer. This is the summer of my seventeenth year, and I swear to the bodies buried in my backyard—there’s a cat and a gerbil back there—sometimes I feel kind-of-exactly like a cicada.

  Scientists theorize this brood has evolved into thirteen- and seventeen-year varieties because prime-numbered cycles make it more difficult for enemies to predict their arrival. It’s early in the summer. I guess it remains to be seen if the cicada strategy is one that I might find personally effective. However, the cicadas are out in record numbers, and their sound is deafening.

  WHEAT CHEEPIES

  Ahead of me, where Mr. Cigar should turn left toward the parking lot, he suddenly sprints hard right . . . then . . . complete silence. Complete silence, that is, with the exception of the unmistakable sound of a police radio.

  I stop dead in my tracks. From around the corner appears a man with a badge on a chain around his neck and a gun on a belt around his waste. Waist. Same thing. He’s totally gross in every way. Definitely not the apartment complex security guard. He’s a cop, and I’m going to have to dig a grave to explain my way out of this shit.

  In almost comical overstated Tex-ass accent: “What are you doing in this housing complex, son? You don’t belong here,” he drawls, without allowing me to answer. “You know these are state-funded apartments and you are trespassing if you don’t actually live here?” Louder and more rapidly, he pesters, “Let’s see: You’re in the projects to get some dope? You smoke that ketamine? That shit’s a trip, huh? Turn around and put your hands against the wall.”

  Giving me no chance to respond, he spins me around hard. Pushing me against the wall with one hand between my shoulder blades and the other hand in my pockets, he begins sputtering questions about sharp things and weapons. I shake my head no—and start formulating a believable response to his compromising line of questioning. Spinning me back around, he looks me hard in the eyes and repeats: “So, son, what are you doing in the Shady Oaks Housing Complex?”

  Then it comes to me. “My dog . . .” Gulp. “My dog, sir . . .”

  An uncomfortable pause.

  “You talking about that dog that went tearing out of here with something in its mouth right before I rounded this ghetto corner?”

  I barely have time to nod yes.

  “Now, what do you mean, ‘My dog, sir’?” he mocks. “What about your dog?”

  I point toward the convenience store on the other side of the parking lot and explain I had pulled in to get a bottle of water and my dog jumped out of the car window and ran into the apartments . . .

  “So I parked my car and came looking for him.”

  Smirking, he nods. “You’re in a high-drug-crime zone looking for your dog. Guess you’ve got all the answers, kid.” Suddenly, a burst of static erupts from his walkie-talkie, followed by jargon and cop numbers. He looks menacingly at me. “I’ve gotta respond to this goddamned domestic situations, son, so if I were you I’d get out of here and never come back. If I catch you in Shady Oaks again, Oscar, you’re going straight to jail . . . or worse.”

  I manage a: “Thank you. I’m sorry, I guess?”

  Walking past the officer toward my car, I’m surprised he can’t hear my heart pound.

  Shuddering, I feel dirty. He smelled like Axe body spray, and I get the feeling he thinks the duck calls he orders over the Internet come from a river in South America—as opposed to a warehouse in Fresno. I mean, Jesus, good help must be hard to get around here. I sneak a quick glance over my shoulder at his badge. Last name is Acox. I marvel at the understatement. Either he is so stupid he didn’t realize he called me by my first name without seeing my ID, or . . . or . . . ooh . . . he could be slyly letting me now he knows what I’m up to. Obviously, he knows me. But why would he do that? He really seemed cop-like in the IQ department. The former seems more likely, but still the latter swings a lot of potential weight. I just need to arrive at my car and get to the airport, then all will be good. Not to mention finding Mr. Cigar.

  Walking past the last row of apartments on the second-floor walkway, staring right at me, was none other than Larry freaking Teeter.

  ECHOES OF JOHNSON

  Funny: I thought I saw him in front of that same apartment the last time I made a pickup here. I was driving out of the parking lot and someone who looked like Larry walked out of the apartment and lit up a cigarette while staring in my direction. I had definitely seen him one other time in the nearby convenience store, thinking he was just in the neighborhood to score drugs—as one of my various business associates had told me they sell to Larry. He’s such a sad loser that I just pretended not to see him in the 7-Eleven—but this time he is thirty feet away and staring directly into my eyes.

  “Hey, Oscar . . . I haven’t talked to you in like forever.”

  Yet another awkward pause as I’m stopped dead in my tracks once
again.

  “Oh, wow. Hey, Larry. This is crazy.”

  “Yep,” he says. “Where did Mr. Cigar go? I saw him running off over that way.”

  “Oh, he’ll be here in a second. He probably ran off to take a leak. Or two.”

  Motioning toward my car, chuckling, I slowly begin to move in its direction.

  Larry’s phone rings, and without looking at it, he says, “I gotta get this—it’s probably my mom. Good to see you, Oscar.”

  “See you, Larry,” I manage. “Good luck, man.”

  Turning toward my car, I hear a slightly creepy “Good luck to you, Oscar.”

  It’s followed by the hollow sound of a state-funded apartment door closing, then of course by the obligatory Shady Oaks apartments dead bolt. Thwap.

  Man! The carefree aspect to my afternoon just flew out the window. The sketch got turned up a few notches. Law enforcement, Larry Teeter and MDMA.

  Unexpected combo. Maybe I should change my ways . . . Ha!

  APEX PREDATION

  Finally at my car, I slide into the front seat.

  Briefly giving thanks to the 250-horsepower, B230FT motor that powers my 1984 Volvo station wagon, I reverse out of my parking spot.

  Looking straight ahead, I ease the car into neutral and open up the passenger door.

  I put the car into first as Mr. Cigar with the MDMA jumps from apparently nowhere into the front seat. The passenger door closes from the forward motion. Looking through my rearview mirror I see Larry in front of his apartment again . . . talking on the phone, watching me as I pull onto the feeder road. Oh well. I hope he saw the baby on board sticker on the back window of my turbo brick.

  Why the sticker? Because it makes me look more like a mom and less like an MDMA-dealing rave promoter. Why “turbo brick”? Because that’s what car guys call cars like mine after they marry bumper sticker moms.

  I kind of feel sorry for Larry, what with the head injury and all. No one really deserves something like that, but it was fucking hilarious when he ran straight into that oak tree. I know that’s kind of mean, but Larry did kill my dog.

  Technically, he killed him . . . for a whole night, anyway. And that’s definitely mean.

  ZING . . . SPLASH

  Rush hour is rearing its ugly head, but traffic is fairly accommodating. Soon, I’m exiting to the airport. Easily on time for the scheduled arrival.

  As I look for a place to park, Mr. Cigar who apparently has decided to wait in the car lowers the passenger-side window and hangs his head out for a breath of fresh air.

  It never ceases to amaze me how he can do this, or how he can lock and unlock the doors—even direct the AC vents onto his crotch. Don’t know what I’d do without him.

  Tonight, the main attraction is a Norwegian DJ who goes by the name of Mike.

  He’s a bit of a mystery man. Plays in a variety of disguises. I think. Don’t know what his real name is, but I’m not worried about spotting him.

  Leaving Cig in the car, I walk solo into the international arrival zone and once again chuckle at the arriving-passenger-spotting technique I have developed.

  The DJ will be carrying a green card with the name mr. chang written on it. I will stand in a sea of drivers holding cards with the names of arriving passengers crudely drawn upon them, while I wait for the only passenger holding any card at all. Also, coincidentally, probably the only twentysomething Scandinavian gentleman named Mr. Chang on the flight from Oslo, Norway.

  IS THERE? A MAN? BEHIND YOUR CURTAIN?

  Like magic, appearing from the multitudes, my DJ reveals himself, a record bag on his shoulder and the green mr. chang card dutifully held above his head. Extending my hand to greet him, I notice a shock of red hair underneath his Orlando Magic trucker’s cap. Odd, I think, the only red-headed Norwegian DJ we’ve ever hired. The vast majority have blond hair and are named Sven or Anders or something.

  “Hello, Mr. Chang,” I say in a bad British accent.

  He smiles. “You must be Oscar. I’m Mike.”

  It’s kind of weird to admit, given the fact I am highly involved and actually profit from the genre, but I just don’t like house music. I mean, I like the party and I like the rhythm of the crowd and everything, but I don’t really care who’s turning the knobs, and the music all sounds kind of the same. It could be Sven; it could be Anders. But tonight it would be Mike. Who knows? He could be a descendant of Eric the Red.

  TOMMY MOMMY VOMIT

  Without any checked luggage, we head toward the parking lot, and Mike begins: “Oh may-hun, that was a long flight.”

  I have to sort of pause for a moment because the sound of his voice is definitely more North Texas than Northern European. I think the two-syllable “man” is what really tips me off. So I say, “Wow, your voice.”

  He looks at me funny.

  “I mean your voice doesn’t sound like it comes from Oslo, Norway.”

  “No, dude, I’m from Houston. Plus,” he adds, “my name IS Mike—no one from Norway is named Mike.”

  We both laugh. But to myself, I think: This guy must think I’m a dumb-ass.

  Getting to the Volvo, Mike notices Mr. Cigar, who has shifted to the back seat, and says, “Cool dog.”

  As I back out of our spot, Mike begins with a classic nudge-nudge-wink-wink-style, “So . . . dude. My set was over at midnight last night, but I didn’t get back to the hotel till four in the morning, jumped in the shower and barely made it to the airport. Fucking Oslo Airport has nothing but pickled herring and this really strong liquor that people drink out of wooden thimbles. I didn’t get one bit of legitimate sleep on the entire twelve-hour flight. Soooo . . . I don’t need to take a bath . . . but I’m starving and I’m probably going to need something”—nod-wink—“to help me stay awake.”

  I crack a wry smile and give a quick “Cig.” Mr. Cigar jumps over the front seat and drops a huge baggie of MDMA into Mike’s lap.

  “That’s what the kids call Molly, Mike. Be careful . . . It’s kind of good.”

  “WOOOW,” Mike offers, “really cool dog! . . . Uh . . . you know . . . on second thought I could probably hold off on the food for right now. Maybe we can just pull over and get a bottle of water or something.”

  “No problem,” I say, and Mr. Cigar jumps into the back seat, noses open the cooler, jumps back over the front seat and drops a Red Bull on Mike’s lap (and one in mine). “Of, if you prefer, a Rock Star product.”

  We both crack up.

  “Awesome! Red Bull is totally cool.” Looking at an eagerly wagging Mr. Cigar, Mike queries loudly: “What even is that thing?”

  “That’s Mr. Cigar.”

  We laugh again as I pull out on the freeway, and I’m thinking: Bet I’m not such a dumb-ass anymore.

  Thirty minutes into the hour-long drive, Mike is clearly enjoying himself. He is constantly changing the channels on the car radio, repeating, “Wow, cool,” or, “Cool, wow. I think I’m going to puke”

  THE ROAD SCHOLAR

  Eventually, I can’t take it anymore. Laughing so hard there are tears in my eyes, doing eighty miles an hour up the interstate with Mr. Cigar, a criminal amount of MDMA and a DJ from Houston named Mike. I’m nauseated—no lunch and I’m kind of prone to carsickness. Good thing we’re getting close to the gig.

  I tell Mike, “I’m not feeling so good. I’m glad I’m not doing any of that Molly. I might not be able to handle it.”

  “Double wow,” Mike says as we ease onto FM 66. “I assumed you saw me dump that huge blast into your Red Bull. I also put a little orange microdot in there. Just to round out the experience.”

  “Uh . . . What’s ‘orange microdot,’ Mike?”

  “Acid, dude. You know: the old Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. It’s super clean . . . I got it off a totally legit Deadhead in Copenhagen.”

  I feel panicked. “Holy shit,
man!”

  “Don’t worry, dude; it’s totally for reals. Homeboy got it from Petaluma Al in Amsterdam. You’ll thank me later . . . The colors are awesome.”

  Oh, great, I regret to myself, Petaluma Al: the Pablo Escobar of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide . . . LSD.

  “No, you don’t understand, Mike. I don’t do drugs.”

  He laughs. “That’s the same way I am, man. It’s a complete misnomer to call psychedelics ‘drugs.’ I think of ’em as a sort of a mind Band-Aid. When your reality gets scraped, you need a little first aid. I feel so-o-o good . . . Wow, cool, this is great. I’m never going to eat again. Cool. Wow.”

  I laugh too. Wow. Wow, cool. Mike is kind of funny, though. Actually, really funny. Then he lets out this laugh that sounds like Richard Widmark pushing an old lady down a flight of stairs in a funky old noir flick. I’m not sure if I say this out loud or just think it.

  “That’s what I’m famous for.” He cackles and starts up with the wow-cool-wow stuff again.

  It’s getting kind of crispy at the edges of my field of vision. Why am I laughing?

  TEXAS INSTRUMENTS

  The water sheet.

  One eight-by-eight piece of framed sheet-like material with embedded tubing removes moisture from the air and can provide enough drinking water for ten or so people on a continuing basis. The system is solar-powered, and the harvested water comes out at just above the freezing point. So not only does it provide drinking water, it provides cooling too. Kind of monumentally bitchin’. The water sheet is the hallmark product of the Itty Bitty Corporation, which has made inventor/founder Carla Marks one of the tech world’s most talked about people. No doubt its soon-to-be first trillionaire as well. The prototype had its first public demonstration about a year ago, dropping the jaws of Nobel laureates around the world. The technology behind the water sheet is astonishingly simple and in some respects like jumping over the moon: A simple concept . . . it’s just how the fuck are you going to do it?