Me & Mr. Cigar

by Gibby Haynes

  “No.” Lytle shakes his head. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say ‘bookin’ with the spray.’ Other than that, yes, and I’ll be back in a second. Stay, Cig!”

  An alarm from the bank erupts from the other side of Locust Street.

  “Whoa, dude!”

  “No, no, no, it’s cool . . . Lytle, just pretend you’re . . . whatever . . . Just try to walk into the bank and get some gas money or whatever.”

  “Okay, man.”

  WIDE SCHMOOTH OPEN

  Lytle disappears around the corner and comes back a little too soon for a cash withdrawal. As he rounds the corner, he’s wide-eyed at the windshield. Not actually focusing on me, and from what I can tell . . . laughing his ass off.

  Approaching and laughing through the open window.

  “You won’t believe it, man . . . Where are you? Are you in the back . . . Ah ha ha, I can see your ass outline movin’ around on the seat. Anyway, they wouldn’t let me in the building. The security guard was at the door sayin’, ‘I’m sorry, sir, the bank is closed.’ Then this lady comes out the door behind him with a trash can over her . . . spooky-head . . . It was really muffled, but it sounded like she was talking or shrieking or crying about ‘Heez may-outh’ over and over. Freaky, dude. Totally . . . abstract.”

  I nod.

  “What did you do to those poor people in there?”

  “I made an omelet, man!”

  “How many eggs did you have to break?”

  “Oh, dude . . . It was definitely a three-egg omelet . . . with chili and cheese.”

  “Ah ha ha ha!”

  “But I did get forty grand.”

  Sweet.

  We can definitely afford my sister’s “party,” AND a couple of bikes with a basket for Mr. Cigar to ride around in—

  Bark!

  “That’s groovy, man, but we need to ease outta here before you get visibly naked, dude. I’ve been there, and it’s a gnarly row to hoe.”

  “Row to hoe?”

  “Yes, row to hoe.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “My family’s in the gardening business . . . You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Sure you don’t mean a hoe to row?”

  “I’m sure I don’t want a hoe to row.”

  “Enough!” I mumble. But pulling out of the lot onto Main, heading toward 81 and the “big party,” I have to stop and marvel at our accomplishments. “Wow, man . . . We did it.”

  “Yep, we totally robbed a bank.”

  “Now I guess we ought to head for the Big Apple? We only have a little over twenty-four hours and it’s a ten- to twelve-hour drive.”

  “I know . . . I also know I’m hungry.”

  “Cool, man. Let’s get a taco.”

  FLAT AS A KANSAS CORNFLAKE

  Dinner is less than awesome. I take the first truck shift while Lytle DJs and makes up bad jokes. Cigar growls at the conclusion of every awful pun, and both him and Lytle finally pass out while I continue driving. I believe the straw that broke the comedian’s back was Lytle’s oft-repeated “What kind of bird’s bottom-end helps you see better?” joke. The punch line being “gull asses,” then the inevitable “Get it? . . . Gu-lasses.” Mr. Cigar doesn’t even growl at that point . . . He just rolls over and starts snoring. Lytle soon follows.

  I’m still way amped from the Knoxville job earlier. Wide awake coming up on the Pennsylvania border. It’s midnight, and just as we’re crossing the Mason-Dixon line my phone rings . . .

  It’s Miss Carla Marks.

  Plus, I’ve only been answering the phone when it’s my sister, and Carla has called like five times, maybe six. I mean, we’ve been robbing banks and shit for the past few days, and I just haven’t had much time to talk. What with drug-running and shot-up police officers and all. Plus the romance of the highway.

  Cigar barks, and Lytle says, “What are you talking about, man?”

  “Oh, sorry, dude . . . I was just talking to myself. It’s Carla—she’s tried calling me maybe a billion times.”

  “Looks like she’s up late.”

  DIXIE CUPS

  The Mason-Dixon line is one of those things you study in a class that’s so boring you refuse to dignify its existence and permanently erase it from all forms (present and future) of internal data storage. That means it was probably a Texas history course. I would know for sure, but I intentionally forgot. It’s not that Texas history isn’t the greatest story ever told. I mean, I really love Davy Crockett bowie knives and even one-legged Mexican generals in drag, not to mention rancid shark oil, cannibals and big, big, big petrochemical . . . but by the time I was in seventh grade I had taken Texas history four or five times. I might even have taken it twice in sixth grade. It’s difficult to say . . . I know I totally erased at least one of ’em, and the rest just sort of blend in and out of each other.

  Anyway, the Mason-Dixon has some revolutionary war significance; however, in the latter part of the nineteenth century it became the dividing line between the north and the south, everything southern being the land of Dixie (Dixon—get it?). My preference is to refer to it as the “y’all line” . . . to the north of the Mason-Dixon it’s “you guys.” The farther south you go, the y’all-er it gets.

  HIGH SCHOOL REUNION

  “Carla, what’s going on?”

  “I’m glad I was able to reach you, Oscar. Sorry to call so late, but I was a bit worried, really. I noticed you haven’t been staying in my guesthouse the past couple of nights but the company truck has and was concerned as to your welfare. Especially in light of the Colonel Sanders disaster-thon who has by the way left town . . . I think. So, anyway, how are you?”

  “I’m good. I mean, we’re good. I’m with Lytle.”

  “That’s nice—say hello. How is Lytle?”

  “He’s good.”

  “What’s going on . . . Are you guys camping out or something?”

  “No, we’re not camping out. Actually, Nostril Man was on the rampage and staked out both your house and my parents’. We crashed out at Lytle’s mom’s then hit the road.”

  “That was my suspicion, Oscar. The good colonel was super aggressive after you escaped out the back . . . He was singularly focused on Mr. Cigar. I feared he had tracked you down somehow, so I’m relieved to find you’re okay . . . You’re on the road you say? Where are you?”

  “Well, it’s a long story, Carla, but we decided to go to New York for a few days and stay at Rachel’s.”

  “Oh . . . That sounds about right. How nice. Say hello to Rachel . . . Her new painting looks great in the dining room. Tell her she’s incredible.”

  “I’ll be sure to, Carla. We should get to the city in the morning . . . maybe around noon.”

  “Oh, goodness, you’re not there yet? Where are you?”

  “We’re on Highway 81, just crossed over the Mason-Dixon.”

  “Ah ha, be careful! Are you actually driving?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh . . . I’ll let you drive. Say hello to Cigar as well, and I assume you have the video net unit with you? We haven’t really talked about that since the party.”

  “Oh yeah, Carla. I’m sorry. Nostril Man scared the crap out of me, and I ran out of the trailer with it in my hands . . . It’s been in my backpack ever since.”

  “Okay, Oscar. I trust you to take care . . . It’s one of the only prototypes, of which one is loaned out to the US military, and as you might imagine, it’s fairly hush-hush now, so don’t go showing it to any North Korean spies. When are you guys coming back?”

  “Oh yeah, Carla. We’re cool . . . as long as Nostril Man isn’t a total troll when we get back to Perfectville.”

  “No, Oscar, I believe he’s gone for the time being. We’ll talk about that when you get back. Hopefully three or four days? Be careful, though . . . and have f
un at your sister’s.”

  “Cool, Carla. My sister is having a party tomorrow night, and that’s kind of the reason we’re going. We’ll probably ride bikes and crash out in Central Park tomorrow afternoon, go to the party . . . stay at Rachel’s for two or three nights then head back.”

  “Sounds lovely, Oscar. Please answer when I call . . . I’m concerned.”

  “Don’t worry, Carla . . . Our ‘crazy’ is eating at Cracker Barrel . . . We’re good.”

  “Well, do say hello to Rachel, don’t give Cigar any ice cream and call me when you settle in. Be careful, Oscar. Talk to you soon.”

  “Okay, Carla . . . Love you.”

  “Love you too, Oscar. Are you sure you guys are all right?”

  I hang up without answering and glance behind me, as Lytle is already back to sleep. Cigar is standing on the platform, staring at me, wagging away.

  Energized, I continue north on 81 passing Harpers Ferry. We change drivers in Harrisburg, head east on 78, an early morning breakfast (Waffle House), then through the Holland Tunnel . . . landing in Manhattan just shy of 10 a.m.

  With seven hours until party time and five grand more than we think we need, Lytle, me and Mr. Cigar decide to make good on my promise and head to the nearest bicycle shop.

  DENATURED ALCOHOL

  I opt for the ageless beach-cruiser style, but instead of the classic Schwinn, I get the titanium version. It weighs in at nineteen pounds, four of which are seat, and you can pop a sustained mellow wheelie effortlessly for like a block. Lytle got a perfectly restored—or new-old stock or something—orange Krate Stingray from the ’70s. Tiny front wheel, sissy bar, ape hangers, and that crazy springer front end. It also has stupid pneumatic shocks and a stick shift.

  For my head protection, I get the low-key flat black skateboard style but Lytle goes to the sporting goods place next door and gets a football helmet. They made the wrong size for some kid so Lytle gets it totally cheap. He has ’em take the face mask off. The helmet itself is metal-flake gold with a black racing stripe, and it says wildcats on both sides. A stunning stroke of brainlessness but awesomely cool . . .

  I think both bikes come in around five grand but I get a little crazy and add in the “totally British” wicker basket for Mr. Cigar. It’s really cool . . . all leather and bamboo with a brass badge on the front where you can put whatever, and for an extra twenty they had a machine that would engrave it. I went for the full monty. They wrote gangsta on it in Edwardian script and mounted the whole thing on my front handlebars.

  VOLCANIC ISLAND PARADISE

  We roll out of the store, put the bikes in the truck and park in a garage on West Fifty-Fifth Street. It costs like $75 an hour but, hey, you only go around once—plus, we’re rich, naked and invisible (when we want to be). Maybe it isn’t reality, but today at Columbus Circle, crossing Central Park South on Broadway, it feels more like real fun than not. Me on a titanium cruiser, Mr. Cigar jumping up and down in his wicker chariot, Lytle on the wayback machine, crazily shifting gears, blowing out huge vape hits, wearing a metal-flake gold football helmet. I feel like I’m still tripping . . . so high.

  Up the west side of Central Park . . . past Strawberry Fields, all the way to the Jackie O Reservoir. Make a giant loop east, coming down to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The feeling of doing/seeing something for the first time is energizing. Even though you know you’ll never do this thing again, it never really crosses your mind, so the moment seems pure. Who cares? “Doing it again” is overrated anyway. Nonetheless, the drive from the Knoxville wahoo is catching up with me/us. So we find an awesome spot on the grass and sit down next to our bikes and Mr. Cigar. We’re on a mellow hillside with a view of the museum. The grass is cool to the touch. We eat two hot dogs each (six total) and now, thankfully, take a little nap. Before we totally crash, I agree with Lytle and Mr. Cigar that it would be best to arrive fashionably late for the big party at Rachel’s. I mean, I have no way of getting ahold of her other than walking right up to her front door, so I guess we’ll be fashionable. With thirty-five grand in our pockets I’m not worried. After all, we do have Mr. Cigar. Not only that . . . it’s an awesome day. Cool enough for the sun to feel great. There’s a brilliant blue, newly washed sky where almost every occasional cloud looks like a blank-staring teddy bear and, not to mention . . . this grass feels grrreat. This is going to be nice.

  I set my alarm for 5 p.m. and pass out.

  THE STAR OF A HOLLYWOOD MOVIE

  I dream that I’m underneath a basketball goal attached above the driveway opening to a typical suburban garage. Somebody is by my side. We somehow have a clear 360-degree view of the impossibly obstructed horizon. Alone now and surrounded by a maze of two-story garage apartments, I can actually feel the approaching monsters . . . like fourth-grade math class—horrible—then suddenly over the apartment roof at the end of my endless driveway appears a giant curved-tusked flying elephant whose gaze would strike you dead . . . and behind him a trained tornado. As fear-inducing as the giant flying Medusa elephant is, the trained tornado has no rival in its ability to project fear of imminent death . . . paralyzing. Then suddenly the sky turns into cookies made with a dough containing the ashes of all things I’ve ever written on paper. I keep them in a box for nine years then feed them to people in the parking lot at an NFL football game. Somehow I become fabulously wealthy . . . I feel horrible . . . then I wake up. Nice one, Oscar. Me and Lytle play our dream-telling game.

  Lytle says, “I dreamed that I was a dog named Fulcrum, coughing up grass eaten in a field made of Shellfish known as Flake-Berry Village, where vibrating rain-soaked tourists stuttered odd commands at a chalk-white, six-foot-tall penis they called Harrison Ford. Awkwardly, my water grass vomit rolled backward into a cave that was somehow under the beach while we waited for dumb, bodiless pirates to steal our boogers and laugh at the clock made of silent diamonds. They never came, and the clock wasted all of its time licking rich girls right between their eyes. Then I woke up.”

  “That was pretty nuts.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow, dude, you pretty much smoked mine . . .

  “It was close.”

  “Especially the backward-rolling grass vomit. The absolute kiss of victory in the business of dreams.”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “Remember the first fake-dream contest ever?”

  “They’re real dreams!”

  “Okay . . . It’s just a term . . . They’re not really fake.”

  “Good.”

  “All right . . . You sucked at first, dude. I totally smoked you every time until you did that two-minutes-of-silence thing and when I interrupted—seriously . . . I remember this shit—I said, ‘Okay, I get it, you dreamed of nothing . . . awesome . . .’”

  “No . . .”

  “Remember . . . then I said, ‘So . . . of what did you dream? Then you went blank . . . and this was my favorite part because of that look . . . Dude, you totally sold me . . . It was awesome, and you said it was too intense to describe, man. Do you remember that? Still cracks me up.”

  “Totally, dude . . . like it was yesterday. I didn’t say it was too intense, though. I said ‘impossible.’ It was impossible to describe. There was/is really no way to express it. Even if it was intense, I would have been oblivious to it . . . I experienced the impossible in an almost pure form, however just possible enough to activate an attempted internal comparison . . . dig?”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, man . . . It’s been like two years of dreams. We should write a book . . . of dreams.”

  “Yep.”

  “Dreams are, like, totally real, Pepsi Man.”

  “Wow, Lytle, can I quote you on that? And did you call me Pepsi Man?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can I put it on a poster with a kitten hanging from a clothesline?”

  “Yep . . . What time
is it, dude? We slept a while.”

  CASPER THE FRIENDLY GHOST

  It is four-thirty. The phone rings . . . It’s Rachel’s number. Three rings, “Hello” . . . then the same male voice as before, with a vague from-somewhere-else accent.

  “Hello, Oscar.”

  “Hey, hey.”

  “This is Ricky, Rachel’s friend. How are you? I’m calling to make sure you’re okay . . . I hope you made it to the city, man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’re here.”

  “Great to hear, great to hear, Oscar. So . . . you are coming to our party, no? Of course you are.”

  “It’s what, four-thirty now?”

  “Be here when you get here, man . . . It’s all good. Just come in the front door. The code is pound-two-two-four-four. Come to the elevator and press R . . . We’ll be having a proper good time. That’s pound, two, two . . . four, four. It’s gonna be a blast.”

  “Yep.”

  “Here’s Rachel.”

  “Hey, buddy.”

  “Hey, Rachel.”

  “I’m so glad you made it, Oscar. Thank you so much . . . Don’t worry, these guys are basically sweeties. Ricky likes to act like a gangster, but he’s really a teddy bear. And I do feel really bad for you guys to come all the way up to New York from home . . . in a truck. Hope you don’t mind me calling you first. I really need this, sweetie . . . I would have called Mom, except I talk to her like only on holidays, but whatever, I’m glad you’re here. And you’re my bro!”

  “It’s okay, Rachel. I owe you . . . Besides that, you’re my sister. Guess we’ll see you in an hour or so. Think it’s okay if we crash at your place?”

  “Yeah, totally cool. We’ll do something groovy tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good, Rach. See you in a bit.”

  “Bye, Oscar.”