Lit
by Richard D. Treat
So there I was in the desert, encircled by mounds of Prickly Pear, Ocotillo, and whatnot, all sprawled out on my back like a spent whore. I was just listening to Cassidy talk — even though he'd already been in the dirt for years.
He was always chewing my ear off, talking an endless stream of nothing, why caulking was better than puttying, or how Knudson looked like a mole wearing those glasses of his, and Mrs. Murphy, she couldn't tell her ass from a bowl of rice. That always made me laugh. I don't know why.
Cassidy would go on and on. He was a voracious orator — always spinning the most delicate web of bullshit — to the point that everybody at school said he was full on pathological. But I knew he didn't mean anything by it.
In any case, that night I was just lying in the dirt, staring at the mess of constellations. The moon was only a toenail clipping. And Venus was out of site.
Cassidy was rehashing the time I shot a line of caulk across his face — neither of us remembered why — and how he unloaded on me in retaliation. We were always going over the same stories. I'd known the guy since the 2nd grade.
But, this time, he didn't get to the part about us chasing each other around the construction site, shooting caulk all over the place, and he didn't mention how the red brick ended up resembling a Jackson Pollock, or how Knudson called the cops to complain about vandals getting into the supplies when we were gone on lunch break. (That was Cassidy's idea.)
This time, he just stopped mid-story and gave me a "hey," then went silent. "You think Reagan was a good actor?" he finally asked. Out of the blue. He was just trying to get me going.
"Man, shut up," was my response.
"No seriously, would you say. . ." And he went silent again.
Cassidy put more lacquer on the rag. "Would you say he's at the level of a Mickey Rourke?" he asked. The question was inane — Reagan and that monkey, Rourke and all those cheap bad-ass flicks — which we admittedly fed on in high school.
I didn't respond.
Fumes were wafting all over the closet. Apart, we were OK — Cassidy, for one, could cut a line faster than anybody, and I was pretty fast too — but together, we'd just talk garbage and get lit. I don't know why Knudson kept us.
"Rourke. Is he at the level of a Mickey Rourke?" Cassidy prodded.
Across the river, the Mexicans screamed themselves into the New Year, firing off shots in the air, like they were shooting at God. And some coyotes started to yap.
"Well?"
"Well . . . Rourke does know the secrets of the world," I heard me say. Cassidy laughs.
And I pushed rewind. "dlrowehtfosterceseht: the secrets of the world." Cassidy laughs. I'd always liked that part.
"I'm sure he does. Hey, would you ever mess with Mickey Rourke? No way."
"Hell no. He's a ba ..."
The tape stopped.
The rest got lost in the stink. No tape, no recall. Not that it matters. We were probably both reduced monosyllabic nonsense in the end: pa ba di θa do, et cetera, like two idiot preachers trying to speak in tongues. But who knows.
Around me, a chorus of crickets buzzed. And I tried to imagine Cassidy crossing the river to scare the drunks as they hobbled home to their angry wives — knowing he'd do something like that.
I just looked up at Orion's belt, and traced a line down to that bright star in Canis Major. Then I heard Trenton. He was cursing cacti, somewhere at the bottom of the mesa, trying to make the trail without a flashlight.
"Hey, what are you doing up here by yourself?" he asked. Night air seeped out like exhaust as he breathed into his cupped hands. "Anyway, we've all been drinking at the campsite, wondering why you didn't come down before 12:00."
He handed over the bottle of Maker's and turned around. And I put the tape recorder in my pocket, then followed him back to camp, trying to note the different stars amongst the mess of constellations, trying to blot out the image of Cassidy, all curled up like a wooly cat inside the master closet.
I tried to think of them all. But all I could remember was Betelgeuse — Orion's armpit — all alone and pathetic. The other names were lost.
I could just hear Cassidy.
"Hey man," he'd say, pointing up at the red supergiant. "Take a look at Mars."
And then I'd laugh.