“Dude, that’d be funny if it wasn’t so real.”
When I get my pitcher of martinis just right, I offer Ricky one, but he declines it. “I’m watching my waistline,” he says sarcastically.
I wave the glass in front of his face. “Come on. You know you want it.”
“No, really, dude. I’m cutting back.”
“That’s okay. More for me.” I sit down and flick on the TV.
“It’s my new resolution,” says Ricky. “No more partying during the week.”
“What about the herb?”
“I’m cutting back on that too.”
I study him for a moment. “Listen to you,” I say. “The king of weed. One date, a weekend full of phone calls, a Monday lunch, and already Bethany has you remodeled.”
“That has nothing to do with it, dude. I’m just worn out with it. It’s old. I need a change.”
I hold up my glass to the light. “The perfect martini never gets old.”
“I’m serious,” Ricky says. “It’s not working for me anymore, not doing it all the time. Back when it was new, that’s when it was fabulous. Everything’s fabulous when it’s new. Like when you’re a little kid. Everything is a sparkling wonder.”
“Oh yeah.” I take a long pull on the martini. “Childhood was a fantastic country to live in.”
“No doubt,” says Ricky. “I remember going to a bank with my dad when I was like four or something. And, you know, nowadays a bank lobby is the most boring place in the world next to the post office, but back then it was magic. They had this little pool of water in there with a fountain in the middle of it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. A pool of water—indoors! I’m calling my dad over, telling him to look at this, and he’s like, ‘Yeah, it’s a fountain.’ Like it’s nothing special at all.
“But then I see that it’s not just a pool of water—it has coins in it. So I’m like, ‘Dad, look, there’s money in there!’ And he goes, ‘Yeah, people throw coins in fountains and make wishes.’ Wishes! Dude! This is getting better all the time. It’s a magic fountain. I’m in total awe. But there my dad is, writing out a deposit slip with no idea of how completely amazing the world is.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I had a moment like that with my mother and a dead cow along the side of the road.”
“So then what happens?” Ricky asks. “You get to be about eleven or twelve and everything’s old hat. They’ve drummed the miraculous out of you, but you don’t want it to be like that. You want the miraculous. You want everything to still be new. So when you take that drink or you smoke that blaze, it’s like you’re getting that back.”
“Gotta love the miraculous,” I say. “Does all this mean you want a drink after all?”
“No, dude. I’m saying that stuff gets old too. It has its own built-in obsolescence like everything else. That’s how our system works. It’s a giant con game. One thing gets old, then you have to buy the next thing that gets old, then the next thing. Our whole society’s a training ground for addicts.”
“You think so, Professor?” I love to get him rolling with his theories.
“Of course, dude. I’ll bet a million bucks someone’s already invented a perpetual motion machine, but the atomic vampires squelched it. Same thing with fabrics that never wear out.”
I’m like, “Yeah, I bet they have golf tees that never break and corndog trees too.”
“You may be joking,” Ricky says, “but you’re probably right.”
“I’ll miss it when you stop smoking weed and don’t have any more theories like this.”
He scoffs at that. “I don’t need the weed to fuel my theories, dude. It’s all right in front of your face. I mean, look at MTV.” He points to the TV. The screen’s filled with hard-bodied college girls and guys in swimsuits flailing around to some schlock song.
“They’ve even turned our own bodies into products, dude. Abs and mamms and glutes and pecs. You have to buy the next workout equipment or diet book or whatever. Or you have to go into the plastic doc and have him tuck your tummy or suck the fat out of your ass.”
I’m like, “Yeah, it’s weird, dude. Embrace it.”
But he’s all, “I’m not embracing this bullshit. Don’t you see what I’m talking about? They’re turning us into products, dude. The same atomic vampires are behind it. They send out their minions to hypnotize you with the latest pop-singer-slash-stripper, or the newest video game or cell phone or the latest blam-blam-kablooie! movie at the cineplex. And then, once they have you hypnotized, they lure you into their huge mega-electric castle.”
“A mega-electric castle? Cool.”
“No, it’s not cool. Because once they get you in there they run you through this CAT-scan-looking machine called the de-soul-inator, and when you come out on the other side, you’re nothing but a product.”
“And what’s this product called?”
“Emptiness, dude, that’s what it’s called. And for the rest of your life, they sell you over and over, right to the end when they package you one last time and plant you in the ground.”
“Wow,” I say. “Are you sure you haven’t partaken of the weed today?”
“Not a puff.” He gives his head a weary shake. “I’m telling you, dude. I need a change. I’m fed up with the atomic vampires. I don’t want to be their product. I don’t want to be the sacrament for their Holy Trinity. You know what their Holy Trinity is?”