Cellar had the type of raw on-board skill that when witnessed quickly transitioned from inspiring to intimidating. When he\u2019d show up for a session, the other skaters would immediately cease and desist and watch him take the stage. Cellar just had it. Skated like improvisational Heavy Metal, if there was ever such a thing\u2014fluidity and razor blades\u2014a true legend in the flesh, or so we thought.<\/p>\n
Three weeks ago, Cellar got tangled up in the rafters at The Derf. Stevenson and I were there, burning one, just watching the Cellar Show. He crumpled like a ragdoll to the floor, body all splayed out and squashed, eyes tumbling around in his head. I saw his face when he came to. You could tell something inside had gotten scrambled, like it was big news to him that he too could be broken by the force he\u2019d successfully defied for so long: gravity.<\/p>\n
Then things got worse. A Polar Vortex swept down and the snow and cold doubled-down, through which Cellar maintained a worrisome radio silence. Cabin fever set in. At work, Stevenson started telling me all kinds of crazy things, like, pretty soon he\u2019d be able to smoke a cigarette in a single pull or chew broken glass into sand. He\u2019d say, as it was, the tendons in his legs were coiled springs. That sometimes he swore he could jump clean into the sky. I told him I had to stop getting him high on the job.<\/p>\n
But it\u2019s true. All this snow really can<\/em> drive a person bonkers. What gets me is when the plows choke all the parking spaces with snow. It makes finding a spot for a larger vehicle like my Astro Van extremely frustrating, especially if your depth perception is all out of sorts from smoking marijuana. When I\u2019m red-lining, I got this Yogi breathing exercise I implement to calm the soul. Woo-Sah!<\/p>\n In fact, I was mid-Woo-Sah, when I got the out-of-the-blue call from Cellar. I was coming home from a taxing twelve hour shift at The Gastro Pub where I\u2019m the new Sous Chef, and really looking forward the Zen-ful feeling of a hefty bong rip on my couch, the calming sizzle of something delicious thrown into a pan, but Cellar sounded desperate and I said I\u2019d give him a hand. Karma points, I thought.<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t move a thing with these crutches,\u201d he told me.<\/p>\n \u201cOn my way,\u201d I\u2019d said, abandoning my parking spot.<\/p>\n He informed me there had been a blow out with his girlfriend, Rebecca. He was getting out of Dodge for good, and he couldn\u2019t do it alone. You could tell it was hard for him to ask\u2014a real pride bruiser. He really prided himself on that\u2014having his ducks in a row. He made the big bucks as an industrial painter, carefully working with paints and chemicals that will give you cancer if you look at them wrong. He\u2019s responsible and about as blue collar as it gets\u2014in fact, he has two blue collars tattooed to his shoulder blades and will regularly get and rant about the ethics of hard work. He\u2019d probably frown if I told him I take the old G-Pen out behind the dumpsters and get stoned before Brunch Rush. He\u2019s a no-bullshit kind of guy.<\/p>\n If you didn\u2019t know, a G-Pen is a metallic, flute-like vaporizer, which emits no scent\u2014very useful for incognito weed smoking. Stevenson refers to the piece as the \u201cRobot\u2019s Dick,\u201d which I must allow, it does resemble. But I call it my \u201cmagic piece.\u201d I call it this because THC is the key to my success. It really is. After a couple tokes, I evolve the ability to empathize in a highly spiritual way. Its like, I become attuned with the eternal pulse of the universe. I\u2019ve even had a few out of body experiences. Sometimes while plating my Eggs Benedict I say Namaste. My taste buds are your taste buds<\/em>. People venture from far and wide to get a taste of what I can whip up, especially my hollandaise sauce. I am very thankful for my success.<\/p>\n When I got the promotion toward the end of last spring, I splurged and bought myself a big-job Astro Van, and ripped all the back seats out, \u201cShag Wagon\u201d style. I got the fuzzy leopard-print steering wheel cover and those stuffed dice that dangle from the rearview mirror, the retractable blinds on the side windows-the works. I also donated a good chunk of change toward building and maintaining The Derf, as per requested by Cellar.<\/p>\n The Derf. At first glance you knew why we could afford the space. First glance, it looked like an abandoned tenement in Chernobyl\u2014you know, the kind inhabited by roving packs of radioactive wolves. Its ugly cinder block exterior was a flaking paint-job of graying white, speckled with buds of mildew, but its insides were clean, wide, and high-ceilinged enough, and we rented it. At the time, there were sixteen key holders paying rent. Cellar lobbied each of them, assuring us an indoor ramp would save us from the incoming wintertime blues.<\/p>\n So a gang of us worked religiously off a sketch Cellar had penciled on a bar napkin, which he never thought to show any of us. But we trusted him. Although that\u2019s not to say were weren\u2019t curious. I swear, this one night, Stevenson would\u2019ve burglarized Cellar\u2019s apartment had he not gotten so paranoid. He\u2019d been convinced Cellar\u2019s girlfriend was going to be in the window naked when he crawled in. Bad Karma, I remember telling him. Better not.<\/p>\n Over the phone, I put on this gentle voice: \u201cWhere do you want to take your shit?\u201dI asked him.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Derf,\u201d he said, nonchalantly.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Derf?\u201d I said with a highly questioning inflection. \u201cThe Derf Derf<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m going to set up shop in The Cornhole until I figure it all out,\u201d explained Cellar.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Cornhole Cornhole<\/em>,\u201d I said. \u201cIs this a cry for help?<\/p>\n \u201cYep. The Cornhole,\u201d was all he said.<\/p>\n What we call The Cornhole is the little nook below the deck of The Derf. It\u2019s dark, dingy, and dusty under there, and undeniably unfit for human existence. The walls have a constant cold-sweat to them, and the floor is covered in streaks of powder which I am not unsure is asbestos.<\/p>\n Immediately, I offered him my couch and three square meals until unemployment came through with the checks, but he wouldn\u2019t have it. He wouldn\u2019t even consider borrowing the spare mattress that\u2019d been sitting up in my attic for years. He had a sleeping bag certified up to twenty below.<\/p>\n There was no arguing once a guy like Cellar\u2019s made up his mind.<\/p>\n Before we got off the phone, I felt the urge to uplift him somehow, so I told him that injuries sometimes open new pathways in life and to keep positive. That life worked in wondrous and mysterious ways. He said, \u201cYeah yeah<\/em>,\u201d and hung-up.<\/p>\n What I was referring to was my own injury, when a hulking defensive guard had cut-blocked my shin into oblivion. I\u2019ve limped ever since. Cellar knows all about it.<\/p>\n I came to Albany on a full-ride football scholarship three years ago, back when I\u2019d been an All-American high school nose-tackle. I had a record-breaking season my freshman year of College, but followed it up with a severe injury in the first game of my second\u2014I spent that season getting fat on the side-lines. By summer training camp a full second had fallen off my forty yard dash. My thighs had turned to fat ham-hocks that rippled when you slapped them. The Powers That Be took notice and quickly sent this race horse to the glue factory. Yeah, I ended up losing my scholarship, a college education\u2014maybe a look from the NFL\u2026Dare I say a Wheatie\u2019s Box? But if I could go back, I wouldn\u2019t change a thing. Yeah, there was a brief stint of unhappiness. I milled around town in this sort of limbo for awhile. \u00a0But then I began to climb the ladder at The Gastro Pub from Dish Washer to Sous Chef. I also took up skateboarding. It was a non-competitive sport and I liked that. I became a very happy person, more so than ever. Isn\u2019t it beautiful how what may appear to be a tragedy has the propensity to increase life\u2019s bounty tenfold? I wanted to convey this to Cellar, but he\u2019d just hung-up, so, as I drove, I just sort of imagined these positive thoughts in his direction.<\/p>\n I picked Cellar up at the skate shop. Stevenson was with him. Again, on the ride over to the apartment, Cellar was nothing but apologies, although he did not appear as nervous as he had sounded over the phone. He seemed dead set on the move. The guy was truly cold in the pragmatic sense\u2014a real terminator.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s no trouble at all, man,\u201d I kept having to tell him.<\/p>\n \u201cJust look at that leg,\u201d Stevenson assured him, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the cab. \u201cYou can\u2019t do anything on that leg. That leg is mummified. That leg is petrified, man. It renders the whole bodily-unit useless.\u201d<\/p>\n I parked the Astro next to a fire hydrant and threw on the hazards. We were out in front of Cellar\u2019s pad. Cellar crutched his way to the mailbox by the front door and threw it open. \u201cShit,\u201d he said. \u201cMy fuckin\u2019 paychecks aren\u2019t here. Where are my goddamn paychecks? I bet that bitch\u2019s got them up there.\u201d<\/p>\n My eyebrows flew up as my stomach did a tiny lurch at the mention of her, Rebecca. This was the first I\u2019d heard anything about the possibility of her being home. I wondered if she\u2019d begrudge me for aiding Cellar. We\u2019d been friends for years.<\/p>\n Before climbing the stairs, Cellar turned and informed us that Rebecca was in fact definitely upstairs and not to stare at her.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t stare at her?\u201d Stevenson parroted confusedly.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah. She\u2019s got this stress rash-real evil looking,\u201d explained Cellar. \u201cShe\u2019d hate for you to see her like that. She\u2019d never forgive me. Also I suspect she might have shaved off the remaining hair she hadn\u2019t pulled out. I\u2019m not kidding. Just keep your heads down and get everything out as fast as possible. It\u2019s all piled up in a corner already. You\u2019ll see it.\u201d<\/p>\n By the time we were standing on the landing to his apartment a warm burn of anticipation had settled in throughout my chest. Cellar had his key in the lock.<\/p>\n \u201cReady?\u201d said Cellar.<\/p>\n \u201cReady,\u201d we said, half-heartedly.<\/p>\n Cellar then flipped on the lights and a rather cozy one-bedroom appeared. There were framed pictures on the walls and crocheted doilies on the coffee table and a stocked wine rack, a few decorative throw pillows. I\u2019d never been inside.<\/p>\n \u201cRebecca?\u201d Cellar called out. \u201cBecky?<\/p>\n No response.<\/p>\n Phew, I thought.<\/p>\n Then right when I began feeling at peace, an inhuman snowball of sound hurled itself from the back room and smacked me senseless. Stevenson literally fell down. I swear the sound brought to mind the most abysmal crimes in human history. Countless little paper planes flew about my mind. They had little razor sharp edges that nicked images into my brain resembling mass-graves piled high with bodies, pressure-cooker bombs exploding, acts of necrophilia, gatherings of people in black hoods, scythes glinting under a full moon, things like that.<\/p>\n But Cellar remained unaffected. Mid-sound, he just gestured toward a heap of his belongings over in the corner and said, cool as a clam, \u201cAright boys. I\u2019ll meet you guys downstairs in 15,\u201d then he limped off into the other room, leaving Stevenson and I stunned and alone.<\/p>\n We hurried into our work, moving Cellar\u2019s things into The Astro.<\/p>\n With the two of us, it was a three-trip job. Packed and loaded in about ten minutes.<\/p>\n We were left with time to burn, so I whipped out my trusty G-Pen\u2014my \u201cmagic piece\u201d\u2014and suggested to Stevenson that we toke up in the meantime.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, I can blow that robot,\u201d he said to my surprise\u2014Stevenson\u2019s known to get the fear in tense situations, and rarely accepts my invitations to smoke outside of work as he succumbs to palpitations.<\/p>\n \u201cThat shriek like sent high-voltage down my spine,\u201d I admitted, fishing under my seat for my G-Pen. \u201cI just need to get high and settle down. Would you draw the blinds?\u201d<\/p>\n So we took turns pulling on the G-Pen, and pretty soon we were high as yaks in the Himalayas and the radios playing Zepplin and Stevenson and I have basically forgotten what we were doing parked there in the first place.<\/p>\n We didn\u2019t really notice Cellars had been any longer than fifteen minutes until Bottles and Cans came up and rapped on my driver side window\u2014Bottles and Cans being an enterprising pair of street bums.<\/p>\n The timing could not be worse.<\/p>\n See, I have this rule, right. I don\u2019t fraternize with bums when I\u2019m stoned. I just can\u2019t handle them\u2014I empathize too readily or something, especially in the wintertime when I see they\u2019ve got on about a hundred mismatched layers and duct taped sneakers. I just about become the world\u2019s foremost philanthropist, capable of giving away the clothes off my back.<\/p>\n The man\/woman duo of Bottles and Cans patrol the streets constantly, and the woman is always disturbing everyone, hollering at high-decibels, \u201cGOT ANY BOTTLES AND CANS.\u201d The woman spoke, and, from what I could tell, the man was a mute. He freaked me out especially. The poor bastard was this lurch-like ex-hippie with snowy white hair, just going through whatever vague motions of life his acid-damaged brain had the capacity to simulate.<\/p>\n By the time I turned down the music and got the window rolled down, The Speaking Half of Bottles and Cans had already shot her signature litany out three times, fogging up all the glass.<\/p>\n \u201cBOTTLES AND CANS,\u201d she hollered. \u201cBOTTLES AND CANS,\u201d she bellowed. I could taste her words, and they were flavored like vinegar and bile and malt liquor.<\/p>\n I figured a quick donation might get them out of my hair before I went Full Mother Theresa. So I fished out my wallet and piously shelled out a twenty to The Speaking Half.<\/p>\n But my gift didn\u2019t get them moving.<\/p>\n The Speaking Half was insatiable. She then tried to hit me up for some more goodies, going as far as to inquire about a half-drank Pepsi sitting in my cup holder. I gave it to her.<\/p>\n By the time she started eyeing up Cellar\u2019s belongings in the back, I\u2019d about had it. If I wasn\u2019t suddenly reminded of Cellar, I surely would\u2019ve had Bottles and Cans in the backseat on the way to the ATM.<\/p>\n What was Cellar still doing up there? A goodbye fuck? Unlikely with that cast on, with Rebecca\u2019s stress rash and lack of hair and all. I calculated that we must\u2019ve been sitting there close to forty-five minutes. Either that or I was just too stoned and time had gone all funny. Either way I knew I needed to get out of there, away from Bottle and Cans, before I did something drastic and overly-Zen.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s go drop this stuff at The Derf. We can be back in twenty minutes,\u201d I whispered to Stevenson, already putting the Astro in gear and frantically waving Bottles and Cans out of the way.<\/p>\n We crossed the bridge over the Hudson, and dropped Cellar\u2019s stuff off at The Derf, down in the Cornhole.<\/p>\n It was even colder in the Cornhole than outside\u2014if you can imagine. I could see my breath as I began hanging all of Cellar\u2019s clothes on the rusty nails protruding from the underbelly of the ramp. I laid out the sleeping bag in the driest corner and flipped a laundry basket over next to it like an end table.<\/p>\n \u201cI got the fuckin\u2019 munchies,\u201d Stevenson said, finally breaking a long silence.<\/p>\n Back at the apartment, there was still no sign of Cellar\u2014thankfully no sign of Bottles and Cans, either. It\u2019d been hours now. We tried the front door but it was locked, so we decided to puff on the G-Pen and consider our options. Cellar wasn\u2019t answering his cell phone, so as a last ditch effort, I tried honking The Astro\u2019s horn.<\/p>\n To my surprise Cellar\u2019s head appeared in the window immediately. \u201cSorry Guys,\u201d he said. \u201cBut you forgot to grab my desk.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhatever you need, man\u2014\u201d I called up, but he\u2019d already thrown down the keys to the sidewalk and disappeared back inside. We went up.<\/p>\n Cellar was slouched on his crutches in the doorway to the backroom, blocking our view of what might lie beyond. I could hear a muffled moaning happening. He pointed over at a desk, to a pair of demented-looking work boots.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s the last of it,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ll be right down. Two minutes. I swear. We\u2019ve just been talking things over.\u201d That last part he said in a whisper off the back of his hand, which was apparently too loud because, all of a sudden, Rebecca let fly another of her gruesome wail, causing Cellar to recoil into the darkness\u2014 except this time, when he tried to close the door, the lock didn\u2019t click and the door yawned open, giving us access to their every word. You can imagine. It was extremely awkward hearing all that, and would you blame me if a nervous titter escaped my mouth?<\/p>\n Then there was this heavy silence, which I half believed I was imagining until Rebecca called out, \u201cSHUT UP OUT THERE!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSorry,\u201d I called out meekly, watching Stevenson\u2019s head shoot around like a scared animal. His eyes were redder than the devil\u2019s dick. We needed high-tail it before the fear consumed him. It was nothing but bad vibes in there. I swear.<\/p>\n The desk was small but it was damn heavy, and I\u2019m a pretty strong guy too. One time at a football combine, I benched three hundred and fifty pounds, but this desk was no joke. We got it out alright, but ran into more trouble than I\u2019d expected moving the work boots.<\/p>\n Stevenson picked one up, reds to his eyes instead of whites.<\/p>\n \u201cCheck these babies out,\u201d he giggled. \u201cWhat the shit.\u201d<\/p>\n The boot was<\/em> really sick-looking, I thought. They appeared genetically altered by industrial paints and foams. Small ripples like pimples hugged the toe along with a splattering of thick paints.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you talking too loud?\u201d I asked him.<\/p>\n \u201cAm I?\u201d he said, still giggling.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I said, started to giggle myself. Good times are so infectious, I just can\u2019t help myself.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know either,\u201d he said. \u201cI dunno.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you know?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat those boots have tumors,\u201d he said, chortling.<\/p>\n He held the boot. \u201cThey got Gonorrhea,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cThe drip drip drip<\/em>,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cKEEP IT THE FUCK DOWN IN THERE,\u201d Rebecca howled from the back.<\/p>\n I swear, right then, I saw Stevenson\u2019s face drain to Noseferatu pale.<\/p>\n We scurried out of there, quick.<\/p>\n Back in the Astro, Stevenson began playing nervously with the dice hanging from the rearview and I\u2019d begun to perspire. How much longer could we maintain? I wondered.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s lodged up there, man,\u201d I said feverishly.<\/p>\n \u201cHe can\u2019t get away,\u201d said Stevenson.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s never going to come down,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cLike a fly in a spider\u2019s web,\u201d Stevenson mused.<\/p>\n \u201cIts open season out here,\u201d I said. \u201cBottles and Cans\u2019 going to come back, I swear. I can feel them.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGod I\u2019m just so hungry,\u201d cried Stevenson.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere the hell is Cellar,\u201d I cried.<\/p>\n Fifteen minutes passed and my eyes were crossing, looking all over for Bottles and Cans. Something needed to be done, so I made the executive decision to utilize the G-Pen, to file down that sharp edge of stress bearing down on us. Puff Puff, Pass! Another fifteen minutes. No Cellar.<\/p>\n So I tried the horn again, and again Cellars appeared in the window, like he\u2019s been waiting for us all along. \u201cSorry guys. But you forgot the Easter Ham. It\u2019s in the refrigerator. It\u2019s been in the freezer since last spring. I just realized. Last thing, I swear. We can cook it up tonight,\u201d he said quickly as hell before dropping the keys and disappearing.<\/p>\n In the kitchen, the apartment finally seemed clear of tension, and I felt shortly we\u2019d be on our merry way. Perhaps Rebecca had resigned to the inevitability of the split.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s on the top shelf,\u201d I heard Cellar call to us from the back.<\/p>\n And there it was in a cellophane wrapper, the Easter Ham, beaded with sweat. At the sight of it, my mouth began to water; my brain did an animalistic jig of hunger. I had to touch it. There was something very pornographic about the voluptuous pink ham lying there. I imagined the piece of meat laid out on a bed of rice pilaf with a side of long potato fingerlings, with a garnish of rosemary falling gently from above, like rose petals\u2014netting like garters on long legs. I picked it up. I pumped the plump meat up and down, considering its impressive weight. It must\u2019ve weighed 50 pounds.<\/p>\n \u201cI bet this can feed 25 people,\u201d I said. \u201cNo, scratch that. I bet double.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat ham can solve world hunger,\u201d said Stevenson excitedly, just as I became aware of a tiny rivulet of greasy juice trickling down my arm. I held the ham out away from me like a baby that\u2019s soiled itself, but Stevenson confused the gesture and hunched over, charging to take the handoff.<\/p>\n \u201cHut Hut Hike,\u201d he said as I passed the ham off and instinctively veered off to the right, faking pass to draw back the defenders for the run.<\/p>\n From the backfield, near the refrigerator, I watched Stevenson bobble the ham and fumble it to the carpet. A slug\u2019s trail of grease followed the meat as it rolled over the floor into the wall.<\/p>\n \u201cThat thing is lubed up. That thing is greasy,\u201d Stevenson cried, beside himself with excitement now.<\/p>\n \u201cFUMBLE!\u201d I cried, running after the ham, Stevenson in hot pursuit. Then we clattered to the floor, wrestling for possession of the ham. I had it cradled in my arms when I heard somebody yelling. I immediately ceased and desisted, turned to stone.<\/p>\n \u201cGET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT,\u201d howled Rebecca at a closing proximity.<\/p>\n I sat up and tucked my chin in and looked at the floor between my legs. I stared at a brown stain in the thin grey carpet. I fingered the stain. I loved that stain. It shifted and danced in my trained gaze. And I wasn\u2019t looking\u2014 I didn\u2019t want to get caught staring.<\/p>\n But an unbelievably loud \u201cGET OUT!\u201d tore my gaze upward.<\/p>\n Most salient was the stress rash, which was a kind way for Cellar to have put it. The sight of her truly froze me, gorgon-style. The rash was really boils\u2014bulbous mounds, each with a hydra of white heads. My hearing shorted out. I really was stone. I swear. She looked like Cellar\u2019s work boots. Her mouth was moving but there was nothing coming out\u2014I had no idea what she was saying. And her hair was all gone! Without all of her hair, I saw how tiny her head had been all along. It was miniscule! I mean her brain must\u2019ve been amputated to fit in there.<\/p>\n \u201cGET OUT! GET OUT!\u201d she repeated. She kept at it for a while, and I could not recover quickly enough. What shocked me loose from my stupor was the sight of Cellar, over her shoulder, nodding, arms crossed in front of his chest with a look of disappointment on his face.<\/p>\n The madman was backing her up.<\/p>\n \u201cGet out of here!\u201d I wanted to yell to him. But I was stone.<\/p>\n I had to get out of there.<\/p>\n My high was in a nose dive.<\/p>\n Poor Stevenson, I thought, wheeling around to find my friend had vanished. I scampered out after him, road-runner style.<\/p>\n I found him standing by the Astro, attempting to jimmy the locked passenger-side door with a credit card. \u201cLet me in, man. Get me out of here. That\u2019s not my scene in there.\u201d He was worked up into a wild frenzy.<\/p>\n \u201cThat was horrific,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cThat was abysmal,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m no one\u2019s friend this much,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cHoly Shit! You\u2019re still holding the ham,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n I looked. I was still holding the ham. Rivulets of grease were streaked down my t-shirt. I never fumble, I thought. \u201cYou know what we\u2019re going to do,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re going to eat this ham,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cWe got to get some pineapples, man,\u201d said Stevenson, his face relaxing like a crying child offered ice cream.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd some Leis,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd some Tiki torches,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ll have an old fashion Luau,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ll throw it at The Derf,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ll have it tonight. How stoked will Cellar be when he shows up and we\u2019re throwing a Luau for him,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cInvite some girls,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cAbsolutely! Let\u2019s get cooking\u201d I said, getting into The Astro and fishing under my seat. \u201cBut first this is a necessity. Can\u2019t cook without it. Ladies and Gentleman: my magic piece.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSuck that robot\u2019s dick off,\u201d cried Stevenson with glee, and I did. I sucked that robot\u2019s dick nice and long, because before I cook I like to get high as can be. I\u2019m on my way to being head chef because of my skills, because of THC. Before I cook I try to touch the edge of space. I need to sharpen my empathetic feelers. I need to become interconnected with the taste buds of every living person on the globe. Every thought. Everything. I want to feel it all, the pulse of the appetite of the universe. Sometimes I can do it, I can get there. The psychic power is that strong sometimes, and right then I knew I was going to get there. I was puffing that G-Pen into a full head of steam. CHOO! CHOO! I was coming around the mountain to that place of Zen\u2014the realm of ten thousand dishes\u2014but right before I was about to fly over that threshold, into that mindset of the great beyond where I can whip up a hollandaise as masterful as Beethoven\u2019s Fifth, I was disturbed by a rap on the window.<\/p>\n \u201cBottles and Cans,\u201d demanded the Speaking Half. I looked around very confusedly. I wasn\u2019t holding any bottles and cans\u2014all I had was an overlarge spiral ham. What the hell was going on? Please God! Don\u2019t ask me to do this? I beg you!<\/p>\n There was a moment\u2019s pause in which God tapped his foot.<\/p>\n Her eyes said \u201cGIMME\u201d as The Silent Half leaned in to take a little peek at the ham himself.<\/p>\n Karma points for life, I thought as I rolled the window down.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s pre-cooked,\u201d I told them. \u201cP-R-E cooked. It\u2019s good with mustard and rye bread. It\u2019s good cold,\u201d I said. \u201cFeed your friends.\u201d<\/p>\n That was the hardest good deed I\u2019ve ever done. When I\u2019m reincarnated I\u2019ll probably come back as a bald eagle or a lion because of that deed. That was the<\/em> deed.<\/p>\n Needless to say, Stevenson was rightly pissed about the give-away, but forgave me after I bought him a small mountain of drive-thru burgers. And after our little feast, I didn\u2019t feel much like going through the trouble of looking for parking, so I drove over to The Derf. We didn\u2019t have a Luau or anything that night, but we did skate. It was the first time I\u2019d gone without Cellar since I can remember, and I skated hard. We kept thinking he was going to show up.<\/p>\n In fact, in the following years he never resurfaced at all. In no time, he\u2019d been reduced to a mere figment of skate lore. Poof. Nothing but a fading memory.<\/p>\n Now and then, when we\u2019d go skate The Derf, I\u2019ll go down into The Cornhole and check on his belongings to see if they\u2019d been moved, to remember perhaps if he had been real at all, but there are never any signs of life. He just disappeared, leaving everything behind.<\/p>\n Later, word got around that he moved out west with Rebecca, but I didn\u2019t buy it. I think she ate him. I think she ate him, and we left him there to be eaten. Cellar was a real terminator, unable to be reprogrammed. That Cornhole is a goddamn gravestone.<\/p>\n Nowadays, the weather is getting much nicer\u2014spring has sprung\u2014and most days, no one wants to skate The Derf. Everyone has lost all interest. They rather go downtown, but I insist on going now and then, even if it\u2019s by my lonesome, because, after all, I\u2019m still paying rent. I do some cleaning. I fix the ramp when something needs fixing. Someone\u2019s got to do some maintenance, lest the place be taken by those radioactive wolves. Minus Cellar, there are fifteen people now paying into the monthly rent, and I\u2019m the only one who cares enough to do a little caretaking? I even started picking up the tab on Cellar\u2019s portion. Nevertheless, the rest of the rent is still on time. I figure, what it must be is the other key holders reckon it\u2019s easier to pay a small price once a month then to suffer the couple days of heavy lifting the demolishment of The Derf would entail. We\u2019ll probably be paying into it for our entire lives, every last one of us. Extrapolate those payments until then, throw in a Easter ham, and I reckon that\u2019s the price you pay for tickets to an improvisational Heavy Metal show put on by a Skate God.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" “Cellar had the type of raw on-board skill that when witnessed quickly transitioned from inspiring to intimidating<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":13159,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-13155","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-harris-lahti"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13155","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=13155"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13155\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":13173,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13155\/revisions\/13173"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/13159"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=13155"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=13155"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=13155"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}