The Dinner Guest: Part I

This Friday night was to proceed like any other Friday night with the intent of inebriation and the subsequent chasing of women but I was sidetracked when my friend the Weasel invited me to a dinner party. It wasn’t his dinner party and I wasn’t invited by the host but then that never stopped me from showing up unexpected to other social gatherings so I accepted the second hand invitation and lit out for destinations, although not completely unknown, still largely foreign to me. I’m talking about the extreme rural areas of Pennsylvania that lack beer distributors, titty bars, and any place to buy a decent cigar. I narrowly escaped such a place as a young man and now cling to the identity my new urban home affords me with a tenacity that causes new acquaintances to believe I was suckled at the industrial teet of some thriving metropolis. I do not dissuade these assertions and not because I care one way or another what people think but because it casts a shadow of doubt on my early years and I always liked to keep people guessing. It’s just my nature.
* * *
The Weasel and I met on the outskirts of Harrisburg at an out of the way sandwich shop called The Sandwich Ranch. The enormous faded sign out front claimed that this particular establishment was the inventor of the sandwich.

“Those fools didn’t invent the sandwich,” I said, as the Weasel and I drove away from the sandwich shop. “The Earl of Sandwich developed the sandwich in 1762. He came up with the concept so he could eat while playing cards without getting them greasy.”

“Why didn’t he just use a fork?” the Weasel asked.

“Good question,” I said.

We continued to drive for what felt like hours which didn’t bother me as I drank several Guinness pub cans on the way. I never show up to social occasions without having a good buzz going. My high end nervous energy causes me too much anxiety if I don’t partake. The alcohol has the effect of internalizing my most erratic behaviors so that I act out on the inside, battling my own distorted feelings and avoiding the inevitable external disruptions I’d produce otherwise. I find that after six beers I am as “normal” as I will ever get. More than six beers and I start to regress back to my over exuberant ways. Twelve beers or more and you’d better chain down Dr. Jekyll because he’s picking the lock on Mr. Hyde’s cage.

“Here we are,” the Weasel said.

I looked at the beautifully refurbished farm house sitting in a lot surrounded by trees and facing miles of open field. I thought I’d like to retire in such a house but not out here. Who the Hell would I talk to? Interaction with other human beings is what I do best…or worst whichever way you choose to look at it but without it I cease to exist.

We exited the van and I took out a box of Tic Tacs out of my leather jacket and when I went to dump some in my hand the top fell off and they spilled onto the driveway.

“The birds will get those,” I said.

Never having smelled a bird’s breath I wondered if they ever suffered from halitosis or if their diet of insects, berries, and the like helped to cleanse their palates.

The Weasel knocked on the back door and entered. “Hi there,” he called. We made our way through the living room, which was decorated with postmodern trinkets and furniture, and into the kitchen where our host, his wife, a rather attractive women and a seven foot giant of a man were seated eating dinner.

“Sorry, I’m late. I had to wait for him to show up,” the Weasel said. “This is my writer friend I was telling you about.”

“You’re not going to write about me are you?” the host asked.

“Never,” I said.

“Is the glass half empty or half full?” our redheaded hostess asked.

“I’m too busy looking at what’s going on outside the glass to notice what’s in it,” I said.

“Good answer,” our host said.

I caught the eye of the blond, a curvaceous beauty with short spiky hair. She quickly looked away. Was she revolted or intrigued? It was hard to tell.

“Would you like a steak?” the host asked.

“No, I just read an article that of all reported cases of Alzheimer disease in the United States an estimated 200,000 of them may actually be Mad Cow Disease but since the symptoms are virtually indistinguishable they can’t be certain of these numbers.” Everyone stopped eating. “Go ahead eat up. Don’t be polite on my account.”

“I’m full,” our host said, pushing away from the table. He stood and brushed his curly black hair out of his eyes. He was dressed in worn overalls, black boots, and a red silk robe with black trim. It was a weird Rambo meets Hugh Hefner look that left me feeling uneasy. “I want to show you something,” he said.

His wife and the other women giggled, the giant guffawed.

I grasped the counter top. I’d heard about weird rural orgies that started this way. I wasn’t an orgy guy. The thought of performing in front of others under the haze of swirling lights, with incense burning and weird bass driven music echoing in the background wasn’t something I was open to. Nervously looking about I noticed a dozen or so oversized pillows in an adjacent room; obvious orgy bedding. On an evening many years prior I’d been drunk beyond reason and on the cusp of engaging in such an encounter but in the process of reaching for a naked beauty lying in front of me I upchucked on her and then passed out. I knew after that debacle that my subconscious would not allow me to participate in such activities.

“I’m not into orgies,” I blurted out.

“What?” the host asked, patting his rather sizeable stomach.

“Nothing, that’s that weird sense of humor I was telling you about,” the Weasel said.

“Right,” our host said. “Come on let’s go to the basement.”

Sensing I was wrong about the orgy I acquiesced.

“Down here, our host,” said, opening the basement door and flipping on a light switch.

I drained my pub can and followed our host down the basement stairs not knowing what awaited me.

“What’s down here?” I whispered to the Weasel.

“Wait and see,” he said.

Upon descending the stairs I was immediately hit by the musty green aroma of marijuana which invoked in me the giddy excitement of a child on Christmas morn. I tried to look over the Weasel’s head to see what lay before me but was blinded by what appeared to be stadium lights. It was not until I touched down on the basement floor and shielded my eyes from the lights with my hand, that I saw the veritable jungle of pot covering every square inch of the basement. I had just walked straightforward into Cheech and Chong’s most lurid daydream. I could scarcely believe my eyes

“My babies,” our host said, tears forming in his eyes. “Go ahead walk through it. Touch it but be gentle.”

I obliged and wove my way through the pot jungle, the sticky resin clinging to my clothes, hands and face.

“Magnificent,” I said, rubbing a bud gently between my fingers. “There is so much resin on my clothes I’ll be able to smoke them when I get home.”

“That plant you just rubbed up against is called El Guapo Special. I brought the seeds back from Amsterdam,” our host said.

“Do you sell this stuff?” I asked.

“It’s all for personal use,” our host said.

“It’s true,” his wife said. “He cooks with it, puts it in salads, and brownies. He should have a show on the Food Network called the marijuana chef.”

I took out my notebook and scribbled this down, reminding myself to call a friend who had a friend that worked for the Food Network.

Suddenly our host’s demeanor turned suspicious. This was the first I’d noticed he had a machete in his hand. I wondered if he’d been holding it before. Cutting his steak with it? I couldn’t remember. He ran his finger across the blade and then stared me straight in the eyes.

“I’m the biggest liberal there is,” our host said. “You’re not a Republican are you?”

“Do I look like a Republican?” I asked, laughing nervously.

He eyed me up and down.

“Answer my question.”

“No, I’m not a Republican. I’m probably the second biggest liberal in this house.”

He ran his finger down the blade again as if deciding if what I said was true. “Cool,” he said, relaxing. “You can never be too careful.”

“No, you can’t,” I said. “Those bastards will rob you blind. They don’t give a good Goddamn about the people or the environment.”

“No, those bastards don’t care about anything except money…I like you Mr. Writer, you’re my kind of person,” he said. “I want to give you something.” He walked over in the direction of the blinding light and disappeared for a moment and then returned carrying a brown grocery bag.

I looked inside. It was stuffed with marijuana.

“El Guapo Special?” I asked.

“Better. It’s my own hybrid. I’ve been developing it since the mid 90’s. I want you to have it.”

“I couldn’t possibly take all this,” I said.

“Okay, we’ll smoke some and you can take what’s left,” our host said.

“I defy anyone to find fault in such logic,” I said.

“I concur,” the Weasel said, reaching into my bag.

“Back, you bastard get your own,” I said swatting his hand.

Our host produced a multicolored glass marijuana pipe from his robe and handed it to me.

“Smoke up,” he said.

“Right,” I said taking the pipe and hitting it.

I passed it to the spiky haired blond who had suddenly appeared beside me. “Thank-you,” she said. Her hand lingered on mine as she took the pipe from it…or had I imagined it? I couldn’t tell time seemed to have slowed considerably.

The pipe kept going around the circle and the faces in it changed whenever I looked up although I never saw anyone leave.

“This is good,” the giant said, his voice growing deeper and deeper. He seemed to grow. I felt like I could fit in the palm of his hand, which freaked me out.

“We’re all going to a big bonfire party after this,” our host’s wife said, suddenly appearing again. I heard the crack of electricity and right before my eyes her red hair began to sizzle like neon.

“That is fucked up,” I said. Everyone stared at me, confusion on their faces. “I have to use the rest room,” I said, excusing myself and making my way quickly back upstairs.

After using the restroom, I stood alone in the kitchen and was suddenly consumed with a monstrous case of the munchies. Without considering the consequences, which I seldom do until it’s too late, I took a steak off one of the plates and began chewing on it. I had about half the steak down when I heard footsteps coming back up the stairs. I panicked. I’d just eaten half of someone’s steak. Not knowing what to do I stuffed it in my back pocket.

“Are you all right,” our host asked. He scratched at his chest hair which was exposed due to the low cut of his robe.

“I uh, couldn’t be better,” I said, my mouth still full of steak.

“Good, now let’s get to this bonfire my friend is having.”

PART II - Tomorrow?