“You cannot exorcise a living being,” said Guru-Vy, pointing to the Visitor, who was very happy to hear it but not at all sure he wasn’t going to go up in a poof of smoke all the same. “The object of the ceremony must be immaterial.”
“Why don’t we exorcise everything that has happened to us in the last twenty minutes?,” said Smarts.
“Not immaterial inconsequential,” said Guru-Vy. “Immaterial unworldly.”
“I stand by my previous statement,” said Smarts.
“I have an idea,” said Sparks, who began walking towards the center of the room, causing the Visitor to hug himself very tightly, as though he might literally keep his body parts intact in the face of what he was sure was the coming jolt. “Let’s get rid of the donkey.”
“I resent that remark,” said the Visitor, who nevertheless strengthened the grip he had on himself, physically and psychologically.
“Not you,” said Sparks, who now pointed towards Guru-Vy. “The ass that ruined your birthday party.”
“It wasn’t a donkey, it was a pony,” said Guru-Vy.
“Whatever,” said Sparks. “It needs to be gotten rid of.”
“It’s been dead for years,” said Guru-Vy.
“Physically, that may be true, but I think his wayward energy continues to live on and surround you, to extremely adverse effect,” said Sparks.
“What makes you think that?,” said Guru-Vy.
“Doughnuts, anyone?,” said Sparks, gesturing towards what was effectively turning into doughnut soup at their feet.
“I didn’t make this mess,” said Guru-Vy.
“No, but this mess, and the mess outside on your lawn, and who knows how many other messes there are lurking around here, are representative of the mess that’s inside your head, and that mess, according to you, is because of the donkey.”
“It was a pony,” said Lips.
“Thank you,” said Guru-Vy, looking at the latter.
“Not at all, there is a difference,” said Lips, looking back at the former.
“Species aside, I think you may be on to something,” said Guru-Vy, who was now beginning to think that there might be more to these rock stars than met the eye (or ear).
“You do?” asked Sparks.
“Yes,” said Guru-Vy. “While whatever ‘mess’ there may or may not be inside my head would surely go back way behind the birthday party incident into the intangible murk of my childhood, the donkey…
“Pony,” said Lips.
…Yes, pony, does, I believe, embody much of the conflicting emotions swirling around within me, and you have made what I am fairly sure I will find to be, with a bit more consideration and reflection, a very astute statement.”
“And trust me on this, Sparks,” said Lips. “That is a whole helluva lot better than a very astate stutement. Now, are we making this stupid movie or what?”
# # #
Meanwhile, back at the furniture, Boots was considering his options: should he start throwing any one of the hundreds of completely throwable things by which he was currently surrounded, and which indeed stretched beyond his immediate reach, or should he resist the temptation to destroy property and simply try to walk off the anger. He picked up what looked like a pricey pitcher, and as he felt its heft and weighed his choices, he also heard a voice that seemed to come from directly behind him:
“Pardon the intrusion, and excuse the speculation, but if you’re going to throw that pitcher, I wonder if you might try to let me talk you out of it first.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” said Boots immediately, thinking that his conscience had made one of its infrequent but always persistent appearances in an attempt to get him to do the civilized thing. “What makes you so sure that you are always right, and that I am always wrong,” Boots said again, turning around towards the sound of the voice, half expecting to see a small, haloed version of himself hovering near his right shoulder. “Why don’t you go back to whatever clichéd version of paradise you came from?”
“If you really want to throw the fucking pitcher, throw it, and aim at your fucking head,” said the voice, which Boots now clearly realized wasn’t his conscience due to several circumstances: the voice was a little too high, he strongly suspected that a conscience was not capable of saying “fuck” (gosh darn it was probably about as harsh as consciences, even his, could get) but, and most immediately, he now found himself staring at one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen (consciences have to be gender specific, don’t they?).
The effect of this vision (or is she real, wondered Boots; could anything that beautiful actually be real?) was, however, somewhat blunted by the fact that she had draped around her shoulders one of the biggest and most hideously ugly (in a world in which they came no other way) snakes he had ever seen. The dual but opposing effects of incredible beauty and supreme sliminess neutralized Boots’ conflicting desires to move very close and get the fuck out of there, ultimately serving to root him to the spot where he stood, rendering him unable to speak, and causing his face to take on an expression that said to observers (being, in this case, the woman mistaken for a conscience and, occasionally, the snake) something in the realm of “I’m rooted to the spot where I stand and unable to speak.”
“Snake got your tongue?,” asked the woman, and Boots would later remember the moment not so much for the comment as for what he perceived to be the giant question mark formed by the reptile in question. “And are you, or are you not, going to throw that pitcher? You can answer the second question first, if you’d like.”
With this Boots realized that he was indeed still holding the pitcher he had picked up, momentarily forgotten by the whole conscience/snake thing. “No.”
“Was that the answer to the first question or the second question,” asked snake woman. “Because if it was the first, that’s understandable; Cleo does that to a lot of people. If, however, it was the answer to question number two, and I’m hoping it was, I’d like to know whether you would mind if I had a look at it.”
“No,” said Boots, still appearing as stupor-man.
“I think we’ve gotten ourselves into a bit of a rut,” said snake woman. “No, Cleo is not bothering you, or no, you are not going to throw the pitcher.”
“No,” said Boots again, now beginning to wonder if he was actually ever going to move or have a conversation again.
“Alright, let’s try this a different way,” said snake woman. “If the sight of Cleo is freaking you out in any way, shape or form, and believe me, you would not be the first to have that reaction, although I can assure you she’s as gentle as a pussycat, although it’s also true that due to some strange karmic twist of fate the sight of a pussycat sends her into fits of rage the like of which I doubt you’ve ever seen, which may have something to do with the purring but could also be due to the fact that she’d like to grab it in her teeth and devour it whole, then blink your right eye. If, however, you were responding to my second question about throwing the pitcher, which I have to admit I hope you were, because my radar went off as soon as I saw it perched there at the end of your hand, and I’m beginning to have a much stronger feeling that were you to follow through and release it to meet its untimely end as shards of porcelain laying among the bureaus, it would really be a crime, then blink your left eye.”
During this entire monologue, which Boots realized he wasn’t going to have a hope in hell of following somewhere around the first mention of a pussycat, he couldn’t help but notice that the snake had seemed to droop even more, well, droopily, than it had been previously, as though it were used to these rambling recitations and might as well get as comfortable as possible until the whole thing blew over.
For his part, Boots was now not only still unable to say anything but “no,” which, in the present circumstance was now a meaningless articulation, but also unable to blink, forgetting which eye movement represented which answer, and not wanting to confuse the situation any more than it already was.
“That’s not really going to work either, is it?,” asked SnakeWoman, observing the still life before her. “Alright. I’m going to try something else, and since you are evidently now totally incommunicado, in both a talking and a moving kind of way, you’re just going to have to trust me that this really won’t hurt a bit.” And with that, she and her slinky partner-in-whatever-it-was-they-did-together began moving closer to where Boots stood.
The preceding declaration, delivered though it was in a straightforward, and even somewhat sympathetic, fashion, served to banish whatever inclinations for extrication from his present circumstances that Boots may have been fostering, and he had thought that maybe some feeling had been returning to his right foot.
SnakeWoman continued to approach, and as she got within about a foot of Boots, Cleo, either by some kind of signal that could not readily be seen, or through acquired knowledge from previous experience, or acting upon some ancient and frighteningly accurate snake instinctive appreciation for crockery, stretched her body forward, placed her mouth around the pitcher that was still being held by Boots, and delivered it undamaged to the hands of its waiting mistress.
“As I thought,” said SnakeWoman as she closely examined the object, from which a bit of snake saliva dripped. “This is a very valuable piece, and will bring a pretty penny in the marketplace. Thank you for finding it, and for not destroying it.”
“Are you on drugs too?,” asked Boots, who didn’t know if he was more surprised that he could now actually talk, that he had actually said what he’d said, or that he did seem to be in possession of all five fingers on his right hand.
“Isn’t everybody?,” asked SnakeWoman, unfazed by the question
.
Boots was unable to articulate an answer to this pivotal query, not owing to his recent and thankfully temporary predicament, but instead due to the fact that at that very moment the front door to the house burst open and disbursed suddenly and noisily through it Lips, Smarts, Sparks, Guru-Vy and the Visitor, in a manner that seemed to Boots the physical equivalent of the jitterybut eye-opening, feedback-laden first note of the Beatles’ “I Feel Fine.” (I’m hungry, he thought to himself).
They made their way down the lawn towards the spot where Boots was standing, stopping every few seconds to look into bureau drawers, behind chairs and in the various and different-sized boxes strewn liberally about and in the aforementioned items.
“Guru-Vy, I found another one,” said SnakeWoman as he arrived within earshot, a few steps ahead of the others, who were so intent on the search for whatever it was they were searching for that they took no notice of the new arrival in their midst.
Another one what, wondered Boots, who although now able to speak chose to remain silent, not quite ready to hear what he imagined would be SnakeWoman’s take on him, feeling despite his best instincts a burgeoning attraction and hoping that the answer would not be something like, a weirdo who is afraid of snakes and who was showing a suspicious interest in your pottery collection.
“What kind of price do you think you could fetch for it,” asked Guru-Vy.
“It’s in pretty bad shape, but cleaned up a bit I think we could definitely get something for it,” SnakeWoman responded.
Boots was not used to having people speak about him as though he were not present, and he was fairly sure that this was the first time he had been the subject of anything having to do with white slavery, but he still stayed quiet, increasingly troubled by the impersonalization but curious as to where it all might be going.
“Unless, of course, you have your heart set on keeping it,” said SnakeWoman.
“No, I trust your judgment, let us sell it,” said Guru-Vy.
At this point Boots was weighing the options of running for it or taking someone hostage when SnakeWoman handed the pitcher to Guru-Vy.
“Where did you find it,” he asked.
“This guy was holding it and Cleo liberated it from him,” said SnakeWoman.
“You’re talking about the pitcher, aren’t you,” said Boots, sudden relief spreading through him like a hit of Owsley’s finest.
“Of course we are talking about the pitcher, unless of course you have suddenly put yourself on the market,” said Guru-Vy to Boots, who was not terribly happy to find himself on the receiving end of sarcasm, or to have Guru-Vy get so close to what he actually was imagining, and made a mental note to deliver a nasty comment back.
And looking askance at SnakeWoman, Guru-Vy said, “And the person who you so cavalierly refer to as ‘this guy’ happens to be none other than the increasingly ubiquitous Boots Klondike,” which statement caused the rock star to forget about the nasty comment he’d been planning and instead begin to blush the color of his ‘56 Les Paul.
“No shit,” said SnakeWoman. “Boots Klondike, as in ‘read my mind, if you want to find out what I mean, read my mind, if you really want me to come clean,’ currently number nine with a bullet?”
“Actually, it’s resting comfortably at number 11, but close enough,” said Boots to SnakeWoman, looking directly at her and once again marveling at her ability to attract him ferociously and scare the shit out of him at the same time.
“I don’t like to argue with strangers,” said SnakeWoman, “but since you underwent the Cleo test, and came through it remarkably well, except for the fact that you couldn’t move or talk for an extended period of time, I feel we’ve moved beyond the stranger phase to the acquaintance period, and as such I can tell you in no uncertain terms that you are wrong, cuz just before I ran into you I heard on the radio that ‘Read My Mind’ is now number nine with a bullet.”
And, to further prove her point, Cleo reached into the bag that hung from SnakeWoman’s right shoulder and with her mouth placed into her owner’s hands a small portable radio, which SnakeWoman proceeded to flourish as if the sight of it was enough to show that she was not making it up (which, in fact, she wasn’t).
“You mean to tell me that ‘Read My Mind’ has cracked the top ten,” asked Boots, his feet beginning to move up and down slightly.
“I don’t mean to tell you, I just told you,” said SnakeWoman.
“The song that we recorded, called ‘Read My Mind,’ is actually now one of the top ten songs in the country,” Boots asked again, his feet now moving more definitely into pre-jump mode.
“I know you’re not deaf, and I’m pretty sure you’re not stupid, so I’m going to lay your current bout of incomprehension down to your being rattled by the sheer force of the news itself,” said SnakeWoman, who, despite herself, found herself pleased at being the one to deliver what was clearly unexpected and welcome news to this stranger to whom she felt, also despite herself, a growing attraction.
“I think I’m in love,” said Boots, jumping into the air a height later estimated by observers to be anywhere from 6 inches to 2 feet.
“But of course,” said SnakeWoman, nodding her head in the direction of Cleo, who answered her mistress in kind, the two of them now bobbing in what seemed to be some exotic above-the-shoulder dance ritual.
Almost before he was aware of it, Boots did something highly out of character: he acted spontaneously, quickly crossing the short distance separating him and SnakeWoman, threw his arms around her and, unable to keep her out of the mix, found himself also hugging Cleo, who Boots at the time could have sworn turned a bright crimson red at the onset of his touch, a perception Boots later attributed to what clearly must have been a distortion caused by his own discomfort (but which served as the inspiration for the later minor hit, “Snake Rattle and Roll.”)
As Boots found himself more than usually stirred by this encounter with female flesh, and entertaining such semi-disturbing thoughts as, “Could this be the end of Single Man?,” the far-reaching and unexpected implications of which scared the living shit out of him, a welcome distraction presented itself in the form of a loud noise directly uphill.
“I FOUND IT!,” yelled Sparks, who was standing in the middle of the front lawn surrounded and completely hidden by a variety of different sized bureaus, giving the impression to whoever happened to be looking that way (which, at the moment, was virtually everyone within earshot) of a fantastic discovery having been made by two large armoires most notable for their large golden handles in the shape of mushrooms (“a true artist if a bit unreliable,” explained Guru-Vy when they had settled down somewhat later in the day).
“Found what,” asked Smarts, who was standing in the closest approximation to his bandmate.
“What do you think we’re looking for,” asked Sparks, irritated by what he considered to be an obvious question and the fact of its being asked taking away somewhat from his accomplishment.
“I figured you knew, since you found it,” said Smarts. “I kinda forgot.”
“Then what have you been looking for,” asked Sparks, still annoyed but now intrigued in spite of himself.
“Pretty much everything I’ve been able to find, hoping one thing or another would jump out at me and declare itself,” Smarts answered.
“Are you still stoned or is this just your natural charm kicking in,” Sparks asked.
“A little of both, I think,” Smarts said. “But c’mon, I’m tired of looking real closely at everything. What’d you find?”
“The movie camera, of course,” said Sparks.
“Oh, man, I picked that up a while ago but it didn’t really do anything for me,” said Smarts.
“Let’s move on,” said Sparks.
“Cool,” said Smarts.
With this, Sparks proceeded to hold the movie camera high over his head, so that the rest of the search party, now rapidly approaching, could see for themselves that he had indeed uncovered the valued treasure of their particular hunt.
“Well done, my good man, well done,” said Guru-Vy, who as soon as he saw the object in the air remembered that he had put the camera in the armoire to protect it from the rain, at the same time writing a note to himself describing its whereabouts and placing the written reminder in a safe spot the exact location of which continued to be as elusive as his organizational skills. “We are now, dare I say it, literally ready to roll.”
“I have a great idea for the opening shot,” said Boots. “Why don’t we start with a real tight close-up of a snake.” He was hoping to impress the aforementioned creature’s owner with the suggestion that her pet be included in the film, indeed be the first image, and that she would see the compliment for what it was.
“And why is that such a great idea?,” asked Guru-Vy, who saw the look that Boots gave to SnakeWoman as he made his suggestion, and the look that she gave back, and found himself, much to his surprise, experiencing a tinge of jealousy.
“Well, I think it’s obvious,” said Boots, who actually hadn’t given much thought to the purpose behind the choice and was now hoping that a bit of brusqueness would give him a couple of much needed seconds to come up with something, now that he actually had to.
“It is obvious, and brilliant,” said Lips, coming to his partner’s aid but unaware that he was doing so. “Think about it: the film is dealing at it’s heart with the subject of memory, specifically the memory of your ruined birthday party. The snake could represent the reptilian brain, which is the deepest, most primal part of us, which is what memory is really all about, right Boots?”
“I actually thought the snake would look pretty cool,” said Boots, still preoccupied with currying SnakeWoman’s favor. “But the reptilian thing is good, too.”
“Thanks,” said Lips. “The only problem is where to get a snake at such short notice.”
“Look to your left,” said Sparks, who himself had only just noticed SnakeWoman and Cleo, who were now hovering on the outskirts of the group.
“No, I mean, and I think Boots means, a real snake,” said Lips, who when looking left had first seen Guru-Vy. “And let’s try to be cordial. He is, after all, the director.”
“Not him,” said Sparks, pointing at SnakeWoman. “That!”
"Impressive," said Lips, noticing Cleo, then her owner, for the first time. “Really impressive,” this time addressing Guru-Vy. "Nice anticipating of needs, there.”
"But she has been here the whole...never mind," said Guru-Vy, who despite his brief bout with envy was now warming to the idea. “Judy, are you ready to make Cleo a star?”
"Your name is Judy?" said Boots, surprised that this exotic creature would actually have so normal a name.
"You got a problem with that?," she asked, hoping that in fact he didn't. "What'd you think it was, SnakeWoman or something?"
"That would be silly now, wouldn't it," said Boots, who was seriously beginning to wonder if she could, like the song said, read his mind. "Judy is a very nice name."
"Thanks, glad you approve. Beats 'Boots,' doesn't it," said Judy.
"You might have a point there, SnakeWoman, uh, I mean Judy", said Boots, who was not used to feeling this flustered this often, and certainly not in front of his compatriots, although he hoped they were too distracted to notice.
"You're not turning red, by any chance, are you?," asked Smarts, who was not sure he'd ever seen Boots embarrassed by anything.
"Certainly not,” said Boots, instantly turning redder.
"You are," persisted Smarts, who was clearly unaware of his close proximity to physical damage. "I think you like her."
"That's ridiculous," said Boots. "If I'm red at all, and I'm not saying I am, it's probably a combination of sunburn from being outside and anger at you."
"Nonsense," said Sparks, joining in. "It's been overcast all day. And you don't turn red when you're angry, you turn purple. I think you have a…girlfriend."
"I do not have a girlfriend," said Boots, his face now beginning to evince a grapey hue. "What are we, in fifth grade?"
“I didn’t have a girlfriend in fifth grade,” said Sparks. “Thanks for rubbing it in.”
"Oh, so I'm not good enough to be your girlfriend?," said Judy/Snakewoman, who did not like the fact that Boots was so quickly scoffing at the idea.
"Of course you’re good enough,” said Boots, who did indeed think she was but was increasingly unsure of how events had transpired to make him have to defend the idea. "I'm sure you'd make a fine girlfriend. But we just met, didn't we, and I don't really know you, do I, and this whole conversation is becoming more and more absurd, isn't it."
"Oh, now I'm absurd, am I," said Judy, who also realized that things had gotten a bit out of hand but didn't know how to bring them back.
"You're not absurd at all," said Boots, who before he knew it added, “in fact, I think you may be the most beautiful woman I've ever seen!”
"I was right," said Smarts, bringing the conversation full circle, "she is your girlfriend."
Astonished to hear the recent pronouncement from Boots, who was not usually given to superlatives unless there were some sort of derogatory words and/or meaning attached, Lips, Guru-Vy, Sparks and the Visitor, who still was somewhat confused over all of this talking when he thought they were making a movie about mimes, turned to see what Judy/SnakeWoman would have to say.
All eyes upon her, Judy/SnakeWoman was about to admit that that was the nicest compliment she'd ever received when instead she looked down and realized that Cleo was no longer wrapped around her neck, and was indeed nowhere to be seen, so what actually came out of her mouth was, "I think you're kinda cute, too, but where the fuck is my snake?"
“I don’t know,” yelled Boots, at the same time looking anxiously down to make sure nothing was planning to crawl anywhere in his direction. "She can't have gotten far. Let's all look for her. And what do you mean, ‘kinda?’”
"Be careful not to step on her," said Guru-Vy, whose conflicted feelings about what seemed to be a developing relationship between Boots and Judy/SnakeWoman were now taking a back seat to the growing realization that he was actually about to make a movie. "She is one of our stars."
"If anything happens to her I'll kill y’all," said Judy/SnakeWoman, the vehemence of which statement caused Boots to become once again temporarily unable to move, while the other targets of her wrath backed up a few steps. "Without her I'm nothing."
As Boots pondered the truth of this sentiment, wondering how someone reached the particular point in their life where a snake was more important than anything else, and hoping that for whatever future he might have with her it wasn't true, and Sparks, Smarts and Guru-Vy began stepping gingerly over objects and debris that moments earlier they had not given a second thought to crushing underfoot, and the Visitor silently mouthed the words "I'm ready for my close-up" over and over again, Lips noticed a rustling movement in a small bush about ten feet away, slowly approached, and dropped his jaw in amazement.
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