and then the kid pops out of the corner, holding something in his hand. "What's that you've got there?" Someone asks. "Oh, this, it's nothing." Sure. Sure it is, kid. Nothing's working a job 12 hours a day, 7 days a week and getting paid in jelly beans, and even then, that's something. It's all a matter of perspective, see. But you're not supposed to be drinking that stuff. It'll rot your teeth out, and, and, you're gonna be a deacon! You just wait.
and then the kid (who's no longer a kid) shrugs his shoulders and takes a big swig of the stuff. He holds the bottle tilted, letting the purple liquid pour unpressurized. It fills his mouth and begins spewing over, running down his shirt. When he's finished he smiles a wicked smile, his white teeth stained violet. He looks like a madman. "Oh, for the love of... it's a Mtn. Dew Pitch Black. Jeez." Someone storms off, upset and rankled.
and then the kid sits down and pops in his new cd, My Morning Jacket's latest Circuital, and gives it a listen. He's pleased to hear an official album version of one of his favorite songs, "Wonderful (The Way I Feel)," which he first heard on an NPR podcast from the Newport Folk Festival, where Jim James played an acoustic set with M. Ward accompanying from time to time. Oh, he thinks. "Outta my System" sounds like the Beach Boys. Wow. And is that a children's choir in "Holdin on to Black Metal"? How does this band continue to re-create itself and yet stay the same? He doesn't know, but he's glad he bought the $5 album from Amazon.com (available throughout June). Totally worth the five bucks.
and then the kid leans over and whispers something to himself. He tells himself that yes, it's true, his wife is now officially on bed rest. Her blood pressure has been up, and just to be safe, they've prescribed it. The baby that grows within her slept soundly through the lengthy monitoring yesterday, but for the kid and his wife's patience they were rewarded with new ultrasounds. Black & white pictures rendered in three dimensions displaying a beautiful baby's face. Their baby. Their Avonlea.
and then the kid gets up and cocks his head, listening. "Hark!" he proclaims. Ideas flit around his head and he strains to grab one, but they all flee from his hungry clutches. He persists, finally taking hold of one named Clive, and he sticks it in his ear, where it slips and slides down the canal and drowns in grey matter. He knows its secret desires. He sees.
and then the kid inhales deeply, thinking about what all there is to do and to not do. To Do: mow the yard in the mid 90 degree temperature, pick up groceries, go to the Joe Purdy concert next Wednesday, empty out Stewartland in preparation for next weekend's yard sale, clean out Stewartland for the end of the month's baby arrival, finish up the ditch calculations for the current project and get some channel line data by tomorrow's end, and figure out a way to wrap this post up. Not To Do: rob a bank or a bagel shop, stub the toes, slip and fall down the stairs, get a kidney stone from drinking too much Mtn Dew, and accidentally cut my arm off and replace it with a pirate hook and/or chainsaw.
and then the kid runs away, screaming some wild medley of "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" and "Thriller" and "I Fall to Pieces." The long tendrils of Mtn Dew follow behind. They soon catch up to him, where he's staked out behind a building. He spies Someone standing up against a streetlight. His foot hits something--a 20 oz. bottle of Mtn Dew Pitch Black. It's available for a limited time only. He picks it up and takes a swig.