I Am Ahab

By Casey Mensing

First love. An old man arguing with a chimp. Christmas shopping on acid. Heartbreak. Kerouac's Ghost. A death in the family. A governor on a crime spree. Love in the time of an artistic revolution. I Am Ahab is a collection of high times and weird tales centered around the Tampa Bay area.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casey Mensing
• Release date: Mar 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370738106

Casey Mensing

Casey Mensing was born in Breese, IL. Some might remember him from such other places as Scottsdale, AZ, Tampa, FL, Murfressboro, TN, and Honolulu, HI. Currently, he's hiding out in the greater Los Angeles area. His first book, Love Is A Ghost Thing was published in 2008 and was followed by Riverside Blues in 2011. Casey has been known to record with the band JUBANO! He also writes for Hammaker of The Gods and The Lies and The Laughter. Check out www.caseymensing.com for any and all info on Casey's current and future projects.

Book preview

I AM

AHAB

Casey Mensing

Lambright Press

Copyright © 2018 Casey Mensing

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher.

Smashwords Edition

Cover Art and Design by Jack Hackhorn

FOR MIKE RIEK

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

HEATHEN TIMES

A DAY WITH GEORGE

WHAT WILL BE?

MEMORY IS DESIRE

I AM AHAB

DUMBSAINTS

RIVERSIDE BLUES

YOU’VE GOT A LOT OF NERVE

TASTE OF AN APPARITION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To everyone who was there, then.

Heathen Times

We were heading south down Dale Mabry Highway. The acid we ate as we rolled over Hillsborough Avenue before sliding into the valley of used car dealerships, was clean — a guaranteed good trip. I reclined my seat, got comfortable, then glanced over at Carlos whose eyes were wide and troubled.

The initial tingle made its flirtatious debut as we pulled into the Hardee's parking lot. Carlos and I were eyeing each other, trying to figure out what our next move should be. Carlos spoke up, Are you feeling anything yet?

Aaa, yeah, a mild buzz of sorts, I responded after hesitating, trying to grasp what sensations my body was experiencing.

"So am I. How long do you think we have until it hits

us?"

Tough to say, it could be twenty minutes, might be the next time you blink.

You're the one that's taken hits from this sheet before.

I didn't have a buzz. I was looking one way and by the time I turned my head the other way, I was fucked.

Do you think we should still go in?

I guess so. What do you think?

Why not?

*

Carlos and I were having trouble with the concept of eating. We felt all the eyes in the restaurant were on us and none of our impulses felt right. Neither of us was really hungry, so before we unwrapped our food, we drank our sodas, hoping some natural instinct or behavior we learned as children would kick in. That time seems so long ago, not even real, I thought to myself. I'm not even sure if that young boy even existed. The memories feel like they belonged to someone else. Total detachment. That small blond-headed boy is a casualty of time . . . or is he? Perhaps he still exists in some parallel universe.

I noticed the ceiling fan was moving at a fantastic speed in a clockwise, then counter-clockwise fashion. Its shadow arms reached across and grabbed a hold of the wall. A red light from somewhere outside pushed its way in, coating us and our table. I was having an Apocalypse Now vision as Carlos and I began to tear into the dead animal flesh.

Saigon, shit, I'm still only in Saigon, I mumbled. The acid was coursing from scalp to toenails. Every time my heart beat, I could feel cranked up blood cells rush up and down arteries and veins. I chewed my food for an exceptionally long time because I forgot what it was I was doing. My mind wandered, becoming fixated on the grinding and gnawing that was coming from Carlos until he noisily swallowed. He leaned over and whispered, I'm going to get more to drink.

Okay. Sounds good, I mumbled, as Carlos made a carefully plotted walk to the register to ask for a refill. As the cashier turned around to fill his cup, he gazed upon an orphaned piece of fried chicken on the heating rack. I don't know if it was the way it was lying there all alone, or it was the orange glow of the heating lamp beating down upon it; in the seconds it took the cashier to fill his cup, Carlos became obsessed with the withering leftover chicken. Can I have that piece of chicken? Carlos asked the unsuspecting cashier when she turned back around and handed him the cup.

We don't sell the chicken individually. You can buy it as part of a meal.

I don't want a meal. I already have one. Can't you just give me the piece of chicken?

You can purchase it as part of a meal.

I don't want to purchase it. I want you to give it to me.

Excuse me.

Sensing trouble, I quietly got up and headed to the counter. Everyone was staring at us and my mind moaned and creaked under the weight of my own self-perception. The more I told myself to stay calm, the more I was convinced that everyone in the restaurant knew how fucked up I was. A simple thing like standing still became a task, and I knew they are all after us and are going to drag us outside and stone us to death. No one in the world can save us from our fate. It's all going to come to a hellish end.

Sir, is there something I can help you with? The manager had arrived, like a western film sheriff in a white hat, to save the cashier. His name was Doug.

I want that piece of chicken.

Well, you can purchase the chicken as part of a meal.

He doesn't want to buy it, the cashier, whose name tag read Brenda, chimed in.

I don't understand, Doug the Manager said.

It's quite simple. I want you to give me that piece of chicken. You don't even need to put it in a bag. Just hand it to me.

I'm not just going to give it to you.

Why not?

"Because you have to buy it. This is America and

in this country things cost money. I'd get fired if I just

went around giving things away because people asked."

Maybe it's time for a career change.

You need to leave or I’m calling the cops.

Doug was pissed, everyone in the restaurant could sense it. I started to back away toward the door. I wasn't about to turn my back on anyone in here. If someone was going to try something, I wanted to see it coming. Carlos decided to let it go as well. He started for the door then turned around, stared at Brenda and Doug, then shouted. You're a pair of miserable chicken hoarding motherfuckers.

We left the restaurant and walked across the parking lot, looking over our shoulders in case someone was on our tail. We decided not to go straight to the car; instead, we walked around the strip mall, passing a nail salon, an insurance office, A Dollar Tree, then two abandoned spaces with large FOR LEASE signs in the windows. Our mouths were stretched from ear to ear with drug grins. We laughed loudly and stupidly at everything real or imagined until we reached the farthest point of the strip mall. We pulled ourselves together and once we felt like the coast was clear we headed back to the car.

After a quick stop at a convenience store to pick up a six-pack of beer, we made our way across the street — parking in a hidden area behind a church. We were talking about Russ Meyer's Faster Pussycat Kill Kill, which we'd seen a couple of nights before when my mind began streaming off into new and unknown places. I could still hear Carlos' voice pounding out rhythms but his words were meaningless. I could feel the electric impulses flashing, circulating through my brain and trailing behind them are these unconnected thoughts . . . No one knows everything or anything. I love everyone but am an emotional cripple surrounded by walls. The ideas my paranoid hallucinations impart are total truth. I was left wondering why I was in this car, sucking down beers as fast as I could. I tried to communicate to Carlos what was going on inside my head, but the words were mud in my throat. Even if I could've spoken, he was lost in his own void of thought and communication was nearly impossible. I slid back into the seat and opened my last beer.

Beer's finished, Carlos announced. With that, we got out of the car and sat on the hood. I looked into the sky, city lights washing out the pure sparkle of the stars — while in the heavens to my left, hovered a gray half-moon, one sad eye watching my actions. Then Carlos decided he needed to find birthday presents for his sister and father right then. I decided to tag along. The beer was making its presence known, the acid was still surging, and we were on our way to the grand vortex of capitalist culture, the mall.

*

Music blared as we walked through the doors (at least in my mind it did), and I was instantly overwhelmed by the frenzied consumerism — everything that is good and ugly about America. The capitalist spirit was in action and Carlos and I were doomed. Fear grabbed hold of us as we walked down the wide aisles, which were teeming with people. I thought I had a handle on things after the initial explosion, but I quickly realized we'd only begun our descent into hell.

It was a discovery of colors and sounds. A surge of adrenaline, electricity, and fear pushed me on. My eyes were strained and I'd swear I was sweating, but there was not a bit of moisture on my skin. I ran my fingers along my arm and then my brow just to make sure. Carlos and I were together physically, but universes away on any other level. I was lost, alone in spirit, and too twisted to do anything about it.

In one insane moment ,we were forced into the same hyper-reality when we walk into the Warner Brothers store.

We've wandered into hell! I turned and blurted to Carlos, as roach-like children scurried around us in this plush and plastic wonderland, whose floors dipped and rose like the sea. The chatter and clatter were deafening. I longed for sweet silence or some reassuring song, invisible harmonies that would carry me away from this place. This is not healthy. Why am I doing this to myself? What thoughts are swimming through Carlos' fractured mind?

I'm troubled by the notion that we'd gone too far, too much deviance in this true church of contemporary America. Then I countered myself, is it actually possible to go too far? Why set limits? We were in no condition to deal with restrictions of any kind. Our trip was already bent and perverse . . . now, this.

We knew that it had only just begun, to run in fear would be sacrilegious. Now was not the time to stop the machine. Carlos and I stuck close together, continued on through the spectacle of fantastic lights and sounds. Childhood memories flowed forth as our eyes became transfixed on the big screen TV that acted as a portal into the land of Warner Bros cartoons. In every aisle, Carlos continued his search for the perfect gift for his sister. It wasn't until the third lap around the store that I noticed the confused look on his face. I knew he was just too fucked up to think about picking out a gift. I turned around and grabbed something, saying, How about this?

Carlos gazed at the Tasmanian Devil notepad that I was holding in my hand. Then he picked up a Tweety Bird staple remover and whispered, Now let's leave.

Carlos marched up to the cashier, who was lost in the routine of her daily toil. While she began to ring up the items, Carlos stared intently at the stuffed Daffy Duck on the counter. In the cartoon playing on the big screen TV behind us, Daffy began a soliloquy of sorts, which caused Carlos to ask fearfully, Is that stuffed duck talking to me? I checked the look on the cashier's face, which had become a distorted, angry Cubist face.

Paranoia. Carlos leaned towards me, "I'm having a Midnight Cowboy moment. Utterly confused, I asked, You feel like a male prostitute?

We pushed on in search of a glimmer of reality to dig in to. Then our wandering and weaving came to a halt. We froze. The neon was still flashing and swirling around us. The floor rolled softly, gently, more pacific now; but it was still taking all our strength to stand strong. Quiet breaths were drawn and released. It was time to go. We could only handle so much. We quickly turned to leave, but everything spun and flipped — the carnival ride we were on went into reckless overdrive. There were more beings than before. I could no longer be a voyeur of souls and flesh. I was now a participant. Soft bodies of all shapes and colors trudged along in orderly fashion. Carlos and I were now part of the herd. A pair of mad cows, diseased and reckless, trying to fit in. We managed to push forth, retrace our steps, and eventually make our way out of the mall.

We stared out into the parking lot at the empty spot, hoping the car would appear because it wasn't where we parked it.

Are you sure this is where we left it? I asked.

Yes! He demanded. But my question made him think. He paused for a second, stared at the ground, slowly got his head together, then realized that the store we came out of had two exits. Back inside we went, wandering through the crowd, trying to find the other exit. When we reached it, we rushed out without any trepidation, and immediately spotted the car.

Once seated with seat belts fastened, a great sigh of relief was exhaled. I relaxed, leaned back in the passenger seat and could feel the acid easing off. In place of anxiety and treacherous visuals was a moment of relief. Carlos and I decided to head over to Ernesto's party. But first, another dose was in order.

*

I was lost in the mirror. My face, eyes, the mosaics of broken glass. This is fuckin' hardcore! A voice shouted from the other side of the door. The geometric shapes cracked, my head quietly exploded as the triple dipped doses Carlos and I took on the way over burrowed deeper. There were three of us hiding out in the bedroom, which contained a large mattress covered in black sheets, furniture covered in meaningless crap. I surveyed the room for a sense of reality, making sure not to look in the mirror again. I was too twisted to do anything. Who the hell is this strange girl? I crawled over, took the cigarette out of her hand, flicked the long ash off and took a drag. Handing it back to her, I asked in my most non-threatening voice, Who are you?

She looked at me nervously, and with good reason; it felt like the sun was burning behind my eyes.

After taking a drag of her own, she exhaled and said, I'm Jane . . . Danielle's sister.

A loud commotion on the other side of the door started up, growing quick in intensity — beckoning. My curiosity was no longer focused on Jane but fully dedicated to the noise. I got up slowly and headed for the door. A horrible fear slithered up my spine and struck the base of my skull; I could feel its fangs sink in. I wanted to know what was going on out there, but I could taste the evil. I turned back towards Jane, seeking the familiarity. As my eyes found her, I saw a Gothic Virgin Mary, black, flowing tresses of hair, tears of India ink flowed from her eyes, and just as her lips began to move, I shut my eyes tight and reached blindly for the doorknob; before I can turn it, I felt a body press against me. You going out or what?

Opening the door, I confronted chaos . . . The flash of strobe lights and the thundering repetitive bass of the music filled the hallway — crammed with intoxicated, sweating friends and strangers, all bathed in the flashing red light. At first glance, it was hard to tell who was who. I was two steps into the hall when Ernesto and his six-foot-plus muscular body came lunging at me through the crowd. He laughed madly, as he handed me a beer. This is the fuckin' craziest night ever! He yelled into my ear.

His drug-induced energy mixed with