Date: Sun, 11 Jan 2009 13:40:58 -0800 (PST) From: Tim Stillman Subject: gm young friends "The Banishing of Balthazar" "The Banishing of Balthazar" by Timothy Stillman Balthazar was bummed out because he had been taken for a ride, and all the bloody place they went was the A&W Root Beer Stand, not even the back slot on the shady side where the squeaky cleans don't even go, but he slides us right into one of the squeaky clean slots where, you got it, the squeaky cleans are sitting in their cars reading the Bible and having prayer sessions with their root beer, (beer, even root? I detect hypocrisy here.) So, Balthazar had thought it was going to be keen as grass on a toke day at Alice's Restaurant, but here he was soaking up the ROOT beer suds instead of getting gassed and wasted like any normal ten year old boy in the Year of The Black Kinda President For Sure 2009, all cold like in January when Balthazar had been bopping down the alleyway corridor of gun metal gray locker dim lights so dim you could get gorbrels stroked by at least two other kids and no one the wiser in the jungle gym of the appropriately stuffed in fellow classmates as the fellow classmates should at least now and then be stuffed into their fellow classmates-- --but save for Balthazar, only in dreamsville, the son of a preacher man--no one got wasted blasted fucked or fuckeed or anything else like even a fuckin' swear word cause everyone was too goody goody and Balthazar was the goodie goodiest of them all--so they thought--did they think?--could they think? Milton Bearle Middle School was the good school. Sheeba Whitemouth Middle School was the bad school. Inky Crazybrain went to the bad school. Balthazar had made a date--hey watch it buster, just you sit that side of the car and me on the passenger side, for you old Inky are the sheriff's son and are allowed to drive, can almost see over the steering wheel, and drink, speed, pop, do wap, hip hop, cause you're the son of a sheriff man, and are the baddest of the bad at Sheeba Whitemouth of the bad bad reputation Middle School. So Balthazar gets in the white cream puff thing of cherry beauty Chevy, toasting off to the envious but can't admit it starched shirts at school day end at Milton Bearle, and off they speed in a plume of ink black smoke and gunner of an engine--do wooppppp--do wopppp--so what den of iniquity is their destination? To the tunes of "Cryin' In The Chapel" from the late E. Presley. All atwitter was Balthazar. Though Inky cut his ride speed drastically to snail mail a block hither. Confusing the hell out of Balthazer who was playing knuckles hard and happy on knees. What heroin hive hang out are we headed too with lots of flash cash in Inky's crazy thick wallet of supremo?--and surely Inky should have handed me a blunt by now and hopped the cool antique with sharp fins and chrome so baby washed it should outshine the buggin' sun--`stead of going slowly like a kiddy car though there were indeed two kiddies in it, should a splash dash over the heaps in front, but say no--so Balthazar was about to say to his main man hey main man I'm Rad and Cool and supreme so toke back with Alice B.T. and lets get that acid popping here where you're turning--at one limp dick rate of speed my man--lets bugger this baby out--steam the steam--and the fuzzy big dice on the rear view, man here we go like granny goose turning into a sick smelling evil smelling stomach high tasting oh god I hope I don't have to jab a needle in my arm but if it comes to that...being high had its challenges and here we are at--oh godddddddd--no I wide eye you and beg you please this is the fuckin root beer stand--and to top that, it's the good one, not the bad bad one--and what are you the baddest of the bad doing--oh yeah, ah yes ma'am, ah, thank you, just one large frosty mug--god am I bummed. Course, the root beer is good and the coldness burns my throat in a nice way and it's way cool sitting in this baddest of all cars.. ...and Balthazar, you don't carry a moniker or a chain round your neck without getting some derring-do for survival kicked in your kit so Balthazar puts his hand right smack dab there on Inky's be-jeansed crotch while Inky was reading in his fire haired silence "Catcher in the Rye" which Balthazar thought should be "Catchhim in the Rye" as Inky took Balthazar's firm as a rock hand in his own, that would be Inky's for purpose of clarification, firm as a rock hand and put the offending hand back into its owner, that would be Balthazar's, for purpose of clarification, own crotch which was its own purpose of clarification sprouting a boner, without even noticing, Inky, that is, that all this minor transaction, and rejection, woe is me, had taken place at all. As calm as a cucumber, as opposed to calm as a raddish, reading his book, Inky sipped his frosty mug of fake suds well the suds were real but the beer was fake, why on earth do they call it root beer?, Balthazar wondered, if it is the root of beer, what is the mathematical schematic of it? And if there is the root of beer then could there ostensibly be a square root of beer? If we are talking mathematics here at all, and not the root from which beer might grow..a beer root? Have we been lied to all these lonely years? And here Inky is my dinky and here is your hard firm hand on my hard firm hand as your Inky hand goes back to put root beer mug on tray attached to rolled down window as you go read your book, as I think wait a mo....why do they call you Inky? How about Red? That's be clever. Cause you read books--Inky, ok, cute. I want you bro..to which Inky replied o my brother give it a rest..to which I said o my brother? And thought of course A Clockwork Orange..what ten year old kid doesn't know this stuff after all?? I cuddled up to the passenger door far and away and sipped thru a straw while Inky drank from the mug like a man..and he has a strong mug..and his mug is a mug a guy could be happy to be seen with..chiseled like that u'know, and it would be great if I could lay him in the rye and keep him from jumping off the cliff with the other children. And, man I'd like to get wasted for real and fer sure..so I picked up my hand and petted his peter and he looked at me disgruntled and said hey Balthazar we have none of the world to share, move over there, so I scrunched up my mouth and eyes and nose of knowing origin and said in my pipsqueak voice, kiss me you fool so Inky saw me really saw me and finished his mug and wiped the foam off his lip with the back of his left hand, beeped his fake tiger muff covered wheel in the center of it, a horn, so the waitress came out for our mugs, me guzzling the last of mine, and off we go into the dimming daylight of our little date together. Heard you were a wild and crazy dude rude, Inky said as he drove me home in that comatosemobile...and I said yeah I crack a pipe now and again and I can lude with the best of `em and when it comes to coke, man I am your man, man...so Inky having been influenced by A Clockwork Orange and Cathhim in the Rye..hmmmmm...Alex and his Droogs have death match with Holden and Franny and throw in Zooey and Seymour too..who would win? Superman would. Cause Superman is real, while Mighty Mouse is--wait--wrong joke. So I grope slow driving Inky in the gollylobs or whatever and his hand smacks my filthy hole, sigh, the wrong one, and I draw back and whimper as he says all snarly like I thought you were a good egg..a Gatsby kind of guy..and gosh darn heck I am so tired of dope and sex and foolin around and smokin and just wanted a nice guy to go on a date with that I could have some sweet times with..and respect for..some really good dude not rude who would just let me gentle like love `em and not get their dicks up my bum and that's all they want of me by godfrey..and you are just a dirty gollywipe so here's your home and good bye to you, as he kicked me out of the door and I'm going wait wait we misread each other misinterpretation is the cause for all strife in the world oh please missy sorry..as he drove off in a huff..even backfired for I'll see you never again you degenerate puff adder...then drove off slower than ever, he drove off like a painting. It took him a good ten minutes to reach the next corner, I could have crawled it faster. I crawled in the lonely rejected world of my house instead. Reject me, one thing--reject my house--you got a knife fight on your hands. I, sad cry weep crushed I, will insert all of this into my crazy quilt diary; my grandma made it for me, out of crazy quilts, she was a little crazy herself, the covers I mean; there is paper inside for it would be difficult to write on a qulit crazy or sane...what had happened. And then I will fuck off. He would have wanted me to. Oh no one has a wetter pillow than an innocent maiden named Balthazar. Just don't pray for him. It's tough enough for him as it is, ok?