CHAPTER ONE (7)

“Bye, guys.” He addressed his small assembly. Half were paying him some attention, Toddy was fully entranced with anything that dealt with drugs, and the rest were mindlessly gaping at the floor that was vacant of all but Mitzi’s first table of guests. One might have expected him to announce that “the buck stops here,” or even, “I have a dream.” And normally Matt might get one of those phrases in, or one similar to it during one of his orations. Toddy would never have understood the implications, the sheer irony of tacking that on to his speech, but some of the servers might. Many of the servers under 25 were attending the university, still many others were attending the local community colleges. And then there were some like Toddy, who never had a chance of education.

There were rumors that Toddy had spent some of his early twenties in the California State Prison, which Todd liked to call euphemistically for his own purposes “A Correctional Playground.” He would never fully divulge his whereabouts during his twenties, and so the front of the house treated the situation as a mystery; a mystery in which one’s own imagination would fill in the blanks about Todd’s young adulthood. Some said that he never quite left the “party” stage, some said that he’s taken too many hits of acid, which explained why he was a server at the age of 31. It also explained his perverse urges, sometimes spontaneously exposed at work, his proclivity to something called “schwampagne”, and other odd things.

Schwampagne was first concocted by Toddy in a bout of extreme alcohol and marijuana binging, which, in this case, last for about three days. The scene was Squirley’s house; a studio house in the middle of Miracle Mile (the hangout for the rogues and desperados) that could not have exceeded more than 450 square feet. Clothes strewn about the fold in bed, dirty dishes strew… well strewn everywhere, Toddy and Squirley took a rip from a bong that cost more than two-month’s rent. Squirley’s peach fuzz haircut had grown sloppy and greasy, which was extenuated by the tiny baby curls his father had passed down. His dark brown skin (his mother was white, his father black) was also patterned with miniscule beads of sweat that accumulated to smaller drops around his hairline. Toddy was also beading sweat, and both of them had cussed the broken air conditioner in unison until finally submitting to the fact that yelling at it might not fix anything.

Ryan had a forty of Mickey’s in the palm of one hand, trying to balance it. In other other rested the bong.

“Yo, Ry. Give me the bong, it’s time for the smokin’ to begin.” They had been smoking for just under three days.

“I feel ya’, dog.” He passed the bong across the fold in bed with clothes weighting it down. The vertical blinds were slightly opened, enough to let the light fall on the clothes in increments. It was afternoon. There were Mexicans speaking Spanish outside in heightened voices. From what little Spanish Squirley knew, he could tell that one of them had screwed the other’s girlfriend and a fight was about to ensue. They perpetually fight about this girl, every day, 430 pm, thought Squirley.

“You got any more bud?” Asked Toddy.

“Todd, you know we’re out. We’ve been smoking for like three days now. I spent my whole damn paycheck.”

“Oh, yeah.” Todd took a hit. Tastes like Pinesol.

Suddenly, Todd stole the lighter away from the bowl. He had obviously touched his finger to the metal. The bong went flying, the weed in the bowl methodically sprung out and landed clear across the room into the kitchen. Earlier, the two had devised a plan to use the last of the everclear, rum, and fruitpunch to formulate an impromptu Jungle Juice and decided to put it into a large croc pot, for lack of anything better.

There was the clunk, then the sound of air bubbles exiting the caverns of the nugget of kind bud. Ryan and Todd caught eyes for a moment wondering what they were going to do next. Before Todd could explain the chaotic act of fate, Ryan clasped his large hands around Todd’s pudgy but tiny neck in comparison.

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

“Ry – “ He was gurgling.

“We ain’t got no more weed, you useless sonofabitch! You fowl piece of perverted, smelly, cock-sucking, crap!” Ryan loosened his grip on poor Todd.

All was quiet. All was still. Toddy and Squirley listened to the last bubbles departing from the weed in the mixture. The final exodus, thought Squirley. The final exodus.

And thus, Schwampagne was created. An accidental progession of events led to what Toddy called “the greatest invention of the 21^st century.” Toddy coined the word schwampagne because the mixture, once settled with its alcoholic contents and marijuana, turned a murkey  (and often chunky) brownish-green color. The two, at the moment decided, out of desperation, to try the brew. Squirley was apprehensive at first:

“I dunno, man. It looks a little too weird for me. Why don’t you try it…”

                  These were the words Todd had been waiting to hear.