CHAPTER TWO (8) Mitzi's dream continued...

The accountant got up again and ushered him to the door. He was tinier than Matt had imagined, but nonetheless intimidating. His suit made up for it, and his manner. As they made their way toward the door, Mitzi heard the ghastly moaning of the person in the back room and winced.

“I do wish he would shut up already!” cried the accountant. “I can never get anything done around here with that incessant groaning. Here are your keys.”

Mitzi poured onto the street into the hell again. It was dark although the sun was out: the buildings towered menacingly. He expected rain, but the clouds didn’t look all that promising. He wished it might rain to wash out all of this agony.

This is it? Matt thought. He put the keys into a black Mark III and tested the engine. It will suffice. He looked into the rear view mirror –

“Holy fucking shit!”

“You didn’t think you’d be going alone, did you?” said Dogbert. There was Virgil next to him, his yellow teeth emerging from his lips in that ever-present smile. Behind the two in the back of the van were the pilgrims – those who would be bringing the word of God to the mob within the heart of District 11. A little perturbed, Mitzi took his foot off the breaks. He had known that NORML would be sending pilgrims to the most difficult of areas, but he hadn’t been notified that they’d be on his mission.

Next to the pilgrims stood the weapons and ammunition. Next to the ammunition stood the first aid kits and oxygen tanks. A defibrillator stood nearby those. The van was pretty cramped, but adequate. Essentially, the van was an ambulance equipped for a mass casualty incident in the form of a ‘96 Mark III with armored sidewalls.

But what most amazed Matt were the three men cramped in the farthest regions of the van: the natives of District 11. Their clothing was torn and shabby and irrefutably soiled. Their faces were all gaunt and expressionless, and they held close to them a good three pounds of beef wrapped in an oily newspaper. They seemed to Matt to be excessively underweight, but their eyes, their eyes bulged out of their cheek bones so intensely! It seemed as if those eyes were watching Mitzi’s every turn of the wheel, every shift in gear, every transition from clutch to break. They were menacing and dangerous, and Mitzi kept one eye on the road and one eye in his rear-view mirror fixed on them. They might cause problems. They began their journey into the heart of District 11 via Broadway boulevard in this situation: a stupidly contented Dogbert and Virgil, a few missionaries not at ease but spreading the word of The Good Book, three shifty native homeless men, and a leery Mitzi on a mission hanging on the notion of either a great man or a very, very bad man.

The mysterious Katz had now begun to be blown out of proportion in Mitzi’s mind: he was god gone horribly wrong, but he was in awe nevertheless. Before, Katz had never seemed a bona fide being; a being full of flesh and feasible. The pilgrims, the homeless men, all of these things made the entire mission more real for Mitzi, and his heart began to sprint ten feet before the van, even though they were moving at a steady 55 miles per hour. The homeless men were ghosts, but still served as some threat: the whole environment was unearthly and the men were – no, they were not inhuman. Well, that was the worst of it – the suspicion of their not being human. The suspicion wreaked in Mitzi head the worst scenarios: they might mutiny, they might do away with the wonderful pilgrims on their wonderful charge. Who knows? But no, they clung to their parcel of beef with their colossal eyeballs in their undersized sockets in their ghostly faces atop emaciated bodies. It didn’t seem they had energy to do much else, but somehow they located it somewhere in their bony frames and did the work. It was Virgil and Dogbert who didn’t seem to do much – instead, the homeless men clung to their beef and stuck the nozzles of their AK-47s out tiny peepholes of the Mark III in case one of the men on the outside decided to do anything tricky.

Yes, it was a motley squad in that van: a juxtaposition of Christianity and firepower, the thin faces of the homeless men and the plump ones of Virgil and Dogbert. But all had in common their missions, whether it be to retrieve Katz or to spread their religion. But it was the smell of weed that resounded in the air most of all. Even in the pilgrims holy air floated heavily subtle talk of marijuana – a hint here and there. The homeless men were the only ones who’d had a enough of it, they had spent their livelihoods (or what little there was of it) on drugs and alcohol and now they were forced to cling to something only of necessity. 

CHAPTER TWO (7) Mitzi's dream continued...

“…A man who has changed District 11 and indeed the whole institution of NORML. When I met the man – no! the God – I became a follower. He could sell a flat tire to a bike, a dick to a dyke –“

“A dick to a dyke.”

“And he has indeniably gained the most marijuana for the mission. In all of the regional districts, he has reported much of the gregariate total of pot. Indeniably the best!” Dogbert raised his index finger to the sky.

“Indeniably.”

“But of course, he has soured. Ah – the greed of man! He has stopped reporting what he acquires and hordes it for himself. A perfect case of a man gone horribly awry.”

“Well that’s why I am here.” Mitzi said.

They had been walking for quite some time now and the streets became denser and denser with dilapidated buildings. Their shadows hung luminously on the ever-narrowing street below as if there was a battle between street and edifice. The buildings seemed to materialize and swell while the streets cowered in their midst with no escape. The natives below had no prayer. Some were dead, their bodies decayed and in the air hung the stench of death. Who was in charge of human clean up? Wondered Matt.

“Don’t worry about them,” Virgil said as he pointed to the grove of dead and dying, “Time will take its course.”

“Well, this is our post. You will remain here until your transportation is obcured.” Announced Dogbert. Dogbert and his disciple lead him into a makeshift settlement building, which was kempt and fit. It was a functioning office; a refreshing sight from the revolting and shadowing landscape outside. Everything was in its place – there was in an inbox and an outbox and everything was white and sterile, much like the backroom of the doctor’s office. Beside the inbox sat the name plate:

 

Mr. Donald Scheffield

Chief Accountant

 

He was very neatly dressed. His impeccable habit of “looking professional” rejuvenated Mitzi’s soul and brought him back to a world that functioned with certain dignity. His lapel was white and starched with a white collared button-down poking out beneath it. His tie was even white and he seemed to dress in accordance with his office. Mitzi was mystified by this important man, who so contradicted the dirtiness emitted from Dogbert and Virgil. How could a man keep his esteem so unimpeachable in a such a foul and detestable place? This man defied everything that Mitzi had so far encountered on this mission, and his aim was to keep his respectability in0line with this man.

“Good morning,” said the accountant. He resumed typing on the neat little computer before him. Continuing to do so, but without looking up, he said, “I trust Dogbert and Virgil haven’t ruined you yet? They can often be exasperating. But – one learns to deal.”

“They were entertaining.” Mitzi could tell this man was all business, so he hastily got down to the point. “They informed me that my transportation would be arriving soon.”

“Ah yes.” The accountant looked up. “You must be Matt.” He abandoned his position at the desk with the computer and made his way with an outstretched arm to shake Mitzi’s hand. After the formalism, he politely asked him to tae a seat.

“I am sure you have heard of Mr. Katz, then. Very troubling case. We are glad to have you, I have heard great things from the headquarters in L.A. Coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Then we shall begin. Your car will be here in a few minutes. You are to swiftly enter into the more populated part of District 11 by following Broadway. We haven’t actually made it into the heart of the District yet – a bit dodgy, if you know what I mean. Men have gone in and never come out.”

Mitzi looked straight into the man’s eyes. They seemed unattached and distant, like they were staring right through Mitzi. Suddenly, a moan seeped in from a back room. The moaning continued throughout the pause in conversation, and had it not been for the accountant’s typing that had begun again, Mitzi might have inquired. He didn’t need to, however, because the account addressed the moan complacently:

“Oh don’t mind him. His time is almost here. I wish he’d get on with it already.”

Mitzi was too stunned to ask any questions.

“Anyway, you are then to find Katz and bring him back to the settlement. We would like to detain him for the time being, but if he is not alive, at least bring the body back.”

“Absolutely.”

“Your ride is here.”

“Excellent.”

CHAPTER TWO (6) Mitzi's dream continued...

Dogbert and Virgil (codenames, Mitzi had suspected), greeted him grimly. They both were wearing suits and ties and sunglasses standing on the sidewalk. Dogbert motioned for Mitzi to follow with the wave of his hand, while Virgil took up the rear. Virgil was looking around, as if the watch. Every few steps he might turn his head back to make sure that no one was following them with their feet or their eyes.

It was certainly the ghetto, as he had been warned about District 11. The buildings were decaying; falling to pieces so much so that their innards were thrust out towards the passerby as they were bursting. But a slow burst. Cars lined the small alleyway that Dogberry lead him to, each car it seemed from a different decade, but every single one regardless of age was in a state of decomposition. Their interiors seemed rotted out and those parts that were no shaded by their frames were dry and cracked. The whole sick scene was dismal. Mitzi wished he could jump through one of the broken windows in order to escape from this festering shit-hole. To be off the street would be a blessing right now.

“Are you wearing protective gear?” Asked Dogberry objectively.

Matt felt for his under-armor. “Check.”

“What have you eaten for breakfast?”

“Oatmeal, sir.”

“Let’s keep it inside, mkay?”

Mitzi became more aware of his surroundings.

“We want to warn you that this is District 11, and that everything you have heard about it is a hackneyed crock of horse manure.” Virgil concurred, nodding his head and smiling viciously showing his tiny teeth that seemed oddly filed-down.

To his right, ragged men were laying on the ground, some covered in their own feces, others piled on top of each other to keep warm. They were decrepit installations in their concrete landscape; it was a proverbial no man’s land with limbs of every color, but mostly black and brown. Black arms and legs, brown arms and legs, black emotionless faces… faces without eyes and noses and mouths. They all seemed blank and shadowed. Above them were the towering buildings, all decayed and falling on one another whose re-barb within shown like their skeletons. Mitzi was reminded of the Mile, but he’d never seen a place quite this horrifying. There were makeshift bridges connecting the concrete structures that seemed made of plywood, but perhaps even thick cardboard. On them hung clotheslines.

The two men leading Mitzi seemed unaffected. Mitzi concluded that they had been here much too long; they had become immune to any compassion for the sick and dying homeless men, to the filth and grime of it all. Mitzi was sickened however, and nearly lost his stomach over the whole landscape and its inhabitance.

Dogbert continued, as did Verges with his affirmation:

“You may have heard that this place has gone a bit sour since early NORML days. Well, as you can obviously see, it is true. The situation is insatiable. Our processors came here about fifteen years ago – “

“Yeah, fifteen years ago…” interjected Vergil.

“To clean this place up. You should have seen it before we got here, all these men and their fathers were running lose around the whole vicintity. District 11 – “

“Before it was District 11… - “

“Right. Before it was District 11, was a filthy cesspool of ingrates and Philistines who were put together to form what we know as gangs.”

“Yeah – gangs.” Said a wickedly smiling Virgil drawing out the word gangs as if Mitzi didn’t understand the English language.

“Right. And these gangs” – Dogbert also drew out the word – “became fashions of what we call a druglord. And so this area of the city was ruled by micarrients and drugs, where commerce relied solely on the sale of pot, ganja, weed –“

“Diablito, mary jane – “ interjected Verges, still smiling.

“Bud, kind bud, mersh, Hydro, Green –“

“Chronic, dank, Dro, grass, peace tobacco, Texas Tea, Four-twenty, Marley, Barley – “

“Rasta Fasta, Herb, skunk, sticky-icky – “

“Mota, haze, reefer, India, Jamaica Gold, THC – “

“Cecil, Hippie Lettuce, Maoi Wowie – “

“Just to name a few.” Ended Dogbert. 

CHAPTER TWO (5) Mitzi's dream continued...

After all, he was part of an organization now, and his job had to be done.

All Mitzi was given on Katz was a minilla folder with a brief history and his recent whereabouts. Katz was originally inducted into NORML in ’74 and worked his way up to the title of Officer, apparently in charge of District 11. The memo said, explicitly, that Katz “was known to be a force to be reckoned with in his day”, but had recently diverged from NORML’s game plan. All the other Officers back at the base claimed that he “really was something,” but that he had tragically fallen off; he had become mad. Mitzi’s mission was thus created, and the aim was to get Katz in one piece – and if in one piece, perhaps even alive.

And so he was informed of exact proceedings regarding the mission early yesterday morning. Procedurally, he had to be checked by a physician, which, Mitzi mused, was an odd experience. An odd experience, indeed. But it wasn’t just the physician, it was the entire event that made him squirm in his seat on remembering it. The two women, dressed completely in black, who welcomed him into the office had been watching TV, and one, who was many years older than the other, stared at him with almost sympathetic eyes from time to time, probably during commercials. Oh quite an odd feeling it gave him! He could remember rather vividly her cold stare that stuck to him and penetrated his flesh, her gaunt eyes embedded in an emaciated face; her cheekbones protruding from her skull casting shadows onto the crevices and wrinkles in her skin. The horror!

But they went on watching television. The younger one was a tad more attractive, but it must have been the flashing light thrown from the television that gave her that insensitive look, as well. But dim rooms with fluorescent light never did a woman any good. He blamed it on the light.

After about fifteen minutes, the older more grotesque of the two raised herself from her eternal seat and ushered him into the back room. For a doctor’s office, the room seemed steril but grimy: all the nooks were filled with grunge. Sometimes mops couldn’t reach such crannies. He blamed it on the mops, but reckoned that the mops simply needed to be thrown out and new mops purchased to replace them. Yes, it must have been the mops.

The physician walked in almost immediately and starkly contrasted the receptionists from the front room. He was carrying his token clipboard and a stethoscope draped carelessly round his neck onto a standard doctor’s coat. The rest of the visit had gone pretty much as Mitzi expected, however, his impression of the two women was still with him as he exited the car. He had be warned that there were two accomplices to greet him at his destination, District 11, whom had been waiting for his arrival.

CHAPTER TWO (4) Mitzi's dream

The Bellie, a cruising mustang, as his cheuffer called it, began to heave it’s steel –framed body up the busy street. The wind was calm, and beginning down the street he was bewildered. Things looked oddly obscure tonight, perhaps it was the lack of heat ripples ascending from the concrete; it made the night look too still, too dark. I have been here before, thought Mitzi, but everything is so dark it is hard to tell. Regardless, he laid back and relaxed in the seat cushion and let his mind wander. The Indians must have been mighty pissed that we took their land, he thought, but that was the way the world worked.

All places had at one point been taken over, right? Could the road he was driving on possibly be the exception? Doubtful. Once, a Native American walked on this very earth, the earth now covered by concrete and asphalt, rubber tires, and a retro steel-framed mustang. A beautiful mustang it was! How glad those Indians must be to have things like Mustangs and concrete and asphalt to drive them on. That sucks though about the smallpox and the firewater… well you win some, you lose some. After all, we brought civilization and women like Amanda, and apple pie and Levi’s and… what am I thinking? My parents were still in Ukraine living like paupers when old Chrissy Colombo came over… what was the saying? In 1492, Colombus sailed the ocean blue? That had –

“We have arrived, sir.”

“Ah, yes.” Mitzi pulled a twenty from his pocket and handed it to the driver over the front seat.

His mission was clear: NORML had hired him on the low to salvage an insider of the operation – a Mr. Katz – and return him to their base in Los Angeles. Mitzi was possibly up for Mr. Katz’s position, and upon learning that Katz had gone psychotic because of various reasons, Mitzi had last week pushed his name up the agency’s ladder until the VP got wind of his it. He was promoted and sent on this mission, and he was positive beyond doubt that this was his chance to prove himself. NORML, the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws, since early 1970, had had its stingy voice in the public policy debate; claiming to represent “those Americans who smoke marijuana responsibly.” Recently, a more aggressive approach had been advocated by its private endorsers and the branch Mitzi was currently working for was thereby developed. He took his oath and began the grudging task of paperwork, “advertising assistance” as his seniors termed it (a euphemism for coffee-runner), and getting out on the street for public protests and so forth. He had shown his loyalty, and three years after his oath, he became a senior himself and was briefed on the upcoming mission in the newly developed and highly classified branch, christened “Project Violet.” The name had been too classified for even Mitzi, but he let that bygone go and aimed all of his attention towards Katz.

 

CHAPTER TWO (3)

Somehow, he felt clearer, and cleaner. His thoughts began to order, and he found himself perfunctorily exiting the apartment out into the light of day. He had his weed, which was exactly what was intended of the visit. He felt suddenly thrown upon the blistering pavement lining the Mile – it was a completely different world. No, that was just the pot. To his right, there was a scuffle occurring between a Mexican man and woman – their voices were raised and the woman’s arms flailed wildly about her as she spoke. Mitzi could barely understand them due their the distance, but they were apparently speaking coherent English, and he heard expletives among other slurs. Abandoning his place in front of Squirley’s door, Mitzi continued walking towards his car fearing that it might be stolen or tagged. One never knew on the Mile. But the woman’s arms were flailing so wildly that he had to look, it was too entertaining. The golden cross that laid between her cleavage glinted and flashed in the sun causing Mitzi to squint. Quite annoying. The heat waves from the asphalt rippled their image so terribly, that it seemed the two must fly away from each other at once.  

The man held out a bill. She stopped the wailing and cursing, and Matt could see her contemplating. Her mascara was heavy, so heavy that from a distance her eyes looked but two horrendous pupils bulging from her abnormally hollow face. She seemed not a day older than fifteen, and so her legs and arms seemed emaciated in the current circumstance.  Ah, thought Matt, a prostitute, of course. How perfect. The woman then began to caress the man and lead him down an alleyway. Losing his attention, Matt entered his car: No tagging, though one hubcap had been pried loose in an effort to steal it. That could be fixed.

The hit he had taken was wearing off. Mitzy saw the man and his apparent neighbor again. The whole damn scene seemed staged, wistful, like a camera-man had expertly panned the entire complex. Mitzy felt desecration creep under his skin again and quickly slammed the door. The thought of the woman – the girl, really - disturbed him, but that was just how it was on the Mile. What folly. He smoothed his hair with automatic hand, and put a CD in the player. He’d be back next week.

But in Mitzi, Ryan instilled the thought of growing weed. “I wish I knew someone who grew” resounded in Mitzi’s head. And here he was today, fixing his eyes on those two wonderful vessels nearly a year and a half later. But enough with nostalgia, now was the time to plan – preparation was key. He laid out the sheerers and canisters in which the tiny little blossoms tomorrow would be deposited. Tomorrow, they would find themselves into carefully weighed baggies, the scale (of which he’d stolen from his 10^th grade chemistry class) sat with its electrical cord neatly wound beside the sheerers. All of his utensils – Mitzi, afflicted somewhat with a tad of obsessive compulsiveness – were arranged concisely in the order in which they would be drawn on tomorrow. Oh tomorrow! Yes, tomorrow was the day of recognition, the day in which his life had culminated. How beautiful.

He took another hit. It had been a long day and his eyelids were heavier than he had expected.

It was on these nights, when he had so little weed, that he would dream of Amanda before falling asleep. She was a transfer from Denver, and moved down here to attend the University in order to obtain her bachelor’s in theology. A bright girl of twenty-two, Amanda had grown up in a small town outside of Denver – a suburb packed with symmetrically grided streets and children destined to be loitering heirs of city directors – and, wanting to break free of her father’s also symmetrical Christian-reform ideals, decided to move once she was of age. Her father, of course, was heart-broken by this fact and removed himself from her life almost completely. The first hint of spite began to well in the both of them, but, the guilt that so often accompanies a father in addition to a Priest, allowed him to help her financially. Thus, Amanda had situated herself in a moderately priced one-bedroom apartment near the University campus and as far away from Miracle Mile as possible. She figured – it being the dregs and impiety of the city – she might only have to pass through the Mile three or four times a week to facilitate her making a little extra pocket money at Corrotto’s.

It was at Corrotto’s that Mitzi first caught site of Amanda SevenBarge. It was this moment in which his impervious obsession began, but so sadly juxtaposed with its vanity. Amanda was quite literally Matt’s antithesis in every way: she had neither smoked marijuana or taken a sip of alcohol (ruling out the fact that the Blood of Christ was alcohol) and claimed never to have wanted to. She depended almost entirely on her father financially and Matt hadn’t spoken to his parents for years, justifying this fact by declaring he had simply “become bored with them.” She, on the other hand, spoke to her father once or twice a week as a token of love, but really as a ploy to keep the flow of money constant. Plus – her father had ignited in her passion for religion and to him she owed more than one phone call a week. They both seemed in two entirely different worlds in which neither of them could even remotely comprehend the other’s.

The most manifested of differences was Amanda’s virginity. She was not a shy girl, this Amanda, and she certainly let it be known to the front of the house where her values stood: in complete and utter chaste. No nicotine, no weed, no alcohol, only the occasional over-the-counter painkiller, and for goodness sakes (never say the Lord’s name in vain!) no sex. No sex. No sex. Her prudence, “come fire and brimstone” will never retract, less she meet the man that might take her hand. “And he himself must be a virgin,” she would repeat endlessly. And Mitzi was certainly no virgin.

CHAPTER TWO (2)

He procured his small glass pipe and began to load it with the last bit of weed he had in a Carmex container. Mersh, despicable. The worst weed there was; made you giggle. No, he needed his batch to be ready – there were too many injustices going on in his life, God! He thought, If I could just smoke some hydro. He took a hit off the small pipe. Well, it’s better than nothing… at least this mersh didn’t have paper clips in it.

A while back, Mitzi had entered Squirley’s apartment on Miracle Mile, with  hesitation of course for it was dangerous to be white in that neighborhood unless you were Toddy. The day was filthy, but then, days and weeks, months and years always seemed to be filthy on the Mile. Mexican prostitutes, fresh from south of the border always seemed to settle on its every corner and their Josés were forever close by. Regardless of environment, the aim at all cost was to secure some kind bud, but if all else failed, some mersh.

Mitzi knocked and cautiously scanned the apartment complex: a black man speaking to his “neighbor” – which he kept calling him his neighbor for some reason – and shaking the other’s hand the whole while. Matt could see money in his shake. Children crying desperately, Crack babies, no doubt, he thought. These were the dregs, the ass of man-kind in which only destitution and addiction spawned like a viral infection. He suddenly felt the urge to shower, if not, at least to wash his hands.

“Who is it?” yelled a voice from inside the door. The peep hole had been turned inside out – probably some hair-brained scheme by Toddy. Matt peered into it curiously and a colossal brown eye appeared and disappeared. Through the cracked window, the same ordinarily-sized eye appeared.

“Would you mind letting me in, Squirley?”

“Password, please.” There was no damned password, but Mitzi played his game to get out of the bedlam of the complex and into the probable fire of the studio.

“Uhhh… Kind?”

“Enter.”

Matt stepped into the filthy apartment, disregarding the fact that Toddy was asleep on the fold-in bed. The carpet had probably never been cleaned, it seemed to be a shag from the seventies or even earlier. Probably fairer at its installation, now it resembled the oily brunette of the Mexican prostitutes, but much, much older. The smell of Scwampagne wafted through the stale air, and Matt felt nauseous. It was as if the infection was seeping through the cracked window and slowly consuming them, too. By god, how did they look so clean at work?

“Mitzi – I could only score some mersh. I hope you don’t mind.”

Not at this point, he was too dry.

“Naw, its cool.”

“Its just that everyone’s dry, even Pruge. Apparently there’s a war in some Mexican border towns and the Feds are cracking down. So I’m gonna have to steep you, man. Sorry, but I’m not even making a profit. I wish I knew someone who grew.”

“Yeah, me too.” Said Matt.

Squirley handed Mitzi the plastic casing of a cigarette box full of mersh, and Mitzi methodically put it to his nose. Toddy had started to snore.

“Yeah, its mersh alright.”

“Sorry, dog. It’s the best I could do.”

Ryan seized the tiny back and began to burn the plastic to seal out the air. Mitzi noticed the paperclip at the bottom of the bag and a few strands of brunette hair.

“You measure that?” Mitzi asked.

“Sure did.” What a piece of shit, that Squirley was, weighing in a paper clip! But Mitzi refrained from speaking; the sooner he got out of here, the better.

After Ryan sealed the bag, he produced from his pocket a similar bag and ripped it open. “You wanta taste? It’s the same stuff.”

He did. They smoked. It hit him like a small ton of bricks. Mersh could sometimes do that.