One Blue Geisha Backrub will take you to seventh heaven. Two Blue Geisha Backrubs will reunite you with your maker. Three Blue Geisha Backrubs will cause your maker to throw you out of heaven for degeneracy.
My wet knees vibrated against the bathroom tile. Many hands held me by the shoulders and arms over a toilet full of expelled material. One would think that finally getting Nigel the help he needed would have calmed my nerves. Not so. If anything, since Nigel started his preliminary treatments with Dr. Nzinga, I’d been more on edge, gulping pills like penny candies. I couldn’t slow down no matter how hard I tried.
Someone slapped me. “Hey, guy,” the female voice said, “say something.”
I glanced at the palm of my hand, which was empty. “God only knows.”
“Good,” a male voice said. “He’s still in one piece, I guess.” I experienced the sensation of being lifted.
When I came to, it was the afternoon, although I couldn’t have bet on the day. I slumped out of the bed and lay face-to-carpet for a few minutes. I crawled to my feet and checked myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess, and my pajamas smelled like actual shit, but otherwise I would survive. Something crinkled in my hand. I unfurled an old to-do list with my wife’s handwriting on it: call City about speeding van. Disgusted. I crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor.
“Hey, old guy.” It was the male from earlier, a youngish man, a ruddy, thin boy, one of the tribe that had been camped out back in Jo Jo’s yard. “He asked me to give you this.” The boy handed me a note. It was from Jo Jo. Jo Jo’s yard was outside the window. I was in Jo Jo’s house. This was Jo Jo’s bed.
Dear Buddy,
This is not me. I’ve got to get my life back on track. Making designer whim whams and short videos was fun to do back in my college days, but I’ve been stalling and hoping that Casey would walk back in with the boys. But that’s not going to happen, as you yourself have pointed out on more than one occasion. I get that now. Plus, I think maybe the DEA is after me. So I’m skating with Polaire. She’s good for me. She believes in things. And I’m starting to believe, too. (Imagine that!) So as nuts as it sounds we’re off to Oman to stand with the revolution. I hope I don’t get myself killed.
Best regards,
Your Faithful Jo Jo
P.S. I didn’t leave any more geishas because we had to get an ER doctor (the kid with the red cheeks, he’s a prodigy) to bring you back to life. You probably don’t remember. Lay off the Plums. Seriously.
Love and Rockets JJB
What of loyalty? What of brotherhood? What was friendship if a person could check out on a whim? In every instance, I had been there for Jo Jo. Held him up when his resolve turned to jelly. Acted as cheerleader, counselor, and concierge. And that Polaire—I blamed her. In a selfish, feminine display worthy of Yoko Ono, she was taking my man away just when I needed him. How would I ever get my Plums now?
I sat up in bed.
“You shouldn’t sit up in bed,” the kid physician said.
“No, thanks. I gave at the office. I appreciate you saving me, though.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Do you have anything for a splitting headache?”