#208 Purperia

by Tony Hunt (laughingwolf)

I rolled 1-1/2 times from my prone sleeping position on the queen size bed to the edge of the mattress, so I could sit up.

Shaking my head to clear it, and rubbing my eyes to see better, I then glanced at the bedside clock radio: it read 4:46 pm on a Tuesday, in March.

I could only assume it was still 1974, but three days since I had, literally, hit the sack.

The Granny Smith apple had a single bite taken out of it, but was still remarkably intact.

Bare feet on the pine floor, I ratcheted myself upright, staggered to the toilet, and watched the cascade as the piss hit the middle of the bowl while I held the wall for balance.

The tank only gurgled once when I pushed the lever, so I left it at that, vowing to fix it after I sobered up.

In the living room I activated the answering machine, where a voice said: “Stevie, baby.

“Jerry Garcia, here.

“You’re safely back from your trip, or you’d not be hearing this.

“After Friday’s gig, we’ll get some more Chinese, a few beers, and drop another card or two, if you’re up to it.

“If you don’t call back, I’ll assume you’ll be ready.”

We did, a few more wondrous times.

Hooked up with Woz, later, and got into making “black boxes.”

A helluva lot of phone fun we had those days.

Graduating to intricate hard- and software, the Granny Smith vision stayed prominent.


Catherine Vibert said...

Steve Jobs lives! I like it Tony!

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