Elton is staring at me. I don’t know if he’s grateful for my water offering or if he’s analyzing me. Maybe Elton is from a different world light years away and has chosen me as his personal specimen. He is, after all, supremely intelligent by being able to put disturbing thoughts into my head:
Will I be in the receiving end of horrific news or will I be the target? It’s hard to believe how the years have evaporated into thin strands of memory flashes and how little time is left. Our country expedites your demise through food poisoning, inaudible sound waves, city-life stress, and, of course, the constant reminders about your frail life through television commercials:
Suffering from arthritis? Diverticulitis won’t let you eat your favorite foods? Infected with HIV? Bones becoming dust because of osteoporosis? Flaccid phallus? Bad vision? Dandruff? Bad Breath? Insomnia? Nausea?
You take a walk outside and the conspiracies begin. You think about the car driven by the 94-year-old-widow spins out of control and slams into you. The rogue space trash that will land precisely on your head . . . and let’s not forget about the twin-engine Cessna who finds parking on your roof. You stop in your tracks and turn back home because you know there’s something wrong because “Stupid” and “Shut the Fuck Up” won’t stop barking. You look around but nothing looks out of order except that you hear two neighbors talking about a chihuahua which was devoured by flesh-eating bacteria in seconds by the lake. Enough. You pick up your pace and find comfort in front of . . . what? Your TV?
Enhancing the surrealism is the antidote so you pour a quadruple fine scotch, no ice. While you’re at it, dust off the hookah you bought on your last trip to Tunisia. Mix some old watermelon shisha with powerhouse herbage.
Now, everyone and everything’s fictional. Humorous caricatures, once a living species who ruled the planet, reduced to Alice’s white rabbit constantly checking the time and wrapped up in social media and reality shows. Soon, time will run out and they become dust waiting for an afterlife NOT verified by Fact Checker. You’re okay with this because Jesus is a friend of yours. Toast with the Grand Puba.
Elton has seen enough. Its curly tail whipping through the cannibus clouds, he gently jumps from the ledge onto the small potted bougainvillea. Tomorrow, he’ll investigate the new Muslim family down the block before coming back to have another telepathic conversation with me as the red western skies dissolve into the dark.