Wackos to Obliterate: Book Two (Chapter 4)

keniza (43)in #fiction • 6 years ago (edited)

The following morning, Trink dreaded his first interaction with Emily, but he was offered a short reprieve when he realized she had yet to arrive. Coombs and Rieks from the graveyard shift were happy to see him, though. They went through the changing-of-the-guard routine and wondered if one or the other should stick around until Emily showed up.

“I’ll call her on her cell,” Trink said, pulling his smart phone out of a pocket of his purple and yellow uniform and pushing her number, “So, who’s watching Emily play?” he asked, referring to the title of an old 60s song by Pink Floyd.

“I’m just a couple of blocks away. Sorry for being late,” she answered, obviously not knowing her name had been in the title of an old song.

“You guys can high tail it out of here. She’ll be here pronto,” Trink said as he finished the call, shoving them away with his free hand. In a few minutes, Emily did arrive, but she was accompanied by a rather tall, lanky dude with shoulder-length brown hair; maybe a year or two older than her.

“This is Diamond,” Emily introduced.

“In the rough?” Trink asked, wondering what beyond the cubic zirconia in his nose warranted the appellation, as he returned the slight nod that Diamond managed as a greeting.

“No, Diamond as in his group, Diamond Dogs,” Emily explained through a silly smile on her puffy and rather pale, though, cute face. No doubt her smile was the product of her newfound knowledge that Trink was the leader of a group called the ‘TRinkets’ while her friend Diamond had a group whose name incorporated his own. Big connection, huh?

“Oh, that’s cool,” Trink replied as he glanced down at the cash register implying that he’s got a job to do, so let’s get to it.

“Thanks for driving me.”

“You get off at the usual time?” Diamond asked.

Emily glanced at Trink for some reason, no doubt to jog her memory. “Yep.”

“OK, I’ll be waiting in the parking lot. Oh, and, ah, it was nice meeting you Mr. Mars,” he said, nodding again.

“Sure kid. By the way, make sure you don’t end up working in a convenience store when you get to be my age.”

“Huh? Oh, right,” Diamond muttered as he left. For the next hour or so, Emily and Trink were busy with the morning rush of people coming in getting coffee and quick snacks on their way to work. As the clock approached 10:00, the customers decreased while chit-chat with Emily increased. The majority of it, of course, focused on Diamond, his amazing talent, and the equally amazing difficulty it was for him to get his big break.

“For the most part, the two of you survive off of what you make here?” Trink asked, trying to sound disinterested, but he still bothered to form the question and he kept up the chatter whenever there was too much of a lull.

“I’m sure you know how it is.”

“Yeah, but when we were starting out, there were more bars and such places looking for groups to perform than there appear to be now. Also, the internet has done a major trip on cutting into most avenues to make money distributing the music.”

“Last night, I noticed one TRinkets' song had more than 600,000 hits,” Emily said, both sounding impressed but also admitting that she had checked out his music just like Madelyn and he had predicted.

“Oh really, well that’s not five million or more like a lot of groups. Also, very few if any of those hits resulted in monetary gain.”

“Well things are tough right now; not many people believe music is that essential to pay for it.”

“Not if you can get it for free. By the way, if you don’t mind my asking, what song did you check out?” Trink asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

“Hopped-up Manifesto.”

“That piece of garbage has 600,000 hits?”

“It’s not garbage. Actually, Diamond said that he’d like to get the Dogs to learn it and maybe add it to their lineup. You know, that was the main reason he came into the shop this morning; he chickened out to ask you about it, though.” As she said that, both of them noticed Chelsea pushing Brad’s chair down the street towards the store.

“So, who’s got the sweet tooth?” Trink asked while scanning her items.

She frowned. “Do you ask everyone about their purchases?”

“My, my, my, it must have been kind of rough pushing Mr. Music this morning.”

“I just don’t see why I have to explain my purchases.”

“You must admit it’s a little strange that most mornings you buy munchies.” A smile appeared on her wrinkled but finely sculptured face. She reminded Trink of the famous researcher of chimpanzees: Jane Goodall, having recently watched an interview of her that was live-streamed over the internet.

“I guess it’s the secret to our longevity,” she replied. As the day before, Trink carried the bag outside for her. She did not refuse. As he left the store with her, Brad called out: “It’s the TRinkets!”

“Hey, Mr. Music!” Trink sang in response.

“What to be, got to be,” Brad replied with an old line from a reggae song.

“You know, I read a wiki about you last night that was pretty interesting.”

“What did it reveal?”

“It stated you were active in promoting medicinal marijuana. No doubt, that helps explain your craving for junk food,” Trink said as he placed the bag into the back of the chair.

“Yes, that’s right on both counts; except, neither Chelsea nor I eat this garbage.”

“It’s a morning routine we do for ‘the team,’” Chelsea added.

“Yeah, our team of herb-loving pixies: a similar strain to those who worked on making shoes at night.”

“I think those were ‘elves’ not ‘pixies,’ but why do you have a team?”

“They take care of the crop,” Brad said. “Look, aren’t they lovely?” he held up his tablet to show a photo containing dozens of marijuana plants.

“That’s some fine looking medicine.”

“If you weren’t wasting your time scanning munchies, you could be helping with spreading the message. Hell, you had a bully pulpit, why not see if you could get it back?”

“He gave me his business card,” Trink said, handing it to Madelyn.

She looked at it. “Pretty suitable for the business, I’d say: ‘printed on hemp.’”

“Yeah, I was a little impressed. I guess his long experience as an A&R man pays off in freelance as well.”

“You know, when you made that comment the other day about my having to pull more of the financial load, I was thinking about the medicinal market.”

“Frankly, you probably do have more of a background in cultivation than the munchie pixies,” Trink said, extracting himself out of the sofa and standing up.

Still sitting, Madelyn looked up at the graying ponytail of her husband. “The what?”

“The growers who work for Marden are called the herb pixies or elves or something like that,” he turned around to look at her still deeply immersed in the over-stuffed, green, velvet sofa. “Is there still a little left in the coffee maker?”

“Let me make a new pot,” she said, lifting an arm in front of her that she expected Trink to grab. He did and she was soon walking with him to the kitchen. While she put a new paper filter into the maker, she asked: “How many people do they have working for them?”

“I’m not sure, but it couldn’t be more than a couple, could it? I mean, how many plants does the State allow a licensed grower to have?”

“I don’t know, but maybe it would be good to get some of the details. Perhaps, it would be a better way to tie us over until the Forest bullshit is cleared up.”

“It may be the best way for us to make income if our investment in that fund is gone.”

“Actually, since Marden was in marketing for so long at Summit, getting him tied down to giving a clearer idea what role you could play in his scenario would probably be the best option right now,” Madelyn said, turning on the coffee maker.

“To do so, I need to get my muse to focus on herb-related matters rather than dinner-time for doggy,” Trink said, remembering that Brad said support for legalization would become greater if alternative voices like Trink’s were used to drum up public sentiment for the issue. As he had said to him earlier in the day: “It’s like the old Jefferson Airplane song, ‘Mexico’ that mentioned there are millions waiting to smoke and that they are no longer alone.”

Trink began to sing, “God knows how far . . .”

“It can go,” Brad said, completing the verse. Just then, to bring Trink back to the present, the dog started to bark.

“I guess the food muse has struck Limey. Dinner time, papa,” Madelyn said.

While sitting on a stool near the garage holding a spoon of dog food that Limey was licking, Trink wondered if the legalization movement was a way for him to get back into the music business. No doubt, Marden could gather together a couple of musicians and even get a little studio time for them to record a few tapes. Probably, they could even get a little distribution done through some connection at Summit. I just need an interesting hook to get started.

The hook, unfortunately, was what had been eluding him the past decade or two. It used to be so easy; intriguing hooks would come at any time; he carried a notebook in which he’d jot them down. That notebook would contain the basis for most of his best songs. Unfortunately, one day, he stopped writing in it. For a year or two, he’d carry a notebook in the left back pocket of his jeans, but once he realized he had written next to nothing in it besides ‘to do’ type messages, he stopped carrying it.

“I deserve the herb, don’t be disturbed by the herb, the herb of my will, much better than what comes out of grandpa’s still, or any artificial pill, the plant from the sun, doesn’t bother anyone, no one has ever died from its high,” he babbled as he spoon-fed his finicky dog.