17. lemon groove - Sick Sacraments

17. lemon groove

Micky Hill leaned back on the one material object he cared to  

possess, a second-hand Ford Galaxy 500 that he had purchased from  

Jolly Jack’s Used Car Lot on Franklin, off of 50. Dependable as it  

was, it also retained a stylish air of originality. The Galaxy 500  

still had its original tan paint job and red vinyl seats. Other than  

the cigarette lighter, everything else still worked fine. The dents  

in the hood and chrome front fender had been there when he had driven  

it off the lot. Now broken and rusted over, the dents provided an  

element of organic character that appealed to Micky.

He had removed the back seat and installed a foam mattress.  

Toiletries hung from the coat hook in a plastic Clinque cosmetic bag.  

He had adorned the interior with postcard-sized works on paper and  

Fotoroids he had created while living in the Galaxy, and had glued  

the street map of sacramento onto the roof. Stuck in the cracks were  

a large scrapbook that he used to chronologue his creative endeavors,  

a music case containing an alto saxophone, beer cans and a jumbo- 

sized box of tortilla chips.

Kept within reach in the glove compartment were his Fotoroid camera  

and packages of teriyaki-flavored beef sticks, in case he wanted to  

capture the moment or needed a little snack. For home entertainment  

there was the car radio. Sparse surroundings for a year. Micky was  

reduced to the max.

“Micky. Hey Micky! Look what I found.” Denver had stopped to read a  

flyer stapled to the telephone pole next to the mailbox. “Hey. Look!  

It’s the Art Angles.”

“What?”

“The Art Angles. You know, that Art Mayor campaign at the SoToDo last  

year.” He tore the flyer off the pole. “Remember those flyers from  

some chick who said she was the Art Angles. You know, the ones that  

called for a revolution against the show.”

“Oh yeah. Is she still revolting?” Micky asked.

“Apparently. Maybe this is an old one, but it looks new.” He read the  

title out loud walking over to where Micky was leaning.

The Art Angles pleads: “Eat the Rich!”

“Go on.” Micky took the last puff of the cigarette he had found half- 

smoked in the Galaxy’s ashtray, and flicked it onto the black-tarred  

street. “Read what it says and I’ll tell you if it is an old or new  

one.”

Denver stepped up onto the sidewalk, raised his fist and boldly  

proclaimed:

The self-proclaimed Art Angles announced today:

Stop licking the roseta clean of the ultra-rich.

When reached for comment,

the Art Angles explained in a tired and worn voice:

“The message came down last night when I was awakened

by a two meter high apparition of Martha Spitz

She was rantin’ and ravin’ about corporate crime

and must’ve been beaten up, ‘cause she didn’t look too good.

She told me that she is running for the Art Queen next election

and not to feed the elephants and donkeys anymore.

When asked how she planned to live without meat,

the Art Angles plainly stated:

“By helping others to cook for themselves.”

What’s her recipe? What’s she got cookin’?

And are you going to be invited to the table?

Send your cooking suggestions to:

Citizens for a Savory Tomorrow.

Poste Restante, Sacramento, Ca. 95814

The coals are hot, don’t wait another moment!

Heil Peace!

“Heil Peace! That’s brilliant. I’m goin’ to start saying that. It’s a  

new one. I still can’t believe in this pubble of a town that we don’t  

know who’s doin’ it. But we sure had fun namin’ everybody the art  

this or that.”

“Yeah. It was fun spinning out on it. Let me see, I was the Art  

Martyr, for obvious reasons. And Grant Hughs was the Art Grant  

because he tells us about every fuckin’ grant he writes. How he  

budgets everything, even pencils.”

“And don’t forget Joe Ramsy, the Art Stud, and of course the Art  

Natty, who I think would be a great Art Mayor.”

“But, you know, it’s funny how a name sticks, sometimes,” Denver  

folded the flyer and put it into his back pocket. He then walked  

behind the Galaxy to get to the passenger’s side and stopped,  

noticing that the concrete jesus statue was missing from the rear  

window. “Hey Art Shit. Where’s that icon of human abuse I gave you?”

“I am not the Art Shit, I am the Art Hole,” Micky grumbled, and  

unlocked the Galaxy. “Steve’s the Art Shit ‘cause of his poop clay  

sculptures.”

“No he’s not. He’s the Art Fuck because of his last name. So where’s  

jesus?” Denver pointed.

“Oh man. I forgot to tell you.” Micky sat down behind the wheel. “You  

see. I had a problem, a space problem. So, I left it at Roger’s.”

“You gave it to the Art Pharaoh!” Denver retorted.

“Yeah. The Art Pharaoh.” Micky laughed. “That is a good name for him.  

Get in the car!”

“Okay. Art Hole.” Denver entered head first into the Galaxy and  

started clearing off the seat. “You know, my dad had a Galaxy. Same  

color even. Did I ever show you the picture?”

“Yeah. You said you were goin’ to make me a copy. I still would like  

to have it.”

“I will, when we see jesus again. So, what’s it doin’ at his house?  

Why are you dealin’ with trash who’s always shooting off his mouth to  

no one’s benefit, including his?” Denver shook his head. “You know, I  

think we lost jesus forever.”

“Go easy on him. His wife just got beat up for buttin’ in line. He’ll  

give it back. Jesus is like that. He keeps comin’ back,” he said to  

reassure Denver.

“Jesus, Micky!” He pushed him on the shoulder and went back to  

throwing artifacts into the back seat bedroom. “You know how he is.  

Why did he need a jesus all of a sudden?”

“To pray for a miracle? I dunno know. I think it has somethin’ to do  

with the film he’s makin’. He got that crazy chick Belinda Johnson,  

the Art …” he looked at Denver and pointed.

Denver thought for a second and finished the sentence, “… Diva.”

“Right, the Art Diva, workin’ with him.” They slapped their hands  

together in camaraderie. “It’ll sure be interestin’ to see the end  

result. They asked me to play sax. I’m sure you’ll be involved  

somehow, you know these intra-grid projects.”

“I dunno know. I’m kinda over Roger. I don’t think I want to go  

there,” Denver snorted. “On top of being delta trash, he’s catholic  

delta trash. He’ll grow fond of that little jesus statue and he’ll  

want to keep it. You mark my words.”

“Okay. Art Martyr. Always complainin’ about something. You are an Art  

Anal. Now stop cleanin’ and get in the car.” He inserted the key into  

the ignition.

“So what was the trade?” Denver insisted, and pulled the door shut.  

“I know you, Micky. Roger got jesus, so what did you get?”

Micky started the car and the revving engine made it difficult for  

Denver to hear his reply.

“Say it again,” he demanded.

“I said,” Micky said raising his voice, “I needed a place to store  

that neon shit we took from the Crest Theater.”

“Oh my holy shit!” Denver slapped the palm of his hand against his  

forehead. “I forgot about that. And now it’s all at Roger’s!”

“Yep.” Micky tapped the wheel. “They’re all at Roger’s, neatly stored  

away.”

“So it is said, so shall it be done. Thus spake pharaoh. Oh. Bad  

day,” Denver whined. “Why didn’t you store it at my place, at the  

commune? That stuff is precious, that neon.”

“It was a matter of linguistics.” Micky revved the motor again.

“Logistics.”

“Logistics. Yeah. I’ve got enough stuff stored at your house. The  

neon and some of my other stuff were stored at Wendy’s house, and  

Roger lives across the street. I was payin’ Wendy a visit and she  

asked me to move my junk. Typical. What did we baptize her?”

“I think we named her the Art Goddess.”

“Yeah. That sounds right. She is the Art Goddess, paradin’ around in  

her new age robes from the Outback sales catalogue. Anyway, so Ms Art  

Goddess needs more space for something, another set of congas  

probably. So, like Roger, who happens to be wanderin’ around outside  

his shack, scratchin’ his balls, says he’ll take them in. Maybe  

that’s why I forgot to tell you, ‘cause it was like done in a jiffy.  

So like when I’m leavin’, Roger sees jesus lying in the back of the  

Galaxy and we make the trade. I store, he worships. I got more space,  

he’s got more gods.”

“Well, ain’t that something? What a drag! Goodbye jesus. Boo Hoo.”

“Get over it, Art Anal,” Micky said, and shifted the car into gear.

“So do we do the Art Boo in Stockton?”

“You know what? I don’t feel like visitin’ Vella in her valley.”

“Me neither actually. So how about checkin’ out a suburban  

condominium complex in the foothills, with pool and all the amenities?”

“Okay. How ‘bout Lemon Heights? I feel like sunbathin’ and checkin’  

out some babes, or dudes in your case, and readin’ their fridge.”

“C’mon Micky, that ain’t goin’ to happen. I am a sexual minority. Us  

minorities don’t meet in suburban condominium complexes with communal  

swimming pools. We’re particular. We only congregate in dank churches  

called discos and do the love dance. This is Sacto and there’s  

nothing but dumb trade with gooey romantic love on the brain. All  

they want to do is get married and assimilate into the banal hetero- 

world.”

“Okay then. Where do you want to go? To a gay bar and play pool?” He  

paused a moment and then inched the Galaxy away from the curb.

“Nah. Let’s do Lemon Grove. Take I-80.” Denver pointed east towards  

the freeway. “I don’t feel like dealing with gated communities and  

neighborhood watchdogs at the pool side. You got enough gas?”

“Check bitch. I told you I filled up last night at the Little Cheaper.”

“Oh yeah. The babe, the casabas, the smell of a cat’s ass on a hot  

summer night, Luv-to-Suc.”

“Libations and treats?”

“Yeah, we need Pap’s, Lucky Puffs, the Sutters Weekly. Let’s stop at  

the Kwicky. I got enough money for about a third.”

“Here’s some more money.” Micky pried a few dollars out of the small  

right-hand pocket of his jeans and handed them to Denver. “We’ll do  

the Bum ’n Burn first and get some coffee-to-go and maybe a couple of  

stickybuns.” He smiled at Denver suggestively. “And then, we’ll swing  

around and hit June’s Choice instead.”

“Whatever.”

“Hey,” Micky asked, “could you do me a favor? Somewhere here …” He  

gestured to the dashboard with both hands. “… is a piece of paper  

with that chic’s address written on it. Look around a bit, I don’t  

want to lose it.”

“Yeah. Right Micky. There are billions of pieces of paper in this  

car. It’s a driving fire hazard. What does it look like?”

“It’s about the size of a postcard and’s got a drawin’ of a light  

bulb on it.”

“Oh wow. I remember seeing something like that when I was moving  

stuff around before. I think I put it up here.” Denver sorted through  

the bits of paper that were tucked in between the windshield and  

dashboard. “Hey look. Is this it? There’s just a net address.” He  

turned it over. “Hey. Look Micky. Look what’s on the other side. It’s  

Preacher Dan.”

“Wow. I didn’t see that. Holy poop! Another one. Why am I always  

meetin’ believers of Preacher Dan’s?” He stepped on the gas. “What’s  

the attraction?” Micky turned the steering wheel, maneuvered the  

Galaxy east and locked coordinates onto the Bum ‘n Burn.

“ Sure lookin’ forward to a cup of java. So, I’m putting the card  

back where I found it. Look.”

Micky glanced over to see where Denver had filed the card. There was  

a pause in the conversation as Micky pulled the Galaxy onto the open  

road.

“You know who’s got a great madonna statue?”

“Who?” Micky looked over to Denver inquisitively.

“My parents.”

“That’s good to know. Do you think they’re ready to give it up?”