(((DREAMSCAPE #Q)))

I was in a run down hotel room out on a desolate stretch of interstate. A C-shaped one, like a tumor, a blemish, branching off the interstate, a minor bump in an otherwise flawless, 200-mile dead straight stretch between two places that are of little consequence to the bigger scheme of things. It was the kind of place you go to kill yourself, some one else, or catch/give an STD from/to a hooker or your neighbor’s wife. No amenities to speak of, no cable, no HBO, no waterbeds. When there was water, it wasn’t recommended for drinking or bathing in. Really it was just something to marvel at if you were lucky enough to get it; like an ejaculating statue of Jesus (see you in hell, bitches). The pillows had knife holes in them, most of the doorjambs showed evidence of doors being kicked in, whether by amped up police or people with nothing but the worst of intentions. The carpets came up about 4 inches short from the wall, the crevice filled with dead flies, live cockroaches, cigarette butts, and mutated DNA. The ice machine had been converted into a rat’s nest, shored up with fallen hair extensions, yellowed scraps of abandoned porno magazines, and hardened, used condoms.
I walked past the office, loud tinny sounds of fucking screamed from the TV that the Pakistani desk clerk was zoning out on. He was blessed with selective hearing. Screams, gunshots, car crashes, questions– he heard none of it. Just the T.V. I walked over to a room at the back and entered without knocking. Gary Busey was lying on the bed in his underwear, coked out and aiming a shotgun a large tree that was inexplicably in the corner of the room. At the base of the tree was a wheelbarrow overflowing with quarters. A small black boy was taking the quarters one at a time, climbing up the tree, and putting them into the bulging pockets of a man who looked scared and was apparently cornered in the tree by Busey and his shotgun.
“Keep puttin’ th’ money in, Mamadou, ‘til the weight takes Mr. Big Winner down. When he falls, his buddy is gonna wish he’d never cracked wise wit’ the likes o’ me.” He chortled and did another blast of coke out of a bullet.
Next to the wheelbarrow I saw ‘Buddy.’ He was staked down to the ground like Gulliver, fallen by a 6' drug-addled and armed Lilleputian, and from the looks of it a swift blow to the head by what one could safely assume was the butt of a shotgun. Thin, cheap rope criss-crossed over his torso and legs, holding him down right where Tree Man will land when he can’t withstand the force of gravity any longer. I imagine it will inflict a bit of damage, as I could see that the Tree Man already was burdened with an ungodly amount of change. Pounds of government issued tokens were shoved into whatever part of clothing would accept them. It was amazing to me that the fabric of his suit was holding up.
Apparently, the Tree Man had won $1,000,000 from Busey in some bet and he was a bad winner. Unfortunately bad losers tend to be more dangerous than bad winners, and Busey was a bad loser. This was where we stood now, Tree Man run up a tree, ‘Buddy’ tied up, and Mamadou slowly adding to the already impossible weight of money in Tree Man’s pockets. At some point I saw that they were going to have to throw some feed bags around his neck as you could only force so many quarters into your average, every day 3 piece suit. Even the most high-end tailors tend to be ignorant of the fact that sometimes you need the space for four million quarters.
I’ve decided to stick around for the end game, curious to see if it played out until the end, or if Busey’s coke binge turns on him and he suddenly decides he needs to go kill Steven Segal for stealing his thunder in Under Siege (not actually true, but you know how actors are– no self-esteem, spiteful. You could tell him a million times that he clearly stole every scene out from under Segal’s ham-fisted, 1 dimensional ‘crafting’ but he’d never believe you).
To kill time between the now and later, I dump a small box of mine on the ground. It’s full of rich, black soil and tidbits from my past, some of them dirtied but intact, others cracked and irreparable. Mixed in with the debris is a small microphone, a clip-on type that plainly has no future in the recording industry. Busey sees it, jumps out of bed and snatches it from the mess.
“Yur fuckin’ bugged I knew it Take off yur shirt, mutherfucker, lit me see ”
I’m not scared, really just amused. I strip down to my boxers and turn in a slow circle, smiling, with arms outstretched.
“Take a look, psycho. You see anything?”
He sees I’m clean and tells me to put my clothes back on, looking at me out the corner of his eyes, a little embarrassed at his accusations, and I’m sensing not too comfy being in a hotel room, in his underwear, with another man in his underwear as well. If anyone saw, the tabloids would have a field day. Forget the coke, the shotgun, the hostages and wheelbarrow full of change, this was all par for the course, old news in the life of Gary Busey. But, stop the presses, Busey in a homosexual fling in a by-the-hour motel? That accusation hadn’t been leveled at him before and he was clearly unwilling to deal with that scenario, on top of everything else.
I’m enjoying his discomfort and regardless of the gun, coke, and the potential for sudden and uncontrollable violence, I decide to push him.
“You know, I could have a mic in my underwear. You wanna check?” I ask coyly.
“Nah, that’s fine. G’wan, put yur clothes back on. Stop foolin’.”
“No, we’re gonna settle this now. I don’t want you getting the idea in your coked-up head later that you should’ve checked and freak out on me again.”
He is clearly unhappy with this, and incredibly uncomfortable at the idea of seeing me, junks and all.
So I take off my underwear and he squeals, looking away with one eye, but that human curiosity dragging the other eye to jerky glances at my kibbles and bits. I grab my scrotum and pull in up over the... the.. frank? Yes, the beans over the franks. It’s unusually stretchy and I pull it all the way up to mid-stomach, making it look like I’m wearing some fleshy bikini bottom– stray hairs and follicle bumps give it an unappetizing appearance. I look like a smoothy.
Busey screams at this maneuver and I chased him around the room talking nonsense in a robot voice as Mamdou keeps adding quarters, one at a time.