Basket Cases: Lost Conversations

This was found on the cutting room floor.

“Now, Katy. What the people don’t understand about the war on drugs: our president, George H. is the biggest pusher of all.”

I leaned in, Monty’s words slurring with certainty. The bar’s dim lights reflected off his drink, and his voice lowered as though revealing a grand conspiracy. He squeezed my hand gently.

“When I was in Nam, we did acid together, and he told me how it works— Garson— one more.” Monty nodded toward the bar back halfway through his current frothy beer. “See, this was after we lost the war, of course. How else could we deal with being in Nam as just giant losers if we weren’t on acid?”

I couldn’t laugh or even smile, I ordered myself silently. Monty was on a roll. He managed to mix half-truths with outright absurdities. But this was the game we played. I loved it. I loved him. I loved how he didn’t know I would follow him down any verbal rabbit hole.

“Honestly, your innocence messes with my story flow, come on cutie – listen.”  Monty

continued, his voice rising slightly.

“Hey, I’m not that innocent. Cheese and crackers.” I gulped my wine.

“After last night, perhaps not – we should order some cheese sticks. Now—now before you get all ‘I have questions’—hear me out. I wish your heart were as grimy as mine, Katy; then I wouldn’t have to spell it out.”

“I do have questions,” I said, playing my part. “This is just incredible news... wow...... ahh, where to begin – oh, your heart may need a wash, but it’s not dirty.” I flirted as I caught his eye. He responded in kind silently.

“So says you. Well, go on,” he said, nodding toward me. “While I partake of my delicious libation as another has arrived.” He raised his glass slightly to the bartender. “Ahhhh... thank you, my good man.”

Looking confused but used to Monty’s antics, the bartender just shook his head and went about his business.

“Well, wait a second,” I countered. “Last week, you said he was a lesbian?”

“Of course he is!” Monty’s beer slipped a bit, and he glared at me as though I’d just asked the most obvious question in the world. “That has nothing to do with being a drug dealer. I didn’t think you were a bigot, of all people. You disappoint me, Katy. You do.” He shook his head, adopting a mock-serious tone.

“What I’m saying,” Monty continued, “is that George H. is double dipping, man. I’m paying twice because my taxes are going to the war on drugs. Man, that’s just not cool.”

“How did you get into Vietnam without a passport?” I asked, trying to inject just a hint of logic into the conversation. “Plus, you were only six when the U.S. left Vietnam.”

Monty, ever the quick thinker, shrugged nonchalantly. “I was tall for my age. Anyway, Katy—that is an unnecessary question. There’s no reason to bring logic or truth into our conversation.”

“I still don’t understand how The Velveteen Rabbit was involved.”

“Katy. We went down his hole. Hellacious Hellitude. Do I need to draw you a map?”

“Oh, no. Thank you. That’s a picture I’ve no need for seeing.”

Monty blew chef’s kisses to me as he pointed a cheese stick in my face. I matched his cheese stick—they touched.

“Cheers,” we winked at one another.

📌 #90sVibes

📌 #GenXLit

📌 #PopCultureWriting

📌 #PulpFictionVibes

📌 #AltLit

“First-use declared. All similarity routes back. No permission granted for mimic use. This is sealed, licensed terrain.”