Cereal 10: Grand Funk Snowmonkey

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Ten: Grand Funk Snowmonkey

"Hello Cleveland… Are you ready to rock?!" Paul was way too fucked up to pick up Sloane’s laser-hate death stare on radar.

"I said ‘Hello Cleveland…Are you ready to ROCK!?!’ We are Grand Funk Railroad and we *will* rock your tiny little world."

"Shut UP, Paul… Good evening. We are the Snowmonkies. I am Sloane Ketteringe on vocals and rhythm guitar, to my left, birthday boy and all ‘round fuckup J.J. ‘Dyn-o-mite’ Paul Getty on bass kazoo and backup vocals, to my right, Leslie ‘Les’ Schwab on drums and her brother Charles ‘Chuck’ Schwab on lead guitar. It is our distinct pleasure this evening to attempt to rock you. Our first song is a little ditty called ‘I Hate Your Mod Girlfriend,’ written by Leslie and myself during a moment of drunken enlightenment."

Paul swivelled. "Do I know this song?"

Sloane gave him the ‘If-you-say-one-more-stupid-thing-I-will-give-you-the-touch-of-death’ look. She put her hand over the mike. "Pretend you know the song, asshole."

"Okay," said Paul, speaking directly into the mike, "But I don’t actually know the song."

Sloane’s amplified toothgrinding was audible over the ambient party noise.

"ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR…Hey boy you look so cute…When you wear that sharkskin suit… I hate your Mod girlfriend… I’m gonna get her in the end…"

Paul was trying to work out whether this was the time for a really kickass kazoo solo. But it seemed all wrong. Nature was calling. There was already a long line at the bathroom door, and if he waited it would only get worse. Things seemed to be going well enough without him, so he left for the bathroom, tucking the comb and tissue paper into the pocket of his orange jacket, the guitar squalling covering the minute squeak of plastic on vinyl.

"What the fuck?" Sloane shook her dreds and played on.

Paul made his way to the bathroom through the audience, hopping on one foot. He tapped the shoulder of the person in front of the line.

"Do you think I could cut in front of you? I, like, live here."

"You and half the known world, my friend."

"Rob? Is that you?"

"Who the hell else would it be?"

"Well, it’s a little hard to tell what with the Nixon mask. Nice dress. Lamé really suits you."

"Nice try. Back of the line."

Paul tapped the shoulder of the next person in line. Cynthia . "Will you give me cuts?"

"I’m not here for shits and giggles. Well, OK, I *am* here for shits." She giggled, batting her unsinged eyelashes. Cynthia had been abusing happier substances since their last meeting. Egg, standing behind her in line, rolled his eyes.

"Goddamn. What do I have to do to get in the bathroom."

"Do you *really* want the answer to that question?" Cynthia draped herself over Paul.

"GET A ROOM."

Nixon exited the bathroom, giving the Victory sign. "Four more years!"

"Egg, that is one fantastic idea. I happen to know just the room." She blew Egg a kiss. "Eat shit and die, ‘kay?"

She pulled Paul into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Egg was pounding on the door and yelling. They couldn’t make out all the words, just ‘Damn,’ and ‘Jesus,’ and ‘Hell.’

"You go first."

"That’s not gonna work. I can’t go in front of you."

"Why not?"

"Umm…. I’ll climb out the window and take care of things. We can catch up on old times out there."

Paul scrambled into the clawfoot bathtub through the vinyl Peewee Herman shower curtain. He nearly knocked over a stoned, still uniformed UPS guy.

"Sorry."

"Yeah, sorry you stepped on me you sorry ass hippie."

"*Whatever* dude."

Paul yanked the window up and scrambled outside. He relieved himself and waved at his scowling neighbor across the alley.

Cynthia’s foot peeked out the window. "Eep." She said, "Help or something. ASSHOLE! Er, not you Paul." Her shoe fell to the ground, instantly incorporating itself into the mudpatch that had been known once upon a summer as ‘the garden’ with a mucousy sucking noise. "Let me try that again… This time *don’t* grab my ass!" Muttering: "Stupid UPS guy thinks his uniform is irresistible."

Paul grabbed her by the waist.

"Um, hi. Are you going to help me or what?"

"You got a new tattoo," said Paul, looking down at her thigh. "I like it. It’s nice."

"Yeah. Thanks. I like it too."

Paul leaned over to get a better look. His mouth went dry. "I’m sorry about earlier. I wrecked your tights. I think I have some polish or something inside. To sort of fix them, I mean." He touched the tattoo. "It’s a monkey." He slipped his middle and ring fingers into the hole in the fishnet, spiraling his fingers over the tail of the monkey "It’s really nice. I mean, um…" Paul realized he was only making the hole larger. He stopped.

"No, you’re right, that is nice."

"Really?"

"Did I tell you to stop?" Cynthia wrapped her right hand around Paul’s left ear and her finger began to mirror the spiral path of the monkey’s tail.

Paul ripped the hole open. Cynthia launched her body towards his and off the windowsill. The inertia pushed him over into the mudpatch.

"OW!"

The next door neighbor raised his sash. "Hey, boy. I got enough problems that I have to watch Love Unamerican Style? Take the mudwrestling inside or I call the cops on your party."

"Bob, you old pervert. I’ll tell ‘em you’re that unregistered sex offender they been looking for."

"You wouldn’t"

"Hey. Only if I have to."

"Bastard." Bob shut the window, but not the blind.

"I think we should change venue. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes back here looking for a place to puke. Besides. I think I found your shoe."