#gregjackson

It was early afternoon when we’d docked, the mainland miles off the coast entirely out of view now. The salted air turned in and out of our nostrils with each breath, and the occasional waft of something fried found its place in there as well. The sky above was a cloudless blue, and the ocean below was dotted with an array of multi colored dinghies, catamarans, and yachts. The scene seemed to frame the red roofed casino on the horizon in a spectacular way, but it was the tightly packed overnight bag slumped against my back housing the sandwich bag of edibles that actually conjured images of what one might call beautiful.

We traversed the pebbled streets lined with bars and souvenir shops that catered to the leathered and mahogany toned patrons who teetered the line of geriatric, despite their platinum blonde dyed hair and exorbitant Hawaiian print tops. We paused a moment to marvel at the taffy machine at the end of the row, but quickly found our path up the precarious steps that led to Cliff’s home, which was perfectly situated away from the mecca of aging excursionists. A slight stick settled onto our skins and it was as if Cliff heard our parched voices growing louder up the steps because upon reaching his front door we were greeted with a toothy grin and three amber colored bottlenecks dripping with sweat.

“You guys made it!” he said, passing us each a beer and helping us with our bags.

“You’re a madman walking those steps every day, dude. No wonder you’re an adonis.” John said this and was mock flexing in a way not unlike Cliff was apt to do.

“We come baring gifts.” I said in a playful, yet covert voice as I referenced the special brownies in my back pack.

“Dope. Let’s do it to it.”

The dry and brittle chocolatey cube tasted as if whoever made it was smoking a cigarette and flicked their ashes into the pot as they cooked it. Still, we ran our fingers along the bottom of the bag, bunching the remnants for a last bite sized morsel, never daring to waste a crumb. Philosophical conversations ensued, ranging from the vilifying controversy surrounding the nerf gun in Australia, to the misunderstood aesthetics and highly nuanced differences between metal core, grind core, and death metal. The aforementioned of course being littered with the occasional obtrusive cackling and reeling over sideways in the kind of laughter that tries to escape but emits no sound.

But it was somewhere between deciding to leave and the restaurant did my trip suddenly become distressingly tenebrous. The salmagundi teeming in my gut seemed to flip and shift, and a literal wave at my waist enveloped my torso. My eyelids vibrated uncontrollably, their veracious and metaphorical weight a sudden war ensuing thought.

“Ya okay? Ya hungry?” John’s voice trailed out of his half opened mouth in an idle and serene sort of way.