MIXER HELL

MIXER HELL

                The power went out again and the four were stuck in the cold garage.  The weather had become miserable over a two week stretch and I wasn’t about to go walking around in 38 degree weather while it was raining and windy - even if I desperately needed some booze.  I don't drive (because I drink), so I was trapped taking moke snaps with an aspiring rap artist and two stoners from Chico.

                I was used to this sort of battle royale that always takes place between landlords and tenants.  Nobody wants to put the bills in their name, but it’s technically the responsibility of the landlord to keep the power on and the water running.  There are only two bathrooms, and the landlord always thinks that it’s only a matter of time before your toilets are unusable, and that you’ll just cave and take on his responsibility for him.

                The aspiring rapper kept reciting lyrics acapella since he couldn’t bring up any beats on his phone.  It had died.  He asked a couple times to borrow my phone but I just didn’t say anything.  His failure to come in on the one on a consistent basis made me reconsider.  Maybe the drums would help him stay on time but then I figured the difference would be negligible.

                The stoner couple from Chico started getting a little antsy.

                “This is ridiculous,” the red-headed boyfriend said.

                “I know!” his girlfriend exclaimed.  “I’ll light a candle.”

                I just stared at the table littered with tobacco, marijuana and moke bongs.

                “The landlord really should take care of this,” the boyfriend said when his girlfriend disappeared into the house.  His eyes seemed to be searching mine for some answer.  I think he was wondering if I would do anything about the situation.  He had heard from someone that the landlord and I were allegedly friends.  And truthfully, we were, in a Lando-Han sort of way.

                “Yeah, I generally just wait Hank out,” I told the red-head.  “What’s your name by the way?”

                I try to remember my roommates' names, I really do.  But I drink, so there you go.

                “Todd,” Todd said.

                “Oh, yeah, I see it,” I said.  “You look like a Todd.”

                His face appeared puzzled after I said it.  The rapper laughed.

                It was starting to get dark.  Todd’s girlfriend re-emerged from the house and came back into the garage holding a large, yellow candle.

                “Where should I put the candle?” she asked everyone.

No one responded.  I just put my face in my hands.

“Why is nobody interested in candle placement?” she asked, bewildered and frustrated.

“I vote for you,” I looked up and told her, “to be in charge of candle placement.”

Surprisingly, Todd laughed and I was somewhat off put that he wouldn’t stand up for his girlfriend in that situation.  He was probably some traditional conservative (trad-con) or some bullshit.  You know those guys.  They think that if American culture returned to the 1950’s then everything would be daisies and sunshine.  You know, back before the Civil Rights’ Movement.

“Speaking of voting,” Todd started.

I just stared at the table.  I think Todd was tired of the rapper’s lyrics.

And eventually, somehow the topic got to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the place all religious and political debates end.  Todd’s girlfriend kept telling Todd to stop but Todd apparently doesn’t value his girlfriend’s opinions – like at all.

Apparently I was wearing my “End All Aid to Israel” sweatshirt and didn’t realize it.  Eventually he came out to me.

“I’m Jewish,” he said.

“Oh, I guess I’ve really offended you.”

“Well,” Todd said.  “While I understand your point of view, Israel has a right to exist and I’m not sure what can be done about its existential crisis in the face of radical Islam and terrorism.”

“While I appreciate your concern, Todd,” I said.  “The cold hard reality of this world we live in is that the West has been falling apart of about a century now.  Terrorism isn't the main threat to Israel's existence, or the existence of the West, for that matter.  There is another cause for society's collapse, a much more sinister problem.”

“Big government?”

“Um, sort of,” I replied.  “Where do you think big government comes from?”

“Well,” he started and then stopped to think.  “I guess the Marxist and liberal ideologies that are overrunning the academic world, the media-“

“No, Todd,” I cut him off.  “It’s been nearly a century since we gave women the right to vote.  Since then, your Western values have come under attack, and Mohammad is at your doorstep.  Why do you think Southern plantation owners had so many slaves?  Why do you think Israel needs all this new land at the expense of the Palestinians?  Why do you think Western Civilization is collapsing?  Because women nag their husbands to do stupid shit.  Like occupy foreign countries, like slavery, like genocide.  It’s when men fail to keep their pimp hands strong and let women run everything that society collapses under the weight of feminism.”

“All right,” Todd stood up, as if to defend his girlfriend.

“I don’t care about having the right to vote,” she said, scrolling through her Instagram feed.

“See, Todd?” I said.  “If you take women’s right to vote away they just kind of go with it.  Women don’t care about politics, never have.  She thinks you should do all the voting, clearly.”

“Even though I disagree with nearly everything he believes in,” she said, still looking down at her phone.

Todd stewed with anger.

“It’s getting chilly in here,” Todd’s girlfriend said and put her hood up.

“You look very humble in your hijab,” I said to her.

Todd lost his shit.  He started waving his arms around and saying incoherent things about democracy and Jerusalem.

The landlord walked in and said, “I hear a bunch of yelling.  What’s going on guys, everybody getting along?”

Todd gestured at me and said, “He just said women shouldn’t vote.”

The landlord just looked at him for a minute and said, “Of course they shouldn’t.  Look around you.  Why do you think you have no power or water?”

“Because you failed to keep it-“ Todd started and stopped.

“Do you know how much money I pay in taxes just to keep this feminist society afloat?” the landlord asked.  “I simply can’t afford to keep your power on.  The government and its failure to keep its pimp hand strong over welfare queens has forced my hand.  Your girlfriend has money, no doubt, what with society basically showering her with cash and prizes.  She obviously has some man’s job in the spirit of diversity and what not.  Get her to put the bills in her name.”

“She can’t afford it either,” I said.  “What with feminism letting useless women work, men aren’t able to produce enough goods and services of value to keep up with the cost of living.  We’re dying a slow, gynocentric death in the form of economic collapse.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” the landlord said.  “Then, I don’t see what can be done.”

“Well something needs to be decided,” Todd said.

I looked around the room.  The landlord couldn’t afford it, I didn’t want the responsibility.  Todd couldn’t be trusted in a position of authority and his girlfriend had just given up her right to vote.  The only person left was the rapper.  His stage name was K-Ice.

“I vote for K-ice to decide what to do about the utilities,” I said.

Todd said, “I vote for myself.”  Then he looked at his girlfriend.  She was still scrolling through her phone.  She didn’t say anything.

Then K-ice said, “Oh yeah, my girlfriend’s an Instagram model.  She takes naked pictures and all these thirsty dudes give her pounds upon pounds of weed and I just flip it for an easy profit.  I can afford to put the bills in my name.”

“Then it’s settled,” the landlord said.  “K-ice is in charge.”

“Todd, call PG&E,” I said, “and when they finally take you off hold have them talk to K-ice about the bill.  Until then, resume practicing your lyrics, K-ice.  You’re getting a little lazy with your delivery.  More oompff behind it this time.”

“Ok!” K-ice exclaimed and picked up his lyric sheet.

Todd looked at the three of us, at the dark room, the candle burning softly, and the weed in tobacco and bongs on the table.

“How did I get here?” Todd wondered aloud.

“Welcome to Mixer Hell,” I said.  I packed a mixed bowl of tobacco and weed and took a snap.  “Lighten up, Todd.  It’s nice here.  You’ll get used to it.”