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Ricky and the elements part 1

“screams this dolphin like shriek “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” and runs into the shadows“

Ricky, a product of foster care, was one of those people you know that is kind of like a secondary character in real life. Like he’s always there, but never really sticks out in the crowd. You say to yourself, “I want to know more about this guy, since I see him all the time.” Though when you begin investigate you find out that there is a reason god made him a real life secondary character. Ricky left the foster care system at the age of 20, when he moved in with his mother he was taken away from as a child. As to how they managed to reunite wasn’t quite clear, what was clear was why they were separated. Ricky was a dull , buck tooth guy with a mono tone voice. He had a permanent look of confusion on his face, even when he wasn’t puzzled over something. That being said, he stayed away from any form of assholery. He didn’t partake in petty illegal shit, he didn’t drink, smoke or touch drugs. He was a simpleton, but he never did anything without the best intentions, unlike many of his foster brothers. This all ended when his mother barged back into his life at age 19. His mother was this sweet woman who left her troubled past to seek forgiveness, no sorry I was giving you the feeling of hope. In reality, this woman had the  “aftermath of a 10 year coke binge” kind of face. Her child was taken by CPS at the age of 9, drug related offenses were the cause. She was moving nickel bags of coke out of her recently deceased father’s trailer in 1980 something. One night when she snorted what was left of her supply and let off steam by throwing rocks at cars on the I-10. During that time the town she was in, Marana, had a population of like 5 (estimate), so when hitting a Arizona Trooper’s vehicle it wasn’t hard to find the perp. Considering it was the only trailer within a stones throw of the highway, the trooper simply pulled off at the next exit and made the arrest. She didn’t go without a fight, well wasn’t a fight more like complaining that she has a kid at home while also mentioning she was experiencing a come down from some “jankee blow”. That got the attention of the state, as it was said to a state trooper. Fast forward to the day I first met her, when I was guilted to help Ricky move after leaving him stranded in the desert for 24 hours the week before. Long story, and  I chose not to include my asshole behavior as I am the master of this domain. Anyway, when I arrived to the trailer I was welcomed by his mom who greeted me with a Marlboro red. Keeping in mind that I was still in high school at the time, the offering of a cigarette may seem in poor taste, but this is considered a kind gesture in Marana. After unloading Ricky’s bunk bed, which to this day I have no idea why he owned. He never had anyone sleep in the bottom bunk, but it was revealed later by his foster brothers that he used the bottom bunk for masturbating. Sorry got side tracked a bit, as we finished unloading his bed for unloading, she walked into the room with a lit joint and the smell of burning chemicals. Took me about a minute to realize that smell was a substance you may know as crystal meth. Yes, instead of going clean after losing her son, she decided to find something stronger than cocaine. Considering Marana meth production made Walter White look like an amateur, it didn’t take long for her to get hooked. Ricky remained poised to change her, and help his only living relative. It was heartbreaking, that guy honestly thought making his mother change would better his life. What he didn’t expect was through all the years of associating himself with druggy dickheads, the only pier pressure he gave into was from his mother. Ricky changed from a dull, always confused guy to a dull always confused guy on meth. One summer afternoon, my friend Patrick went to pick Ricky up and he was no where to be seen, despite just speaking on the phone with him a few minutes before. Patrick drove to my place and picked me up, saying he was kind of worried something happened to Ricky. Apparently Patrick walked into Ricky’s trailer after repeated non-answered calls, his mother was laying on a cum stained lazy boy with one tit hanging out of her robe. She said something about “getting that fucking son of bitch for trying to bite her”. At this point in the story I was genuinely curious as to what the fuck transpired. We drove back to Ricky’s trailer to investigate, his mother was gone, broken glass everywhere. No signs of blood or anything like that. Her ford pinto wasn’t in the driveway so we assumed she just left. No sign of Ricky, we went to search for clues in their fridge and after taking two bud light tall boys we decided to continue the search in the desert around the trailer. During this time, and maybe still, the roads in this rural community were laid out by crudely packed dirt. Many times these were built by farmers or ranchers and wasn’t county or state funded. Many were not identified on GPS or road maps, making navigating them almost impossible. By the time we decided to end the search, convinced by the time we returned Ricky would probably be home anyway, it was dark. You don’t know darkness until you’ve experienced night in a remote part of the Sonoran Desert. Hills and mountains surround you, making visual references like the city skyline out of view. Without cell service or a basic knowledge of astronomy, becoming disoriented doesn’t take long. Simply put, we were completely lost. We began circling the area, turning down roads that turned out to be washes. We even found a wide dirt path that we thought was surely a road, until we almost drove off a cliff. It was now midnight, still lost with no cell service or signs of civilization, I decided that we should just plow through the desert in one direction. That way we’d eventually reach a road or highway. At the very least I thought we’d get cell service that could pick up our location. Patrick had no problem with this plan, even-though it could result in damaging his recently purchased Dodge Durango. We began driving what turned out to be north, worst of all directions in that area. For about an hour we ripped through the desert, taking down any brush, cactus or wildlife that got in our way. This seemed to go on forever, my memory fades for a lot of this part of the trip because I dozed off. Not sure how long I was out, but I woke up when getting thrown forward into the glove compartment. Patrick slammed on the brakes, I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Before I had time to react, Patrick yelled “What the fuck?! What the fuck?! Who the fuck?! What the fuck?! Ricky?!” After retaining some composure, I looked up to see a naked Ricky defecating on a cholla cactus. Eyes were glowing off the reflection of the headlights. “Ricky? What the fuck are you doing?” Patrick said. Ricky presents a “battle stance” and screams this dolphin like shriek “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” and runs into the shadows. Its about 2:30AM, we’ve been lost in the desert for about three hours now. We still didn’t quite know where we were. Now we have a bare-naked Ricky running through the desert to worry about. Patrick and I argued the logistics. I wanted to find civilization and call it a day. After hours of being lost and just witnessing a grown man take a shit on a cactus, I felt there was nothing else that needed to be accomplished. Patrick, on the other hand, wanted to ensure Ricky made it home safely. At this point, even though I never tried meth, I was pretty sure that it didn’t make you that crazy for a prolonged period. “Do you really want to chase this fucker through the desert until daylight?” I said.  Patrick replied “Man, this dude can’t be running through the desert with his dick swinging. He’s going to get a cold.” “A fucking cold?!” I said, “This guy just shit on a teddy bear cactus while making inhuman high pitch scream, and your worried he has a cold?” “He’s crazy, let him come off on what he’s on and we’ll come back.” “What if he dies or some shit, no fuck that” Patrick said. What could I do? It was his car, and it wasn’t like I could provide an easier solution to getting out of the endless abyss that is the Sonoran Desert. Another thing I forgot to mention, Patrick grew up in the same group home as Ricky. They were, for all practical purposes, brothers.  So reluctantly I agreed to stay and help search for Ricky. It is now almost 4 am, we have been searching over an hour for Ricky. The search was done on foot, Patrick left his headlights on his truck so we wouldn’t lose it. Using the screens of our phones for light to navigate around the cactus and brush. Both of our phones didn’t come with the flashlight feature, and this was probably worse than just letting our eyes adjust to the dark. This went on until sunrise, I was dragging my feet and was about to collapse from fatigue. Patrick was done with the search, “fuck he better be dead, otherwise I’m going to kill him myself” Patrick said. We decided to put the search on hold to eat and get some rest . We walked back to the car. Once we got back to his ride I needed to take a leak. I went the only direction we didn’t wonder off to, it was a bit of an incline. As I got to level ground I saw the I-10, about 500 yards off in the distance, “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me” I said. To be continued....

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If you’re feeling down...remember there is a still someone in your hometown trying to be a rapper

“He rode up with her riding bitch while blasting "Dear Mama" in a suburban neighborhood at 1 in the morning“

As the title the suggests, the topic of discussion will be one mans dream of becoming the next Eminem. Is that racist by the way? Like the only similarities he shares with Eminem is that he’s white and raps. To my knowledge I don’t believe he even liked Eminem. It’s like when a black guy sings country music and iTunes labels it “Country Hip-hop” even though he has never rapped in his entire life. Got to love the blatant racism from super “open minded” people in a Northern California.  Sorry got a bit side tracked there. Back to the man in question, let’s call him MC Squiggles. MC Squiggles developed a love for rap, as many of us did, in the late 90s. He started “spittin rhymes” by middle school and selling his mixtapes (giving away to be more accurate) in High School. Say what you will, Squiggles never gave up. To this day Squiggles is still trying to make a name for himself in the “Underground Rap Game” of the grimy streets of Tucson. By grimy I mean in the literal sense, roads conditions are subpar at best. Anyway, he usually performs in places like hipster coffee cafes that turn into hookah/vaping lounges after 8PM. Which by the way, if you use a vape and you have said something in the realm of “I want cotton candy dank juice with no nicotine” kill yourself. I’ll touch on that later, back to Squiggles. Squiggles has done everything he could to find his niche in hip hop society. He started wearing flashy jewelry and wife beaters. Unfortunately, his Bolex watch (I wish that was a typo) didn’t gain the street cred he expected.  He started hitting on chicks on myspace from poor neighborhoods in Tucson to be able to adapt into their culture. It was like if Avatar was set in the Barrio. Though he was successful with his endeavors at least once. Turned out that the girl he was fucking was also fucking with several members of the local neighborhood crips. For those who don’t know, it’s a club for refined gentlemen who enjoy the finer things in life. Just kidding, turned out the girl he was fucking was referred to as a “strawberry”. For those who didn’t take Urban linguistics classes in college, “strawberry” refers to a woman who is “passed around’ and is usually compensated accordingly. In this case compensation was, if I had to guess, was paid in crack-cocaine. She was a fun character to be around. She had a lot of fun hobbies that the two would take part in. She collected silverware from the various white families she was introduced to through Squiggles. She then would proceed to the shadiest pawn shop one could find and trade the silverware for legal tender. That profit usually funded her favorite and most expensive hobby, horseback riding. By horseback I mean crack and by riding, I mean smoking. That said she did participate in a form of barebacking, because after all she was a “strawberry” (see aren’t you glad I explained that meaning?). Squiggles did not become aware of the other guys until later down the road. Which was interesting because she did not hide the fact she was a crack whore. I heard her reference other guys right in front of Squiggles, but he didn’t seem to catch on. In fact, one day they came by my place on his moped he was illegally driving. Just to be clear, he wasn’t knowingly driving it illegally, his justification was in the State of Arizona you only need a license for a car. Which is not the case, never was and quite frankly I still have no idea who told him this. So back to the time they came over unannounced. He rode up with her riding bitch while blasting "Dear Mama" in a suburban neighborhood at 1 in the morning. Instead of calling my cell phone, or at least knocking, the two decided to sneak in through my bedroom. As I awoke to crack barrio bunny and white Tupac breaking and entering through my bedroom window. I figured that they were going to either kill me or ask to hide out for a while. I found out that they needed to talk to me about a possible pregnancy scare. As to why they came to me still confuses me to this day. It wasn’t like I had the slightest idea of how to proceed. They were older than I was, and I was never the voice of reason before. You will find that waking me up in the middle of the night to discuss something that was none of my business was a trend. But for the first time I thought “Okay I’ll bite”. So, Squiggles says “ay dawg, I thought I pulled out or some shit but she pregnant”. So, at this point I figured they took a few tests and they were positive. “Well does anyone know? You didn’t take the pregnancy test at your mom’s house did you?” I asked. “Nah” said the teenage crack baby “we didn’t take the test, I just know I’m pregnant. It don’t feel right”. I asked “oh so you have been pregnant before?” after about a two second pause she replies “Nah”. At this point I’m waiting for them to connect the dots, and have a “wait that makes no fucking sense” moment. Alas that never happened, which at this point it started to make me feel stupid by association. “Okay, let’s say you are actually pregnant. What would you intend to do with it?” I asked. She didn’t want to go to a clinic, but she didn’t want to keep this imaginary baby. So, I look at Squiggles and asked for his opinion on whether he would want to father this imaginary baby. At this point I came to the realization that this wasn’t some fucked up dream I can wake up from, it was really happening. So, I figured to divert the conversation to something that could perhaps get them the fuck out of my bedroom. I asked him “are you sure it’s yours?” with that he looked at me with a look of full sincerity and said “Are you saying dudes be foundlin my girls pussy?”  “yes….yes I am” I said, “nah its mine” he concluded. It’s 2:15 AM, after spending a considerable amount of time in my restroom, Latina Whitney Houston came back saying “Just curb stomp my stomach! Just curb stomp my stomach! You disconnect it and I’ll piss it out.” Squiggles says “that aint how that shit works, you need a vacuum or something”. It is now 2:30AM, Squiggles and Cokey McCrackhead are now discussing a possible at home remedy that could replicate what most go to medical school to learn. Instead of medical equipment they thought a hoover duster and a pair of Jordans would suffice. Instead of correcting anyone, at this point I knew she was definitely not pregnant and the idea of Squiggles curb stomping her stomach was looking more and more appealing. I went into my closet, I had a college anatomy book I was given from my parents. I pretended to find the “abortion” chapter, which didn’t exist.  I said “hey guys I have this and it can tell you whether or not “stomping” would work. I knew they wouldn’t check, books to them is like bacon to Muslims. I read and said “in theory that is all an abortion is” and how that same practice has been used for centuries. Squiggles turns to his self-proclaimed “shawty” and she looks at me and asked “is it a bad idea?”. It’s now 3:15 AM, I had to wake up in 2 hours, any moral code does not exist in the name of slumber to me. I looked at her and said “Yes, it both solves the issue of not keeping the baby while also not visiting a clinic”. That was it, DJ Trust-fund and pookie rode off into the sunrise on an illegally driven moped and I never asked about what happened next. You may notice I started writing what the various characters say, these are based (if not verbatim) on what I documented from the time it happened. Yes, that conversation took place. No I didn’t add a convenient Segway with claiming to have a anatomy book, I still have that book and the memories of that night with it. So Squiggles was hard at work trying to become the next big rap star. He categorized himself a KC-Motown rapper, that signifies he is a Kansas City based hip hop artist. So you may be asking yourself “wait, didn’t this guy say that this is in Arizona?” To that I’d say “yes” and if you ask why I will say “no fucking idea”. The stupidity aside, he wasn’t that terrible. In fact I found that his technique was good. His tempo was the same as any other hip hop artist I’ve heard, then again I’m no Dr. Dre. The key issue with his stylings was the lyrics, and that was what kept him from his goal of fame. Then again being from Tucson is another great way to remain out of the spotlight. I swear if I’d ever attempt to publish this I wouldn’t get a chance the second they saw I was from Arizona. If I was from New York or Los Angeles all I would have to do is shit on printer paper and I’d get a book deal. Anyway, his lyrics were mashed up life experiences of famous rappers combined into one. It would be like if someone had the same life experience of Eminem, 50 cent, snoop dogg, and Tupac all in one. We are talking of course of someone who was shot 9 times, while being a member of the crips, whose mom was addicted to pills and got killed sitting next to Suge Knight. None of these were what Squiggles experienced in his life. So, it got to the point where no body understood what he was talking about, mostly because he didn’t either. He didn’t base his lyrics on any of his life experiences. No one really cared right up to when he felt it was socially acceptable to say the word “nigger” or “nigga” which there IS NO DIFFERENCE. While his lyrics were stolen from other popular artist of the time, his own life stories were probably best to be unheard. That, however, was not the case when he introduced (or “dropped” as he put it) his new mixtape. As you may remember, strawberry was also sleeping with the local crip chapter (is that how you refer to them?). Throughout her endeavors she picked up a few things other than crack along the way. Chlymidia, among others, were coursing through her veins and she passed them down to squiggles. Squiggles now experienced multiple different STDs that he ignored. While the details become disgustingly graphic, I will let his lyrics explain. “When I asked, she put up a fuss. Asking why my dick be squirting puss.” -MC Squiggles 2010.  Thankfully he tested that lyric with a small audience of friends before going to a show……..no he didn’t. Opening for tech n9ne he discovered the only thing worse than saying the n-word, discussing dick puss.  The room, who was filled with the “who’s who” of the Tucson Hip-hop crowd (few fat Mexicans drunk on cough syrup), in a state of confusion. “Dat mutha fucker say dick puss?” one crowd member said. The awkwardness the equivalent of someone shitting their pants came over the crowd. Rather than taking a hint, he continues with the STD riddled rhymes, then continued to confess his love for some girl named Kathleen that none of us even heard of. After the chorus fades out and his song ends the room was silent. Then a loud male voice screams from the bar, “Kathleen gave me crabs!”.