OJ calls again

I had a strange, strong dream this morning. I was back in Baja with some old acquaintances and friends. We were hanging out and I was telling them the story of the time I ate mushrooms in 2014, right down to the detail of when I felt, during the beginning stage of the trip, that the mushrooms were instructing me to “let go of concepts, and even the concept of concepts; let go of ideas, and even the idea of ideas.” People were into it, and as a result the main man started heading to take over and reassert his authority. He never did like it when people listened to me rather than him.

Still, I didn’t mind: I was back in the vicinity, and that was the main thing.

“Back where I belong,” I said in the dream.

And in the real world, I woke up, and smilingly pondered, and wondered what it meant.

And then I noticed I’d woken up because the dog had come into my room.

“Good morning,” I said.

It was 5 a.m., and sort of weird, because the dog never, ever comes into my room, and actually I don’t think he even comes upstairs; probably he’s been trained to think he’s not allowed.

I thought maybe he was having some sort of toilet emergency, but he showed no interest in being let out when I went and opened the front door for him.

My brain being what it is, it naturally considered the possibility that the dog had entered the room to wake me up and ensure that I remembered the dream.

Maybe it was a sign. An instruction for where to venture next. The sort of thing I’m always hankering for.

We’ll see.

Also, in case you’re wondering: the above is all real – actually happened in the real world (the world you and I spend most of our time in) – and isn’t one of those made up scenarios I frequently post, that not everyone can tell is made up, much to my – and other people’s – bemusement.

When I woke up again, a couple of hours later, the phone was ringing.

“It’s OJ,” the by-now familiar voice said, “how’s it going?”

“It’s seven in the morning,” I said, “I was asleep.”

“Have you got anything?” he said. “I’m keen to get this thing going. I been buzzed about it ever since our last phone call. I can’t think of anything else.”

(I forgot to mention it, but we talked again about five days ago, and got started with the whole ghost writing project.)

“Okay,” I said, “hold on.”

I reached over for my computer, turned it on, threw my phone on the pillow, and went for a piss.

I didn’t bother getting dressed because I figured no one else would be up, and I was right.

The piss was a good one. Very satisfying. Remarkably clear.

Probably ‘cos of all the tea I’d been drinking the night before.

I flushed the toilet and thought about washing my hands. But then I thought, nah, waste of time – and no point, since I’d managed not to piss on them anyways, like the good boy that I am.

I just rubbed them on my arse and thighs, just in case, and got back into bed.

“You still there?” I said, tipping a mouthful of Bombay Mix into my mouth, and crunching it loudly down the phone.

“Goddamn,” said OJ, “what the hell is that?”

“Ongay Miffs,” I said, trying to swallow the spicy dry paste I had created.

“S’gone now,” I said, reaching once more for the bag, and then thinking better of it.

“You one strange cat,” OJ said.

“Yeah,” I said, “but at least I never…okay, here it is. You ready?”

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Ahem. Okay. ‘The mid-nineties were a bad time for me: there was a stretch there where, if something could go wrong, it did. I was short on dough. My car kept breaking down. They stuffed me with a Razzy for Naked Gun 3. They cancelled my favourite TV show, 'The Cosby Mysteries'. And the Bills kept getting beaten in the Super Bowl. Plus, my cat, Johnny Rotten, had to have his face amputated due to feline herpes.

‘The veterinary bills were astronomical: it was about the final straw. I tells ya, ‘round that time, if I’d fallen into a vat of prostitutes, I’d have come up sucking my thumb; that’s how bad my luck was in those days.

‘But, more than anything, it was the cash that was giving me headaches: I knew if only I had a few million dollars all my problems would be solved.

‘I racked my brains. I thought and I thought until steam literally blasted out of my ears. Then, one morning, while I was waiting for a Pop Tart to pop from a Dualit toaster my ex-wife had bought me for Christmas, it came: all I had to do was orchestrate the demolition of New York’s World Trade Center in such a way as to fool the unsuspecting public into believing terrible Arabs had done it and, due to the destruction of certain incriminating documents, plus canny investments I had made and information I would sell, I would be minted once again.

‘I knew instantly that I had found my solution. It was a genius idea. A moment of pure, God-given inspiration. But I also knew that pulling it off wouldn’t be as easy as it sounded.

‘This is the story of how I, Orthaniel Jane Simpson – aka, ‘The OJ’; aka, ‘The Juice’ (along with a little help from my friends) masterminded the biggest coup of the century: a scheme so audacious in its ambition and enormity, the world hasn’t stopped talking about it since.

‘This is the true story of the real mastermind behind 9/11.’”

I stopped there. I yawned. I felt my eyelids growing heavy and starting to close.

That always happens, when I listen to the sound of my own voice for any length of time.

“Go on,” said OJ, jerking me awake.

“That’s it,” I said. “That’s all I’ve got so far.”

“Humph,” he said, “I was hoping we’d have more than that by now.”

“I’ve been busy,” I said (I was lying; I'd mostly been watching skateboarding dog videos). “So what do you think?”

“Not bad,” he said. “Could use a little work, a little polishing.”

“Also,” he said, “my name’s not ‘Orthaniel’. And my middle name sure as shit ain't ‘Jane’.”

“Oops,” I said, “typo,” and laughed.

How had I not noticed that? How had I not noticed it, even when reading it?

Jane’s not a man’s name. Not even in America.

The brain’s a funny old thing sometimes.

“Still,” he said, “it’s…it’s not bad. It’s quite exciting. Gets me geed up for what’s to follow. Whatcha thinking next?”

“Oh, you know: a bit of back story, a bit of setting the scene. What you want is to get the reader on your side, get them to understand why you did what you did. It’s good if the main character is likeable.”

“Of course I’m likeable,” he shouted. “I’m The Juice! Everybody loves The Juice. America still loves The Juice. You should see the mail I get. Some of the pictures I get sent. Some of those honeys, man: girls younger than you’ll ever get. Spreading their legs. Showing me their panties. I’m gonna get me some serious poontang when I get outta here. Nine years of fuckin’ men’s asses! You better believe I’m ready to fuck some girl’s asses, aiii!”

I yawned again. Wondered how long this was going to go on for. Wondered if…

“Anyways,” he said, “it ain’t bad, but it needs work. It needs more pizzazz. Cut to the chase, you know. Start with the planes smashing into the buildings. Wham! Wham! Everybody knows that’s what’s coming: they’ll only be thinking about it, hankering after it, so get it out there nice and early.”

“Wham!” he said again. “Wham!”

“I dunno,” I said, “but…hey, I know we were going to talk about this later, but let me ask you about it now, since…I know what you mean: I can’t stop thinking about it either.”

“Thinking about what?”

“Well,” I said, “What was it? How’d you do it? You see all these theories about whether the planes were real, whether they were CGI, whether they had missiles, whether they were holograms, really piloted by Arabs, had passengers on them, whether explosives were already in the buildings, and all that…what’s the truth? It just don’t make no sense.”

OJ chuckled. Then laughed louder. Then laughed, like, REAL LOUD, until he was sort of howling, shrieking, whooping it up big style down the other end of the phone.

I could hear him echoing all 'round his cell, then all around the prison. Hear other prisoners sleepily and angrily yelling at him to shut the fuck up.

But he just kept right on laughing.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh boy.”

He was still chuckling softly to himself, and I pictured him wiping a tear from his eye.

“What if I told you,” he said, “what if I told you it was…ALL OF THE ABOVE. What would you say to that?”

Silence. Silence on my end of the phone, and silence on his.

I furrowed my brow. Tried to get my head around how that could possibly be.

“And don’t forget the chemtrails those planes were carrying,” he said. “You can’t imagine the stuff we put in them.”

Fuck me, I thought, this is getting sillier by the second. Next he’ll be telling me the lizard people were in on it.

“Plus,” he said – and I don’t even need to tell you what he said next.