Summer Time Blues

By: Katie Callen

It was the summer.

Hot, unforgiving, steam ridden misery; the kind that makes you want lay naked in the kiddy pool out in the yard and slamming back cold beers while popping meds to dull the sense of feeling.

No need for the hard stuff, I said to myself, this will only make things worse.

But this uneasy unrest… this wild feeling won’t leave my brain.

The amount of weed I ingested trying to fight the urge to do this most unneeded demon wasn’t working. What is to come of the day?

Where will I go? Who will go with me?

You need a copilot for this shit. Without one you will become lost. But lost lost is what I seem to be any way, so why worry? But in this mad world I will need someone.

The massive conundrum is that I have no idea where I am in this strange town, in the middle of all these winding red dirt roads, with only stop signs, and no fucking map to tell me where I am.

I must seek out locals to guide me down this sick and twisted fate which lies ahead for the day if I am going to survive to tell the tale that is soon to unveil itself to me.


Now I was sitting in the pool in this poor fool’s yard. He was graced with my presence by a twist of fate involving a rehab they sent me to.

Rehab is for quitters and I am no quitter.

By “they” I mean the god forsaken government who sees my need to use these drugs as a threat to their political platforms and who need to prove that scum like me is much better locked away in some freak barn full of lost animal souls than free to wander the streets..

They want us in some place where they can poke and prod the asses of those less fortunate than themselves.  These god fearing socialites are in the bath room doing a big bump of the same shit I am doing, just to go get their nasty fucks on with congressmen and whose wives sits at home sipping coffee and doing their perfect nails; and then go out shopping on the money their corrupt husbands extorted from me through fines and court cost!

Just because I was out late on a tweak walk, enjoying the town.


So as for this town- these four wheel driving hillbilly’s; they are stranger than any I have met before and I have been in the sticks many times before –  way back where people go missing and are never found.

But this feels different to me.

A wind; a chill that leads me to think, Do I want to leave the yard?  But the only way to get this monster to stop talking to me is to pull my stoned, drunk ass out of this pool and start the day.

I stand up slowly grabbing the half drank six pack of Keystone Light and the leftover joint. Well, why have any weed left at al?l so I just toke on this roach as I walk slowly in the house.

Still in shock at this view of faces I didn’t know I still couldn’t turn back now. The fucking cops are hot on my tail after the grand escape from the court ordered rehab. At any moment I will be caught and be on my way to the Oklahoma Prison System for the next ten years.

Got to get going before the cops smell the trail of a dope raged outlaw. I was grumbling unknown words to myself trying to figure this shit out.

With all my nighty pound force I try a front kick to the door and make my rock star like entrance to the over furnished, dimly lit living room.

“What the fuck is up with ya’ll” I say with each strange eye looking at me like who is this little freak girl thinking she’s some kind of bad ass?  Where did she come from?

” Hell!” I scream. “What?”

Oh. No one asked me anything

“I was just talking to myself.” I said. I could see the look on the faces: confusion… unknowing. I am out of goddamn weed !  “Who’s got somewhere can I score ?”
“It’s time to party you fucking lazy no good slobs! Get your ass up!  Let’s go! All I have is a car and very little cash and no idea where to go. But I can make a call as they say.”

I staggered back and forth.

“Like we are some big time dope dealers and have connections in the Mafia.  Let’s make it happen! I have no time to waste!”


Nine thousand hours and one call later and these low life fiends can’t seem to produce what I need.

“Don’t make me go at it alone! I will!”

The need to fly high overwhelms the idea of I don’t even know where the highway is.

I was completely jittery now and hallucinating badly.

“ Fuck all, ya’ll!  Your all just nobody and will always… be how?” I was jabbering wildly now.

“Why! the fuck did I land? Just to hide in such a worthless spot! And with such lame good-for-nothing, so-called People.”  Was I the only one wanting to have a good time?.


Well, I guess if these shits were on their way to prison they’d be up for doing something too.

First step,  dress to the occasion. I must fit into this strange world.

I landed here wearing this half naked yard-pool attire. It won’t do!

As I head to the bath room to try to make up myself I hear Ricky Ray, who is the only reason for this house or my being here, and I don’t even know him.

“ Hey, yo girl, toss me one of em’ beers!”

“What?” I cried out. “Who the fuck are you?”

I glanced him up and down. “Why’d you ask me? Get your own! I need all the shit I can get to muster my way through this backwood land.”

He looked at me with a slack jaw. Like he had seen something out of a terrible nightmare. He looked genuinely horrified.

So I took both beers to the back of the house, where my only possessions are two duffle bags full of nothing of good use, shoes and makeup, clothes and CD’s and other random meth-head, tweeker things. Trash to say the least, for a person trying to get high on the run from the law.

This was of no good use. There is now the real need fetch out for supplies. Cowboy boots, yes, and check cut-off shorts.  Yep. A black wife beater too.

As much black eyeliner as the little eyes can wear!

Rock star yep and ready for country high life. Let’s get so me back woods dope!

Fuck! How? Still stuck in this question.  I hope these dip shits have something going on by now. My fabulous reentrance sends silence in to the living room. Oh hell these fucking hillbilly inbred freaks won’t be able to handle this shit! RUN!

No cant gotta find the dope!

With all looking so lost I plop down on one of the three couches, grasping the two remaining beers. Hank Williams Jr was blaring on the cd player. I had the feeling as though the night would end with me passing out on this couch, with just a mild buzz-and no real fun.

Going on the run from the law was supposed to be more than a couch and a cd with a joint and six beers

This could be my last free moment.

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