Kaleidoscope

Kaleidoscope

I.

Vikkar Brooks aged in his youthful years, slumbered in the hacky sack lounge, and raided the snack shop for day old donuts.

He lived in the basement of Lardy Loo’s, where his Papa fried most things under the sun (everything but wisdom, that is) and Papa drank the grease when he was finished frying up the world.

Papa could tell when the world was finished frying because Papa listened.  Crackle, pop, woosh, and the hot syrupy goo shot into his eye. It got so bad he had to wear goggles. Sometimes oil drops hit him on the bottom lip and he developed sores on that same bottom lip. It was rumored those sores caused his wife Loo to leave him — not because he called Loo a lard but because of the imperfection of Papa’s bottom lip.

Vikkar didn’t listen to rumors because he knew that half the lot of them weren’t true and that’s why they were called rumors. Whenever Vikkar heard rumors he squeezed his eyelids shut real tight until each eyelid gave the impression of being a miniature freakish monster straight from under the bed but instead under the forehead. Vikkar would holler, “Rumor, rumor, rumor,” yet would stand still, reluctant to leave the scene of the rumor. He felt he was a rumor road block – if he moved the lies would run on like melted wax. Nothing would remain but the stump of some poor crayon. Travesty.

Sometimes Vikkar yelled the word “travesty.” He also yelled “Dipstick, Cotton Picking Weeny, Word, Word, Word.” If he couldn’t think of any words to use he went silent for a moment. When the silent moment was up and had been milked as thoroughly as a silent moment can be milked, Vikkar Brooks swallowed and pulled in his chin a little and snorted. Glorious snort, lighting up the sky like a firecracker. Vikkar’s throat was sandpaper after a snort like that. Other folks don’t have the same skills at snorting, see. It is not in the frequency or the length but rather the volume. Vikkar could snort louder than he can yodel and yodel louder than he could moan. Vikkar’s snorts chilled the souls of the unredeemed man, painted oceans dark, separated firmament from firmament until the tightest horizons were divorced.

Vikkar blamed his parents for lost focus. Papa for having sores on his bottom lip, Loo for being a lard.

Vikkar lived in the basement of Lardy Loo’s with some friends. He called them his “fellows.” The fellows had a nice time. Vikkar would say they had a nice life but no one has a nice life. Nice lifes are out of the picture. Nice times in life, on the other hand, are more possible, entirely more tangible, and something of a wonder in and of themselves. They are the workings of ingenuity. The genius happenings of the refresher of the hearts of the saints. Nice times in life originate from statistically impossible nice lifes, yet also from the un-nice lifes — common like stunted thumbs on the hands of beautiful Russian women.

Vikkar Brooks and his fellows had nice times in life while playing Swords. Foods to be fried all came in frozen cardboard boxes, and it was Vikkar’s job to sort the food stuffs and crush and dispose of the boxes. Vikkar was supposed to toss each and every crushed cardboard box into the large green recycling dumpster on the edge of the property, but Vikkar did not. At least not a lot. Vikkar did things, but not a lot. He figured if you did things a lot they were nothing but old and boring. He figured it was ok to be old but not ok to be boring. Vikkar Brooks hoped beyond all reasonable expectation that when he was old he might be able to buy a red motorcycle, find some nice old and not boring lass, and ride around wherever there are roads. Perhaps they could play that game called Hopeless Survivor, in which one seeks out the most perilous path to one’s destination and then nobly forges such a path. A serious game indeed.

Serious like the game Swords he played with the fellows. There were four fellows altogether: Vikkar and three others. There should have been more, really. But the other possible players thought of themselves as suave, which ruined the whole purpose and mindset of the game Swords.

Vikkar twisted his cardboard together into toobs of cardboard (he knew toobs were really spelled “tubes” but he liked to spell them “toobs” and imagined the word spelled in his mind every time he said it because then the word kind of seemed like boobs without being the word boobs, and Vikkar thought this sublime. Vikkar was a thirteen-year-old boy). Vikkar spelled everything in his mind when he said words – even things like “and,” and “Thai,” and “Gilligan” and “Lewis.” Those were the other three fellows, by the way. Thai was really spelled “Ty” because it was just short for Tyler, but to Vikkar Ty is Thai because Thai was fresher. More swell.

In the game of Swords, each fella got a toob of cardboard to ducked tape how they wished. Vikkar knew it was spelled “duct” but he had to spell it in his mind as “ducked” so he pronounced it correctly. Incorrect pronunciations were not nice at all. Awful. Savage as the fellows charging when the game of Swords began. Only one of them snorted. The other fellows attempted to snort but never quite perfected the scheme of snorting – kind of like how some blokes could whistle real well, with two fingers in their mouth, or how some folks could snap like a leaf blower. Those skills were natural, see? Reflex.

That’s what Bakker’s snorting was. A reflex.

            Dialogue during the game of Swords went something like this:

LEWIS: I’m gonna whoop you like whoopers buddy.

THAI: You’re so fat you’re a whooper.

LEWIS: I’m not fat you’re fat. I eat all day and all night but I’m not fat. You must be siphoning off my fat Thai, so that you can win Swords. You never lose because you have so much extra padding, Lewis. Go eat those donuts so you can eat all the chocolate ones before any of the girls arrive and then see.

KILOE: The nerve!

The fellows looked up and saw Kiloe eating a crème filled maple. She must have been upset because she didn’t know there were chocolate donuts. Maple was not the favorite. Maple being the favorite went in waves. Like tides, dependent on the moon. The moon was to tides as Kiloe was to maple donuts.

Kiloe was one of Lardy Loo’s waitresses. She was short, black, and was constantly straightening her almost grayish hair. Vikkar often contemplated how she had grayish hair. She was not old at all but young, and most certainly not boring. Her arms were covered with donut fat all the way down. They jived, hair lying peacefully on the tops of her arms, fat flowing in a casual wave down to the wrist. She wore a rose-gold watch which slid up and down, down and up her arms. Kiloe’s fat was spread equally, like too much margarine on the face of a slice of bread. Like too much butter which is much better than margarine and more believable than “I Can’t Believe It’s Butter,” which people joked about in Lardy Loo’s diner because the butter tasted absolutely loony.

Vikkar and three fellows from school were out in the yard below the vast expanse of the sky somewhere in Canada, and they were sword fighting with cardboard toobs while Kiloe and her donut both watched. Kiloe was the historian. Vikkar was the certified roll baker for his father’s diner. Really good rolls. The dough rose in a giant stainless steel bowl (bowl of the gods) and sighed so frequently that Saran Wrap gracing the top of it was laced with fog.

Fog: tremulous beast, warrior of the Samurai forest, heroine of the fallen stars. Vikkar emerged from the fog wielding a sword flaming in red ducked tape.

Overall, Vikkar did two things in his youth. Bake rolls, crush enemies.

Vikkar used a thick brush to spread butter over each roll’s head, right upon the crown of their head. Queens and kings, all of them – each and every one. Vikkar named them. “Linda the valiant, Vini the true. Gertrude the giant, Henry Kazoo.” The last names often petered out because Vikkar wasn’t very skilled at rhyming. Or maybe he was, but most words that rhyme were rather simple. Vikkar was bored of simple rhyming words. Dr. Seuss thoroughly exhausted them and now they must lay down for a nap.

The butter brush had a white handle. Vikkar held it real tight so as to regulate the location and precise amount of butter to be spread. Vikkar was serious about his tasks. He was a humble, efficient worker. The kind of worker who would earn “Employee of the Month,” in a heartbeat. The kind of “Employee of the Month” who would wonder why pot smoking coworkers were continually glaring at his face on the wall as well as his face on his neck.

Thai pulled a practical joke one evening. He was outside in the rain putting out the trash and got a brilliant idea that grew and grew until it begged to be harvested. Rain drops can take up to twenty minutes to hit the ground. Thai took about twenty minutes waiting for the night to fall.

After night fell, Thai crept up next to the basement of Lardy Loo’s and screamed like a Ring Wraith. The poor fellows living in the basement just about shot through the roof with fright. Vikkar grew cold as if he’d swallowed a large dose of watermelon seeds. The other two fellows wailed like baby goats in the wind. The shame. Shame is a giant toob to be run through and stuck in the middle of and shaken out, over, and up. Everyone can watch from the outside even as you are trapped in the middle of a

kaleidoscope,

While a thick butter brush tickles the crown of your head.

II.

In the valley of Lardy Loo’s the sun almost never showed itself. Kind of like a golden molar tooth.

Nearly every grandpa has got a golden molar tooth. Vikkar had a burning desire to see such a majestic accessory, but he’d have to pry open an old chap’s stinking mouth and by that time he’d have ruined some of the chap’s healthy teeth. Then Vikkar would feel absolutely awful.

Vikkar didn’t necessarily mind feeling awful, but it had best be for the sake of something epic. Golden molars were pushing it.

Vikkar often wondered if he would grow old in the valley of Lardy Loo’s, living out his days as the local roll baker and Sword fighter. He might have embraced such a humble existence had a purpose not waddled into his life.

Vikkar had never thrived before. All his activities were vapors in the wind — ceaseless tasks — cold quelling callings. Nothing spectacular, nothing dynamic. All a ghostly void. Then entered Jordan Lithuane. The unpaved road to Lardy Loo’s was rough, but when Jordan sauntered upon it such a road became smooth as water. Jordan’s skirts billowed up around her, the sail of a goddess. Jordan’s hair fell upon her broad shoulders, the dreadlocks of a beast. In her, everything was reflected. In everything, she was furnished in splendor.

When Vikkar cast eyes upon Jordan for the first time, Vikkar felt he was nothing but a blue pikmin with a sprout shooting out of his head. Blue pikmin don’t even have powers really. Well, they can breathe in water but that’s not really a power. That’s just lungs. That’s how undignified Vikkar felt compared to Jordan. Lungy.

JORDAN: Ho there friend! Can I get some bacon here? Some fuel for the hard road?

VIKKAR: Ho!

When Vikkar was stunned he tended to repeat for a while until he thought of something original to say.

VIKKAR: Fuel. Yes! Yes!

Vikkar grinned stupidly. Then he realized he most likely appeared drunk, with a breastplate of green foam and duct tape upon his chest and a butter brush in hand.

VIKKAR: Fuel for the grand traverse – go on in, weary traveler, and sit by the fire. Vikkar squinted.

Jordan grinned. JORDAN: Who said I was weary?

But she was joking and Vikkar knew it so he shrugged. Shrugs fix all the lack brilliance in the world. Piece together lack of brilliance into a giant forced-together-not-at-all-correct jigsaw puzzle, and then shrug.

Later that day the sun shined a little. Vikkar spent that time inside, brushing butter on the crowns of rolls. It was his job. However, this fortunate day Vikkar was able to eavesdrop. Dropping eaves, what Vikkar does best. Drip drop drip drop.

Baker’s PAPA: So how much for the carpet replacement?

JORDAN: Thirty packs of gum.

PAPA: (grins) I’ve heard of this. All the rage in the nomad community, eh? Gets you a free place for the night and a sausage over the fire, eh? Maybe a little bit of chili?

Jordan stared. JORDAN: A lot of chili.

PAPA: I don’t have gum. I’ll pay in cash.

JORDAN: Ah man, I don’t think you know how good the chili is.

Jordan reached inside her boot and held up a penny whistle. It was at Papa’s throat —pressure against the aortic artery.

Vikkar thought of the ice cube lemon gum he had hidden in the side pocket of his duffle. (also where his underwear and socks were stowed. The clean ones, at least, and the laundry verses.)

            So it was a peace offering, hurriedly fetched and humbly extended. If not life-saving to Papa, Vikkar’s intercession was, at the least, relieving. The ice cube lemon gum began an enduring friendship between Vikkar and Jordan prophesied to contain these three sketches:

1) The game of Socks

2) Trading of Halloween candy

3) Frozen Yoplait Yogurt

III.

It might be of surprise that a lake thrived in the valley of Lardy Loo’s, and that in the evening, dusk, or dwindling summer sun, this lake was of purple essence and of hazel fog.

The lake was for beauty, Vikkar was for ugly. Ugly with a cyst on his cheek, which had grown larger and was found lurking under his second bicuspid (or premolar). It was of surprise that such “premolars” existed. Vikkar always thought he only had molars to boast of. Revelation of the premolars was an unexpected surprise. He was vocal about it, especially vocal to Jordan and Thai, because Vikkar felt his bicuspids were of greater stature than theirs.

VIKKAR: Look I have tan lines as well, from taking out the trash every night.

JORDAN: Show me, but no promise of admiration. I will surely despise them and you.

Jordan waddled over, moccasins crunching in the gravel.

VIKKAR: See, here’s the watch tan line, and the shorts tan line, and there is my farmer’s tan although I am not a farmer--

JORDAN, explosive in laugher: That’s dirt, you Turk!

Skin around Vikkar’s eyes got very wrinkly when his eyes opened wide. He wondered why Jordan had called him a Turk, today. Vikkar was not a Turk. Tomorrow he may be a Frenchman or a Jew or, who knows, there was a fierce possibility of the identity “Earlobe” or “Labradoodle” sinking in.

“Opa!” Hollered Jordan, because recently she had watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding against Lardy Loo’s protocol. Vikkar’s papa did not appreciate movies. He tried his very best to ban technology although Vikkar was allowed to research the weather of the world because then he would know if a tornado ever was going to come through and destroy Lardy Loo’s. What would happen then? Vikkar’s papa had a fierce loyalty to Lardy Loo’s.

A list of four things Papa loved most:

1) Lady Loo’s

2) Vikkar’s younger sister Sicilian who died from Salmonella at the age of seven

3) Vikkar

Papa never could think of a fourth. He never understood the sense of a fourth object to be loved. Three was a very nice number all by itself and the number four was not necessary at all. For instance, when decorating Lardy Loo’s, Papa set candles in threes and fake eggs in threes. When his friend Mason Mulch came by and offered Papa three conch shells from Maui, he put them all in one bathroom simply because he did not have the heart to separate them.

And to think — if a freak tornado passed through and destroyed all of those precious items, what would Papa do? Grin and bear it? I think not.

I think very much NOT.

Such pain may be possible to bear, but to grin while doing so would be in bad taste. Vikkar’s father did not appreciate bad taste. Inconceivable.   

Certainly similar to the experience of watching a mosquito sit leisurely upon your skin, pierce through said skin, and slurp the surrounding blood away while you have a donut in one hand and a donut in the other and there is nothing to be done.

IV.

At some point, Vikkar decided he would like to have a hobby. Or hobble, or be a hobbyist. Vikkar was always fascinated in the science, rendering, and laying of carpet.

When the day’s duties were accomplished, Vikkar ate a slice of whole wheat toast with a donut on top and retreated rather swiftly to his makeshift Dome of Hobbies.

That’s what he named it — Dome of Hobbies.

No one was allowed inside but Jordan, whom Vikkar had taken a liking to simply because her insults were original and racist, whereas as other insults fell flat.

Jordan, Vikkar had decided, was “legit,” but Vikkar recently decided that being “legit” was not all that great because everyone is, in fact, “legit.” Real, authentic, tangible. Flesh. Jordan had flesh, similar to the rest of mankind. It was nice to have flesh. Absolutely nothing wrong with it. Sometimes, being unique is not all that attractive and being normal has its benefits.

When Vikkar was done tinkering with the freshest slab of carpet, he would pull Jordan aside during her break and announce softly: I’m finished hobbling,

Jordan would leap up, hug him round the neck, and dash over to Dome of Hobbies to have a look. Vikkar was not shy about stealing for his trade. The occasional trucker would come through to Lardy Loo’s and most of them were pretty grouchy when they arrived because they had to use the restroom. Then they would order a large spicy sausage, or some food of that nature, and Vikkar was left with plenty of time to pry open the front window. As a rule, Vikkar made out with plenty of carpet.

Lovely carpet, most of it.

Vikkar always salivated when the moving trucks pulled in. Jordan clapped her hands, impatient for Vikkar’s next creation. She was an honest encouragement. One time Vikkar combined a purple linen carpet with a hemp rug. It could been nice to the post-modern eye, but Jordan’s eye was absolutely not post-modern. She did no harrumphing or guffawing but simply pretended to throw up. That did the trick.

Most creations were very nice.

When the casual observer asked what Vikkar was up to, he said, “thriving.” When individuals told him to get his life together and take over his father’s diner he said, “You betcha.” He learned to hide his sarcasm well.

Kiloe and Thai caught on about Vikkar’s carpet hobbling, and they snuck around together, investigating. Kiloe wore flowing garments twisted her hair into dreadlocks. She wore short shorts and never shaved her legs because “I don’t need to shave my legs for Thai and I don’t need to shave my legs for myself, and who else is there to care about?”

Vikkar didn’t mind her as much as Thai. As soon as Vikkar got a hobby, Thai chose one for himself. Hunting. Quite admirable, to a certain degree. He caught many a living thing and sold its skin. Vikkar wondered when the same would happen to him and Jordan. Vikkar knew Kiloe was safe because Kiloe and Thai were a couple now. Tight. Tight enough to walk around the lake together and sing “Happy cow, happy cow.” The real reason Vikkar did not like Thai was a total lack of something TOO like. Thai was the everyday soul. The sort who made use of words like “hello,” and “goodbye.” Thai complimented the chef and boasted just a little but not too much. Thai had a few extra pounds around his waist but had slimmed down. Thai functioned under the premise that fat people were nice but nice people were not always fat. He repeated the first part of the statement often when he was fat, yet when he slimmed down he thought up the second part.

No fallacies here. No sir.

One time Kiloe and Thai went Frolfing together (otherwise known as Frisbee Golf or Disc Golf), Kiloe told Vikkar he was invited. Vikkar frowned. “Does that mean when you don’t invite me I’m not invited, or when you invite me I am expected to come?”

Vikkar was feeling harsh.

“No.” Kiloe shook her tall head so swiftly it seemed to vibrate. “We are concerned for you, Vikkar. You need to get a job so you can support a family later on.”

Vikkar noticed that Kiloe’s legs were tan but not where the hair was.

“Thank you for your concern,” nodded Vikkar. “But I’ll be ok.” He retreated to Dome of Hobbies, truly thankful despite his passing feeling of harshness. Harshness passes like kidney stones. Vikkar was filled with the satisfaction of drinking a raspberry shake with quite a few too many raspberries. Not altogether a pleasant sensation but satisfying altogether. Kind of like getting duct tape goo stuck on the inside of your arm. The frustration is real, but frustration is part of life — part of the snotty depravity, part of the freaking jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces.

At dusk, Vikkar ventured outside to stare at the frosty foggy purple hazel lake. Vikkar stared at it so long that his eyes began to relax. He felt as if he could swallow the whole lake. His toes began to go numb — the fall was here and the leaves were falling like they were supposed to do in fall.

A leaf landed on his right big toe. His big toe was wider than it was long – same as his thumbs. Vikkar had really wide thumbs in general. This leaf was unique because it was not red or orange or yellow. It was green.

Why did a green leaf fall?

Vikkar considered. Perhaps the green leaf was jealous of her other friends that had already matured. Perhaps the green leaf thought it was red, orange, or yellow, and could never quite lean far enough to see her reflection in the lake. There is always a possibility that the green leaf became so curious about life on the mainland that she, in fact, wiggled her way out of her tree.

Or, maybe she was pushed.

Vikkar did not like to consider the violence. If he was all comfy up in his tree he would not like to be pushed out before his time. Vikkar wondered if anyone he knew would push him. Maybe he needed pushed. Maybe he was red, orange, or yellow and didn’t realize because he couldn’t see his own reflection. Yes he could.

So Vikkar leaned over. The water was still as milk before it is gulped. Vikkar peered in for a while, at himself, at Narcissus, but instead of falling in he traced the shape of his head. Squarish, really. A square with the slightest hint of the top of an egg.

That’s when Vikkar really noticed that his toes were cold — that action was a must. Vikkar did not take action because of revenge, hatred, restless spirit, or tragic flaw — Vikkar took action because his toes were cold.

So some sultry summer in September, Vikkar waited for the last of the lights to flicker away. Then, sneaking, slithering, silent as could be, Vikkar carpeted his father’s prized restaurant – Lardy Loo’s.

V.

The vulgarity of Lardy Loo’s original floors must be discussed.

Certainly Vikkar did not take note of Lardy Loo’s floors until the blooming of his hobby. After taking note, Vikkar’s disgust grew swiftly. The growing of disgust…

Imagine one has planted a watermelon plant, whether it is a bush or a tree or whatever, and one observes the plant through the watermelon growing season, and the prized watermelon is quite large and healthy and seems to be the spitting image of perfection.

When chopped in half, this watermelon is hollow.

Such is the growing of disgust.

Lardy Loo’s floors began as linoleum. Linoleum is a repulsive idea at the least, but after the flood, the Flying Frying Fiend, and Mrs. B’s peeing (the cat), the linoleum of Lardy Loo’s was the poster child shame of the linoleum of the rest of the world.

Vikkar laid carpet on top of it. Each piece was a beauty, reflecting the eerie personality of its creator. Each thread strung around the next was worthy of an entire symphony dedicated in its honor. “The Spool that Contained the Floor,” or “Twine Twas True.”

It must be said that Vikkar had a touch. It’s not as if he was given the correct tools, or the professional Indian rugs to work with – instead Vikkar was allotted the flaxen absurdities that are installed in rental homes.  

Occasionally, Vikkar was able to get his hands on magenta rugs. Pea green discards. Stair mantles of a rich vermillion. The rare imitation fur. Vikkar never had the heart to steal legitimate fur, so he ripped his heart out and got a replacement. Very bright young man. As bright as the dawn rippling in shards of light across the purple lake. As bright as the golden coins his Papa fondles as part of his morning routine.

Papa always said, “A mind should not be so bright,” so Vikkar hid his under a bushel.

VI.

Blue satin triangles, strategically placed to tickle your eyes and trick your senses. Purple silk cascades — dancing, morphing, trilling like fairy wings and pineapple leaves. The velvet seemed to swallow light whereas other fabrics reflected the same. It was a mosaic. A feat of architecture. Layered, molded, veiled . . . All in good taste.

Lardy Loo’s carpet was Vikkar’s first masterpiece. If one were to observe the carpet from above, fix one’s eyes in the center, and progress centrifugally, a grand kaleidoscope of color would materialize. The color existed whether or not it was noticed — just the same as a talented mind — but once realized, the brilliance could be thoroughly cherished.

VI.

In the morning, Vikkar Brooks was driven out of the valley of Lardy Loo’s.

Papa stormed into Lardy Loo’s and screamed. He attempted to peel up the corners of Vikkar’s carpet yet did not tear a thing but his own fingernails. Papa raged with a zealous passion, suspicions swiftly leading him to Vikkar’s cot where his own snoozing lad lay peacefully.

Vikkar simply nodded to all of his father’s questions. He apologized in the face of his father’s complaints. Vikkar offered his father a tube of resin that would release the carpet’s hold.

Papa squinted at the tube and back at Vikkar. Papa frowned. He unscrewed the top, sniffed it, fired Vikkar, and hurried upstairs.

 As Vikkar wearily strolled up the driveway and out upon the rough, orange road, he looked back. Jordan smiled at him from the craft shop porch. She winked, holding a maple donut in each hand.

As the sun rose and set, Vikkar’s footsteps took him further and further away from the Valley of Lardy Loo. He missed buttering the rolls and playing Swords. Yet certainly life was more, eh? Vikkar had not set out to become a carpet master and did not intend only to be a carpet master. Vikkar had a grand idea that life was to be found in each day, unparalleled, in the glories, responsibilities, and relationships thereof. Each day was not a building block to become solely a better carpet master, but to seek out new talents and new individual to share with. Each day was a golden molar. Each day was a nice time. The nice times piled up upon each other until Vikkar realized he was beginning to have a nice life.

Some would say Vikkar was a carpet master. They have good reason. Vikkar often paused in the dwelling place of unexpecting strangers and carpeted their otherwise shabby floors. Vikkar spread joy and beauty in the land that did not overflow with milk and honey. In this land, milk and honey were both very rare commodities.

I would say nay. Vikkar was not a carpet master. Vikkar was nothing and everything – the butter glazer, the donut eater, the sword fighter and Jujitsu warrior. Vikkar baked his cake and gave it away. He lay in the bed he made and enjoyed it. Throughout all the days of his work, the only soul to despise his art was his own father.

On the eve of his fiftieth birthday, Vikkar visited the Valley of Lardy Loo’s. He was a thief in the night, seeking answers, seeking acceptance. Seeking the light of dawn, swirling, spinning, swimming.

Kaleidoscope, as he’d begun to call it, was still intact.