Free Baby Geisha by Trinie Dalton

He paused to nibble dirt.
    Eugene stopped and turned around. “Don’t eat dirt, man.”
    Bob switched off, his nose now combing slimy granite for edible, second-rate algae. Bob wondered why Eugene called him a man. Bob huffed, licked the slime off of his long black clownish lips, winked at his owner coquettishly with his elegant eyelashes, and moved three feet over to lick more. Eugene gave up and continued hiking while his loyal white-gray husky hatched
a plan. Bob would wait for Eugene to strip down to his cut-off denim swimming shorts at the top of the waterslide. Then he would fake-bark as if to run down to the bottom pool to greet Eugene, buying time at the top of the falls to mack pond scum. It wasn’t Bob’s fault he was starving because Eugene neglected to pack treats.
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    Thus unfolded another titillating afternoon. Once these two nonchalant fellows reached their destination, Eugene finished puffing his joint and tossed the roach into his favorite pool, a meditative but polluted portion of shore where foamy water ebbed in rings, dubbed by Eugene and Dougie the Watery Ashtray. Eugene thought the water was brown from high THC content, not from tannin leaching out of tree roots, common knowledge amongst non-stoned local riparian habitat naturalists. But Eugene wasn’t about to whip out a science book.
    â€œThat water is so high!” he said, laughing to himself while his dog huffed the shore. Eugene had convinced himself over the years that the mystique of the unknown is best, having cultivated in his mind a homespun magic in which the web of life provided occult clues and signs to interpret mystically. Eugene measured his intelligence against how many nature clues he comprehended, but his friends and brother mocked this pseudo-shamanism. Who are we to rate another’s enlightenment? Eugene wondered. He was one of many taggers who grew up in the Southwest, a place famous for its New Age tendencies. But equally famous there was Suicidal Tendencies, a lousy band that grown men still listen to when reminiscing over cases of beer about dropping acid in high school. Eugene straddled both worlds. He still sported bushy brown hair. It was unclear whether he was a total loser or if he was slated to be a priest. He suspected both; since he was one of the six gay men he knew in his small Arizona town, he practiced equanimity and had as much pride as he could.

    While Eugene chugged water to squelch a coughing fit after his final intense inhale, a plush fifteen-foot-tall dog came walking on two legs from around the stream bend. What the? Eugene wondered. Bob barked and charged it immediately. The barks were idle warnings, though, nothing that scared the tall hairy beast. Upon this creature’s approach, Eugene realized what was happening and loosened up. “It’s cool, Bobby. He’s human.”
    Bob stopped barking and wagged his tail.
    â€œHola!” Eugene hollered as the man neared. He only looked tall because he had several walking sticks tied to his back, laced with shredded leather and what appeared to be ladies’ underwear.
    Eugene noticed that dangling off this forest man’s poles alongside myriad lacy panties were acorns, pinecones, and tiny green bows tied into clover-forms. Maybe this guy was a St. Patrick wannabe or an eccentric tree-lover, like Johnny Appleseed.
    The man jingled a pole as if calling elves, proclaiming jovially, “Excellent sunset.” He gazed up to behold its magnificence.
    A real dipstick , thought Eugene.
    â€œYou’re standing on Slidey,” he said, smirking. He explained that Slidey was private with a locals-only tone. The dingleberry acorn man looked down at his decimated hiking boots planted right next to the cherished spot and chortled a hearty Ho ho just like Santa Claus. Could it be? Eugene wondered. That would kind of make sense, because it was only April, but Eugene had already wished for many things, well, mostly one