The guest who could power the world

My best friend in the entire world Homer Estes has been staying in our guest room for about three weeks. He used to live in Houston Texas, but things got “funky” and he “high tailed” it out of there. Homer and I met in third grade at Meiners Oaks Elementary School.

Miss Robinson was our teacher, she was and probably still is, the most beautiful woman who ever lived. She had brown hair that curled around at her shoulders and she wore short skirts that showed just enough leg that even a young man might wonder what that all could mean. She drove a sports car and since this was Southern California, sometimes she would show up with the top down and big sunglasses on. She was magic.

Homer and I once got into a fight. Sixth grade, PE class, the teacher, an old angry and bitter former military man named McDonald laced up some super large boxing gloves and set up a ring. He chose Homer and I and off we went. For a few seconds we both bounced around the ring, skinny white Mohammad Ali moves and everything. Then we were winded, we stood close enough to swing and we began to punch, he landed this balloon pillow onto my face and I swung wildly at his head. Then our arms got tired and we both started laughing hysterically. Old McDonald, the bitter gym teacher, called us pansies and made us run laps. We mostly just walked and chatted because once we were out of his sight, McDonald could care less about us.

Homer Estes showed up about 3 weeks ago with an old Mercedes, a 66 Mercedes, filled with clothes, a futon, a CD collection, an ancient Dell laptop and some shoes. He was on the move and right now, our guest room was his hideout. Fine by me, in all the years I have known him, Homer has always been steady. In fact, he’s a little boring to be honest with you, but I say that in a nice way. As I said, we became friends long before puberty, long before girlfriends and wives and betrayal and deception. We were like brothers. We still are. He has only seemed to attach himself to needy “creative” types and I am famous for dating psychopaths and farm animals.

Three weeks ago Homer just knocked on my door and we shared a bottle of wine. I am pretty sure there was a story about his road adventure, but for the life of me, I can’t recall it. So, fuck it, I’ll make one up.

For a while Homer has been a contractor for NASA in Houston, working on a shuttle booster system that propels stuff when other stuff needs things to happen, all very technical and incredibly boring. It is what pays the bills is what he would say after everyone at the table had started to doze off. A couple of years ago, a house in Homers neighborhood went up for sale, and the next day, it was purchased, and a week later a nice white couple moved in. Now, Homer is nothing if not a racist, but he noted the skin color because, and this is something people notice and seem to report a little more in Texas than in other states, people tend to say things like, a nice white couple moved in. Go figure. There was no mention if they were Jews or not.

Homer is a nice guy and this new couple, let’s call them Tammy and Jim soon became the sort of people you wave at when you pass them on the street. Then, at least in Homers telling of the story, he and Tammy began having a wild and lurid affair. The types of sexual things they did are far beyond my imagination and again, the whole memory thing, suffice to say, to the average person, the sexual pairings and positions were disgusting and amazing.

Jim, who Homer would find out is detached to the Secret Service detail that protects former President Bush, would soon find out, not just about the affair, but the videos of Homer and Tammy doing some of the acrobatic sex that one Xtube commentator said was “appalling in its use of fruit and camera angles.” I am not sure what the exact words or what sort of weapon was used when those particular words were spoken, but apparently, Jim gave Homer about 3 hours to disappear and never to be seen or heard from again.

Then the knock on my door and we had some wine.

Homer has no children, or at least any that he knows of, he likes to say, with a sly smile. I say that too sometimes, but I actually have children, so when I say it, I think I just appear irresponsible.

Homer told me that he was going to look for work. That was three weeks ago. Instead, he has set up some sort of mechanical device that appears to be powering the house. I’m not kidding. In the spare bedroom is a shoebox that has some sort of battery that a team at NASA has been developing. The batteries hold a charge for months, which makes sense, since they would be on a space ship, say, on it’s way to Mars, and sometimes, there might be long times without any sun charging batteries.

So this box, which right now is hooked to a portable solar panel set up outside the bedroom window, is plugged into a wall socket, and that is filling the house with all the power we need, and probably more, so the power company may actually be sending me a check this month. What is great is the single small solar panel actually slowly charges the batteries enough that they will never run out of power, so this shoe box could power my house and probably Fat Mommas house and maybe Bitter Dianes house too.

Bitter Diane called me yesterday to complain about my obese lesbian cat. First, my cat was not always obese, she has let herself go, and I am part of the problem, because I feel sorry for her on a variety of levels and instead of getting her the treatment she needs and some meetings and that sort of environment, I am enabling her by feeding her whenever she meows. That said, she pretty new to the lesbian lifestyle too, so I found it pretty offensive that Bitter Diane would not only bring up my cats physical traits, but also her sexual preference.

So Homer has this device that could change all of mankind as we know it, reverse the way the world is powered and the power that flows to the countries that supply the world with power, if that makes sense. You would think that someone sitting on such a device would, A-be trying to replicate it into a mass market object and cashing in to the tune of billions of dollars, or, B- be able to at least get a god damned job at Ikea.

That’s right, Homer could not even get a job at Ikea. If there is anything wrong with America right now, right this moment in our history, it is that right there. First, we should always be able to get a job at Ikea. What the hell happened to this country that a man with a college education and a career can not get a job selling shitty furniture to gays? Dammit Obama, what have you done?

As if not being able to get a job at Ikea was not an insult enough, Homer has no clue what to do with the solar battery device that is powering my house. He has no idea how it was made, how it was put together, how any of it works or if it will last forever. He has a few more in his car, those are the only ones he is sure even exist. If I could spell conundrum, I could use it right about now.