So, this guy’s breaking my friend’s yo-yo, which has drawn considerable attention since we’ve been in the Maple Leaf Bar on Oak Street in New Orleans. We’re poor grad students. Won the tickets from our campus radio station. We nibbled on some homegrown psilocybin about an hour ago but agreed we felt nothing as we walked in the door.

            I merely raise my eyebrows in disapproval when this guy says, “Oh MAN! No way that’s a yo-yo!” and holds his head in his hands as if he just discovered the earth was round. My friend is a kind soul and hands over the red butterfly.

            I look at the guy, who’s straight out of the Beach Boys’ Endless Summer soundtrack, fucking my friend’s yo-yo up good. Endless Summer, with at least fifty yards of hemp around his limbs and neck, flip flops, tank top, patchouli, bleach blond, the works, is trying to do all these tricks but only offers my friend some explanation along the lines of “I haven’t yoed in a while, dude.” Then, confesses, “I’m pretty stoned too.” And my friend is completely losing his mind.

            “Should I hit him?” my friend asks.

            “Wait ‘til you get it back,” I mumble back. “Still nothing?” I’m hoping the shrooms kick in soon.

            “Still nothing.”

            I fish out a few shroom pieces from my pocket and open my palm.

            My friend leans toward me, takes the bits, and speaks in a forced whisper. “I just got this yo-yo today—it’s a Duncan—this is crazy—I don’t know what to do. Went to that toy shop in The Quarter.” He pops them into his mouth, takes my beer, and drinks. “Thanks.”

            I do the same.

            We’ve been waiting for what seems like hours to hear Walter Wolfman Washington, but there’s this self-proclaimed acid jazz group on the stage from—ready for this—Boulder!

            “Fucking Boulder,” we say at the same time.

            A few heads turn.

            After ten minutes—real minutes, as in six-hundred seconds. Endless Summer has my friend’s yo-yo in two hemispheres, and he says something like “Oh, dude, I’ll get it totally back in working order. Promise, man.” The string is tangled in his hemp.

            My friend can’t even watch the guy now, but I can’t take my eyes off of his baked ineptitude. He’s focusing like he’s a surgeon readying an artificial heart for a transplant. I realize, slowly, that I am like another surgeon in the operating room doing nothing to help.

            My friend nudges me. “Still nothing?”

            “Not sure.”

            We look at the kids on the stage.

            “This music is wretched,” my friend says.

            More heads turn, but we’re right. I consider going back into my pocket.

            Endless Summer’s winding the string, tying it around his finger, zooming it toward the floor. He taps my friend on the shoulder and says, “Aloha, dude. Enjoy the band.” Huge grin. “They’re, like, my friends.” Endless Summer takes off his flip flops, puts them into his cargo shorts, and starts twisting his hands and arms around his blond hair while heading toward the stage.

            My friend examines the yo-yo in his palm, slips his finger into Endless Summer’s loop, and zips it down. Walks the dog. My friend is visibly relieved and nods at the stage. “Acid jazz?” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “That’s not even mushroom jazz,” he says, and I can not stop laughing.

– Robert Ficociello

Author’s Note:  In my 30s, I was accepted into one MFA program, and I went to New Orleans. Another older student and I befriended each other, and lucky for me, he was a Y’at [a native New Orleanian]. He showed me the hidden New Orleans, and during Mardi Gras and Jazzfest, his expertise proved immeasurable. We were both broke grad students, and with my science background and his penchant for plans, we decided to grow psychedelic mushrooms in my closet. We debuted our crop at Jazzfest, much to our delight.