“I swear to god mother fucker if you are playing mariachi music I’m gonna be pissed. “
“I hear fucking maracas and I know this is one fo your weird pranks. I get it we’re tripping, you wanna screw with my head so you play maracas or mariachi or some shit like that.” He spun around looking for the source. “I bet you have a waterproof speaker.”
“I swear” I said, sunglassed eyes lost in the vault of the azure austral sky. “The only thing I hear is the sound of this fucking hot tub. Now I guess to some who hear musicality in the grind and whine of machines might see this as music or rythmic, but I swear to fucking god that I don’t hear maracas or marachi or any other music for that matter. “
“Well first off there is no god. “
“Not talking about heavy shit now, I’m in a good spot in my trip, it was a euphemism.”
“Whatever. I know you’re up to something that fucking weird towel on your head is clearly part of the plot. “
I had a towel folded to look like sheep horns- it’s popular in South Korea. “No connection dude, I just like the style.” I got lost in the closed eye visuals for an amount of time, it was whimsical. I guess words were escaping me as a wave of psychedelia broke over the shore of my psyche and I floated out with the tide. The cloudless sky seemed enormous and full of patterns. I felt like I was above the city suspended in the vault with the water of the tub washing down as rain on the city.
As the wave subsided I returned to look around at the white foam on the churning cauldron of the hot tub. He was still looking around muttering. “Are you still looking for something? “
“Fucking maracas man! I’m sure I hear them, they are playing the rhythm of a Steely Dan song.”
Whoa he’s in deep. We’re on the rooftop of my building, someone could come up here to cook on the communal grills and would be horrified and confused to find two babbling, bat shit crazy gringos arguing about maracas. “Dude, Imma need you to drop the maraca shit. I get that you hear them it’s either the drugs or the sound of the hot tub machine, or the drugs warping the sound of the machine.” I paused and listened to the hum, it was constant and deep, if there was a such a thing as a bass kazoo I’d imagine it would be something like this. I told him as much.
“A bass fucking cazoo, now whose the one who’s in too deep. What the fuck would that be anyways.”
“They might exist.”
“They might, and I will grant you that it is possible that the machine might sound like one, as they are probably hypothetical we can imagine them sounding like anything, even a hot tub.” I could hear the mania in his voice, this was some good shit, but it hit him speedy. Or maybe the hot water was stirring up his blood. Weird images floated along with that though and I looked back up at the sky to clear my mind.
“Either way, kazoos notwithstanding. I still hear maracas!”
“Fuck dude, chill.” Was the best I could muster, even though I could swear I could just hear the faint rhythm of a maraca somewhere in the city below.