Dui Don't

"Yes, but have you invented the Dewey Decimal System while on weed?"

That's right, I have introduced a little bit of deus ex sativa, if you will. Not for myself, mind you, but for Mr. Melvil Dewey (or, as he is referring to himself at this point in the story, "Dui.") In actuality (according to the biography of Dewey that I am reading) the idea came to him while sitting in church; he nearly cried "Eureka!" during a long sermon. I, however, have taken some liberties with history (again and again). He's still inspired by the divine at church, but only for things such as new and improved grape juice (Dewey invented Snapple?). Unfortunately, this does not lead him to the levels of greatness in his life that he had hoped for, so, at his wit's end, alone (his dear Annie wants nothing to do with him anymore!) he turns to the pot. Poor, deluded Dewey. Don't worry, gentle reader, all things will work out in the end; the DDS will be invented, the identity of our mysterious stranger will be revealed, and the 15,000 word line will be crossed shortly....

We join our intrepid hero in the throes of a marijuana high, his mind reeling, his heart racing, his thoughts completely nonsensical. (P.S., we're both deeply sorry about the destruction of the ukulele. Dui borrowed it from a friend and promises to replace it.)

He fell back into his chair, the drapes fell back together, Dui became yet another shadow behind yet another curtain in yet another building in yet another city. Anonymous, nameless, faceless, soulless. Urban life was soul stealing, he decided, and decided also, that he was fine with that. Closing his eyes, hearing music in his head, seeing colorful patterns that matched the beat and tempo of the music, he smiled, wondered how long he had been sitting there, what time it was, how he had gotten so tired, so hungry, just sitting there, thinking, wondering what his friends were doing, where they were, where he was -- no wait, he was in his room, he knew that much, what that music was, what --

Dui woke in his bed, his eyes crusty with morning mucus. He scratched at them, clearing them enough to open. His eyelids felt creaky, rusty, like his joints. His mouth dry, a disgusting taste lingering, so thick that not even a long swallow of water from the glass at his bedside could cut through it. Dui moaned, now regretting his choice of the previous evening. This hang-over was wreaking havoc on his senses, his sensibility.

He sat up in bed, took stock of his room. It looked as if a hurricane had swept through, upending books, scattering papers, disheveling his bedding, his clothes. What demons possessed me last night? he wondered. He set to cleaning up his mess, noticed that his ukulele had been splintered, split in two.

"Son of a bitch," Dui said aloud. He wasn't given much to swearing, but he also wasn't given much to getting intoxicated and tearing his room apart, so he figured it was a day for new and different experiences. By the end of it, he mused, he'd be gambling on the outcomes of the prostitute cage matches that were held in the south end.