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NONE OF US actually knew if it was real—because we were sick on that sweet, sweet indica when we found it—and then it was gone; poof, it vanished. And, ya know, the internet hadn’t been invented yet, so it’s not like we could’ve just googled it. Someone wanted to go to the police, ask them if they were privy to any strange occurrences. We voted on it even but, in the end, we didn’t want to have to speak for the drugs. We all saw it, though, that’s the thing. We stumbled across it on Acre Street, and it was nothing any of us had ever seen before.
It was typical. Typical microwave. And a typical night. We had just left a house party, one that we had crashed. There was this pompous Delta Phi brother who always bought a ton of liquor; top shelf stuff; his name was Billy, or Kyle, or Conrad, or something. Anyway, someone, one of us had stolen the dude’s cat; shoved it in a backpack and we ran off with it. The thing thrashed and spat. Hissed when we let him out. Thing was miffed. Tore out the bag like a bat-outta-hell and took off, bell dangling and shit.
Then there it was. It was trash day, or whatever, because everyone had their crap out for the night; to be scooped up by the garbage exterminators. It was brown. Microwaves back then were always this ugly brown colour, wood-like. With that shiplap sticky paper on the side so that it looked sophisticated or something. Anyway, we were just drawn to it, man. Like, ya know, Acre Street was dark as hell, except for this one dingy streetlight; and this thing was just right under the lamp. It was there, in the green light reflected on the wet grass where we saw the microwave cord slithering out behind it like a rat-eater. Someone just said woah, dude, look, a microwave, and we were drawn to it like camels to water.
I don’t know, maybe it was the hive mind, or the drugs, but someone hit the popcorn button and the damn thing actually worked. It spun around, ya know, like they do, that soft hum like the lullaby of sweet sustenance. Delicious. It came out all warm and buttery; the popcorn. It was one of those Orville Redenbachers movie theatre styles; back when ol’ Orville had just started making his popcorn in microwave bags. Anyway, it was the most delicious thing we’d ever tasted. So, we thought, what happens when you try the baked potato button? Same thing, go figure, the thing spits out a delightful baked potato. And there were so many of us, we all wanted our very own phantom microwave baked potato. So we tried it again, and again. And every time the thing would hum and turn and spit out a baked potato.
And so, we thought, well, someone said: What happens if I wanted dessert. I want tiramisu, man! Well, the thing will spit out a tiramisu only it was warm, melted like molten lava. So we asked it for a lava cake. Man, that was delicious. Once we were good and had our fun for the night, we went ahead and crashed at somebody’s house for the weekend. Hung out for a bit, woke up late the next day thinking someone pulled a really elaborate prank, or something. Decided we should go back, see if the thing was really there, but it was gone. We figured the trash guys took it and we’d never see it again, but here’s the thing we did see it again. Only, this time, it wasn’t on Acre Street.
We were stoned again. Dudes, ya know what we should do? We should get pizza, man! Every other word back then was ‘dude,’ or ‘man.’ This time it was out back of the Pizza Hut. Dude, Pizza Hut was it, man! Not like that crap they’re peddling now. We sat down, like eight of us, at a table for four. Only one of us got the buffet, the rest of us gulped down pop while pretending that the waitress couldn’t see us sneaking bits off our pal’s plate ’til she had enough and scolded us out the restaurant. We wandered out back, to smoke some more pot, and the thing was there! Man, and the streetlight! It was like a tractor beam, ya know, and crop circles weren’t uncommon, back then. We always considered it to be some drunkard getting his jollies after tipping the cows, but this, it was different. This thing was alien.
So we decided this time that we ought to take it home. We had it for a while, too. Even stopped going grocery shopping. We’d just go to the microwave, and there it was: whatever our hearts could dream of. We even tricked it into making cold things, like, if we wanted an ice cream sandwich, all we had to do was stop it early. It’d be a bit melted, but it worked.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, couldn’t you get other things out of it? Money? Beer? Mary Jane? But nay, the thing only produced food and foodstuffs. But hey, what we saved on groceries, we spent on booze and Mary Jane, so it may as well have made them for us.
And then! Our landlord was all like ‘that thing is a fire hazard!’ because it was all old and shit. Like, man, he just thought it was a really old microwave. So, he threw it out when we weren’t there! We were all pissed, guy. Going from nothing to spending like, six, seven hundred dollars on food, man.
The last time we saw the microwave, it had reappeared under the same streetlamp on Acre Street. It was covered in a light dusting of snow, like a beautiful, magical, powdered doughnut By then, we learned how to spend less on groceries, and we were on thin ice with the slumlord, but we still wanted that sweet, sweet sustenance from the microwave, man. So we had it make us a whole Christmas dinner. We sat in the street in our puffers, asses frozen to the pavement, and dug our fingers in hams and jellies and pie and syrupy goodness.
And then we left. We just left it there, because, we figured, we ought to see it again. Only, we didn’t. But the months passed, years passed, and we all moved out of the house on Truman Road. We lost touch, and didn’t come back together until Joe’s funeral. He was the first to go, ya know, and we poured one out for Joe, and the microwave, and what we don’t understand.
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