The Night of the Living Little People by Motel Todd

It was 1995 and I was halfway through my first and so far only marriage. I decided to have a few drinks and ended up in Dallas on Greenville Avenue. There is an entertainment district there with lots of bars and restaurants. I saw Marshall Phillips, the lead singer of our defunct band Spastic Revolt. We had recorded a song with me on guitar in 1993 that was played on local radio. The song was called Desert Storm, the prelude to the Iraq War of 2003-2011? This was back between wars. It was after the Cold War that lasted from 1945-1990 where there was a communist under every bed but before the never ending war on terrorism where there is a terrorist under every bed (2001-2201?). Man, there is a lot of shit under American beds!

I digress, anyway I picked up Marshall. He said he had taken 20 seconals (downers) and we ended up in the Greenville Avenue Bar & Grill. He had a coke and I had a beer. Dirty Laundry by Don Henley played. Just as the lyric played “…you just have to look good you don’t have to be clear…” an ancient rodie approached the bartender and said he had worked with The Eagles sometime around 5000 BC. Marshall and I left at this boring juncture. Marshall and I had heard our fill of these old hippie stories by this time in our lives.

I decided to take him home. However, before we did that he talked me into getting some acid at some fried old hippie’s place. He was on old Vietnam Vet and his house looked like a cross between Woodstock and a Southeast Asian hooch along the Perfume River. Stevie Ray Vaughn hung proudly on his wall along with some bowie knives stuck in the wall. After some boring lecture on the Nam we got out of there with our tab acid. We each took our two tabs and hit the road.

Next Marshall needed to stop at a friend’s to get some of his stuff he had left there in a gym bag. We knocked on the door and could hear some Van Hallen playing circa The David Lee Roth Era. A man standing 3 foot tall answered the door. The whole small apartment was filled with little people. A female little person came down the stairs wearing fishnet stockings, a push-up black bra, and a black mini-skirt. She was getting ready to go to work at some topless place. She kept smiling at me. Marshall finally negotiated the release of his gym bag full of clothes and we finally headed back to his parent’s pad.

Marshall’s parent’s pad had been our original destination before all the detours. I suddenly stared laughing. Marshall joined me. I turned down the radio.

“Dude, was I trippin’ or were those dwarfs in that apartment?”

“They preferred to be called little people…they were real!”

I dropped Marshall of at his parent’s pad and he quietly slipped in with his house key. I made it back home to my place where my wife was sound a sleep. I slipped into bed and woke the next morning and went on to work. I never told the old lady about this. She never would have believed me anyway. She did not like Marshall much. Marshall suffered from bipolar disorder and drove everyone nuts, especially my ex-wife.

Motel Todd was born in 1967. He has lived in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex most of his life. He escaped Arkansas in 1971 and is eternally grateful.