Читать книгу Ganja Tales - Craig Pugh - Страница 2

The marijuana sat like an art object on the white pedestal in the middle of the room. Looked like a nice ounce or so of fat kind buds. But the people lounging about the sofas and chairs, drinking wine, smoking cigarettes and acting oh-so-sophisticated, ignored the green goodies.

Mike couldn't figure out why.

To make matters worse, in his dream he didn't have a lighter, papers or pipe--nothing to get high with. So he couldn't shout: “Look everybody, some wacky weed! Let's load a bowl and find out if it's any good.”

Still, he wanted to get stoned in the worst kind of way. That's why he found it hard to concentrate on the anorexic chick in the red dress talking to him about something he couldn’t quite focus on. She zeroed in on his lack of attentiveness. “You're not listening to me, are you?” she barked, blue eyes blazing.

Mike gazed forlornly at the kind buds on the pedestal, turned back to her and smiled weakly: “Of course I am,” he protested, putting on his most sincere face. But she reared back and punched his arm, muttered “Men!” and stormed off.

Bitch! he thought, rubbing the sore spot and wondering why no one would acknowledge the marijuana on the pedestal. This was definitely not his type of party, not his type of scene. And by the way, he asked himself, What was he doing here anyway?

The river of his dream rocked him back and forth from bank to bank, reality to illusion, until eventually, squealing tires outside brought him to life in his apartment bedroom. Waiting for his eyes to open and his rational mind to work, it hit him: Marijuana was in the apartment. He couldn’t get to it—didn’t know where it was in fact. He only knew the buds were somewhere nearby. Where though? Funny, just like his dream. The stuff was there; he just couldn’t get to it. And thinking was so hard. Then the river rolled over him again and he went under.

The marijuana was the reason he'd passed out. Marcy had shown up a few hours ago with a half-pound after being gone almost a year. She and Sean, his roommate, had known each other since second grade. She had family in Dallas, knew plenty of dealers through her mother, a strung-out meth freak-slash-bar waitress. When Marcy busted out the Texas weed, she explained how there was a lot more in Dallas, and all Sean needed to do was help her sell this half-pound (a mere 8-ounces for a weed-starved city!) and they could drive back to Texas where, she was sure, with a couple hundred bucks down, she could get a nice load of reefer fronted to her by her mom's biker friends. The real deal, baby … pounds, and plenty of them.

Mike had listened to them talking it over as they fingered, smelled and examined the fat green buds and got thoroughly wasted. The Texas nugs were good commercial weed, light-green, copper-blond highlights. And best of all, very few seeds; in other words, some very salable weed left out. Not that he could have gone with them had they asked. Not only was he in school, but he wasn't one to cast his fate to the wind--couldn't just take off for who knows how long. He liked a little more continuity in his life than that--liked waking up in the morning knowing that six months from now he would be somewhere he could put his finger on, a place of his own to count on. He just wasn’t your spur-of-the-moment kind of guy.

And he woke again, a bag of skin, bones, organs and a couple gallons of blood, trying now to get it all working. Okay brain, turn yourself on. Time to start thinking. Sean and Marcy were out getting the oil changed on her Camaro. Marcy … now there was a woman. She always seemed to be grinning about something in spite of having survived a less-than-perfect childhood, being arrested numerous times for DWI and possession-under-an-ounce, and being knocked around by abusive boyfriends on a regular basis. Her devil-may-care attitude complemented her tight blue jeans and cowgirl boots, and she tore through life in her red Camaro like she was leading all the barrel-racers at the county rodeo, hair flowing in the wind, leaning into a turn, racing the clock. Sean used to brag about how many ways he had screwed Marcy while they were drunk and stoned out of their minds back in high school: in the water, in a car, in a closet, on a pool table …

Yadi, yadi, yadi, Mike thought. Must be nice. Over, under, around and through, bringin’ home the pleasure to you. Images of naked Marcy sprang to life before him—the splash of butterscotch freckles across her throat and shoulders, the tautness of ripe breasts hiding behind her long tresses, the creamy whiteness of her belly leading down to the fuzzy orange fullness of her sex. Jesus, it had been a while since he got laid! How he wanted someone to hold, to make love to, to be with; someone who cared about him, to ask: How was your day? That would be nice. A person to share stuff with. His penis strained in its moorings--all systems go but nowhere to launch to--no warm pleasure-galaxies to explore, and it was with keen disappointment that Mike saw himself gasping for air, fish-like, on the banks of reality. Hungry. Horny. Lonely.

Too many wants, he thought: Sex. Love. Food. Well, he mused, at least food was available. He got out of bed and for some reason found himself pausing in front of Sean’s closed bedroom door. Then his hand was on the knob and he knew, of course, that he was the only one in the apartment …

The bedroom was as they'd left it after smoking earlier--a mess. Only one thing missing Mike thought, glancing around. He walked over to Sean's desk, stood on the chair and looked along the top bookshelf. He knew from experience Sean sometimes kept a joint, a nug or a nickel bag there. Maybe he'd left something from the half-pound that Mike could pinch a bowl from. One bowl ... that would be nice. Actually, Mike was surprised they hadn't left him something to get by on until they returned. They had eight ounces, probably were going to keep two and sell six. What would one little nug be from a stash like that?

He opened the cabinet doors, surveyed the contents: nothing but CDs. He pulled them out, looked behind them. Nothing again. Then he caught himself. It flashed in his mind that Sean was standing in the door behind him, waiting to say What in the fuck are you doing going through my things!?

Suddenly feeling embarrassed, Mike left the bedroom and headed for the jamoca almond fudge in the kitchen, delighting in the first few bites that always chilled his esophagus. Outside the kitchen window a single crabapple blossomed amidst the concrete jungle of apartment-complex parking lot. Its pink buds fluttered in the wind and Mike was careful not to make any sudden moves that might scare off the two doves in the tree, each one taking a turn guarding the small nest while the other went out gathering more stems and twigs.

Thunderheads roiled on the horizon. What to do before the rain hits? Renew his drivers license, study for a biology test. But it was Friday, and he wouldn't have classes for a whole two more days, his thoughts drifted to leisure--mainly what Sean and Marcy were up to. Earlier, when they had smoked out, Mike offered to chip some money in on the deal with Marcy. Quiet fell suddenly, then Sean said: “I already got it fronted through Marcy. But we'll set you up, dude – don’t worry.”

Then Mike knew Sean and Marcy were going to make hundreds off the deal and he was going to be left on the sidelines; an observer, not a participant. The old feeling returned then, like the first time he'd been turned down for a date, or when he lost the election for class secretary his junior year. It was that old feeling of rejection.

Fine, Mike thought. After all, he was the one in college--not them. He just wanted to buy the weed at cost, but if they wouldn't cut him in on their deal there was nothing he could do about it. Still, they should have left him something.

He finished the ice-cream while standing at the window and watching the occasional cars and vans round the corner. He realized he must still be stoned since he just ate the whole pint; well, not quite: someone else had already hit it pretty heavily. Sean wasn’t shy about taking anything from the fridge--mainly the beer, sodas and ice-cream--whenever he wanted to. Of course, in spite of promises to pay Mike back, Sean never did. Mike grew irritated that Sean wasn't there so he could bitch at him for being so inconsiderate.

Hey, he thought, they could've stashed the weed in the kitchen cabinets. It could be inches from his face! So he looked: among the tea and rice boxes on the shelf above the stove; in the tall shelves to the right of it where they kept the canned goods; below, down by the pots and pans; and finally, in the space under the sink. Nada. Nothing.

Christ, where were those buds?

He called Sean's cellular. They were still waiting, probably at least another hour. “Hang on,” Sean said. “We'll get some beers on the way home and start partying as soon as we get there.”

“Where you at?” Mike asked. “It doesn't sound like you're at a garage.” He heard a juke box pumping rap beats in the background.

“We're not, dude. We're drinking beers and eating pizza at the Pizza Hut next door. See ya when the car's ready,” and he laughed and hung up.

That bastard! Mike thought. Always having a good time and leaving him out. Deep down he knew that he took life more seriously than Sean did--wanted more from it, and therefore, couldn't treat it with the same recklessness.

Still, Sean owed him. Who paid for the newspaper subscription they enjoyed seven days a week? Mike did. And who had the phone bill in his name, invariably losing out on the money-changing and hem-hawing that went on at the end of every month? He did. Plus, Mike was always loaning Sean his car, or driving him somewhere because Sean was too lazy to fix his own car and couldn’t keep it running anyway because he spent all his money on drugs. Sean was always, therefore, broke and high, which is probably why he mooched cigarettes shamelessly from Mike. Mike got mad just thinking about it. For everything he’d done, not to be cut-in on Marcy's deal just plain pissed him off. It seemed pretty evident to him that Sean was taking advantage of him. So what, he told himself. Don't get attached.

On the way back to his room, Mike paused at Sean's door, staring at the dirty beige carpet beneath his feet, thinking about how he wouldn't like someone going through his room. He stood a full minute, debating, hand on the doorknob; but then, ever so slowly, opened it and stared into the bedroom. Reluctance still nagged him, but once he took that first step inside, Mike felt like he had burst out of a dark jungle into a clearing, and he crouched, animal-like, nostrils flaring. Smell the marijuana.

Concentrating …trying to imagine a fruity green aroma emanating from some place in the room. Nothing. Okay, what the fuck. Think. Where would you hide a half-pound of fat Texas nugs? Aha! The ol' laundry basket trick. He'd used that one himself before. In Sean’s closet he pulled all the laundry from the hamper, his heart racing. Half-pound, half-pound, come on half-pound! Man, was he going to get stoned. He felt a lump toward the bottom, pulled it up … It was only a bundled sweatshirt.

Hmmm. The top shelf. Mike got a chair, stood on it, began opening the various games: Monopoly. Life. Risk. Parcheesi. Checkers. Then the puzzles: London Bridge, Mickey Mouse, a forest scene. Each one opened and examined. Nothing, although the dust triggered his sinus, making him sneeze repeatedly and violently. Next shelf, the sweaters; then all the shirt and pants pockets, too. Nothing. How about inside all the shoes and boots on the closet floor? Nope. Okay, not in the closet--no big deal, Mike thought. Keep looking. The weed's probably in his dresser drawers. Five drawers, underwear on top and old jeans on the bottom: He went through them quickly, skimming his hand underneath the contents of each one. In the bottom drawer, underneath a stack of faded jeans, a paperback: “Memoirs of an English Maid.” Jesus, he muttered, opening the book to a random page:

Oh master, no,” I begged him desperately as he undressed in front of me and his huge member throbbed only a few scant feet from my shocked eyes. Since I was a virgin I had of course never seen a man, I assure you, yet I was defenseless. I writhed in the iron cuffs biting at my wrists and ankles, and strained to close my legs against the chains that had them pulled so far apart. The shame, sir, the shame! Lord Dimmsley snorted drunkenly and let out a long, evil laugh that spoke of many years of wine and debauchery. He lurched toward my exposed womanhood, for I lay naked upon the table, my embarrassment spreading in a red glow across my Christian face and breasts. And then I screamed …

Mike shut the book. Wow, he thought. He had no idea--a porno novel. Kinky little bastard, that Sean. Mike was rearranging the drawer to its original condition when he also discovered a Hustler magazine. He let out a low whistle. Dang, that Sean was a busy guy. Still, no nugs. He looked at the bookshelf against the wall. A quick search--he swung his hand behind the paperbacks, but no luck. Just a bunch of dust and a sharp prick from a stray pin. Sonofabitch! he cursed, pinching his fingertip and watching a fat splot of blood well up.

Anger ignited him when he washed his hands in the bathroom, rising quickly until his face was flushed with it. He was upset at himself for the situation he was in. Mike hadn't meant to take the search so far that it filled his mind and thoughts and drove him to compromise his principles like this. Neither did he want to think of himself as someone who was so addicted that he would search his roommate’s possessions for buds. But if he looked at the facts, here he was, violating Sean’s privacy.

And yet, as he dried his hands, Mike knew he wasn’t going to walk away from the search. Not now. No, a brush fire running hot and wild was spreading rapidly inside him, and he knew only one way to put it out.

Hey, he was in the bathroom. Maybe Sean stashed the dope right under his nose. He dropped to his knees and looked under the sink--behind the toilet paper, combs, brushes, bottles of half-used shampoo. Nada. Okay, the stuff could be in the living room. He went out and looked behind the sofa against the wall. Nope. All right. The coffee table in front of the couch. He opened the two doors, pulled out all the videos. No cigar buddy, no cigar. The closet? Check behind the vacuum cleaner. No again. The pockets on the coats and jackets; but again, nothing. “SHIT!” he screamed, clenching his fists, feeling his blood-pressure skyrocket.

The more he was thwarted the more resolute he became. He looked in the roll-top desk against the wall, practically ripping the six drawers out of their sockets. What in the holy hell did a guy have to do to get high around here? he wondered. Paper clips, maps, notes, checkbooks, pencils, bills--all tumbled onto the floor. Everything, in fact, but the marijuana. It took Mike the better part of half-an-hour to painstakingly put all the knick-knacks back in original order, drawer by drawer, before he could sit down at the kitchen table and take a shot of vodka to calm his nerves down. He tried--he really tried--sitting there, shaking, spinning in a centrifuge of pure white rage. But he couldn’t get the damn thing to slow down, not for the life of him.

He picked up the bottle, took a nice, big slug and returned to Sean's bedroom, frustrated yet recharged for the search--a man with a mission: find the dope. Hey, he reasoned, it wasn't his fault he was going through his buddy's things. His “buddy” should have left him a nug to begin with, then Mike wouldn't be in this position. Anyway, Sean would do the same thing to him, the conniving bastard. Why, he ripped Mike off every day!

Aha! Underneath the cushion on the easy chair. He pulled it up, saw two rubbers in their aqua-colored foils. Oh yeah, right, he thought, you are such a stud, Sean. More than a few months had passed since either of them had entertained a female friend overnight. I guess you can't be too prepared, Mike thought. Then he remembered Marcy; looks like ol’ Sean was going to get lucky tonight. Mike made a mental note: get some rubbers. Not that he had anything lined up on the horizon beyond a date with his hand.

But still ... no weed. He stood up and looked around. Yeah, the old rocking chair. A person could lift it from the front, push it back, and its square bottom frame would tilt up to reveal a perfect hiding place, one Sean no doubt thought was secure. But Mike had found it out months ago. Sean often left a little stash underneath the chair, and Mike would just pinch a few buds, depending on the size of the bag. The trick was to not get greedy--don't take so much Sean’d notice.

But first, he'd better not get too caught up that he didn't hear Sean and Marcy return. He went to the kitchen window overlooking the parking lot out front. No red Camaro, at least not yet.

Back to the rocker. He lifted it. Nothing. Come on buddy, he told himself, your time’s running out! He stood with the chair in his hands, shaking his head. He figured he'd been searching at least an hour now, maybe longer. Time he could've spent doing something constructive. But no ... he had to feed his jones. What was the friggin' difficulty? You'd think half a pound of marijuana would be easy enough to find in a little, two-bedroom apartment. He could imagine those fat, juicy nugs, how they would taste, smell, feel--and, most of all--get him high. Holy Christ how he wanted to find them! Come on baby, come to papa.

Sonofabitch! he screamed, ripping Seans’s mattress off. He'd searched everywhere else he could think of ... time to find some weed and get high brother! Mike heaved the mattress against the wall and the first thing that caught his eye was a packet of wax paper on the box springs. What the hell? He carefully opened it, placed his fingertip against the white crystals and then put it in his mouth. Well I’ll be damned, he thought. Sean’s got a frikken 8-ball of coke! Also on the mattress, a stack of twenties. Mike counted them. Three-hundred dollars! “You bastard,” he said out loud. Sean had owed him $150 for months now. No wonder he’d delayed in repaying him--he was shoving coke up his nose!

Mike didn't do chemicals or powder--just smoked the loco weed. That's all he wanted, some moon cabbage, a little bit of reefer madness. Was that asking too much? Where in the hell were the buds? He was not only running out of places to search, he was also running out of time. Surely they’d be back any minute. He strode to the kitchen window again, where he could see who came in the building. No red Camaro. Hurry! Find the marijuana!

He returned to Sean's room, lifted the box springs and slammed it against the wall. Well, how ‘bout that, a gun! Smith & Wesson 9mm. Christ! He didn't know Sean had a gun. Sean was crazy, especially when he was drunk, which was often. It scared Mike knowing Sean had a pistol. Why hadn't he told anyone? And an envelope, a letter to Sean from his mother. The postmark was five years old. Why would Sean keep a letter five years old? Mike took it out and began reading it.

My Dearest Sean,

I have to tell you this because you have a right to know who your real father is ...

Oh my God, Mike thought. Sean's dad isn't his real dad? What was that all about? Then a big wave of realization and guilt hit him. He didn’t want to know all this stuff--he didn’t want to pry into things he had no business prying into. All he wanted was a buzz on the 420! But that wasn't going to happen; he knew that now. He had simply run out of places to look. No magic-act rabbits squirming out of any hats today. He stopped reading the letter and put it back in the envelope, noticed his hand was shaking. Goddamn nerves!

His head was a boulder. He held it up between his hands, shook it slowly back and forth, clenched his eyes shut. He felt like he was vaporizing, that the cosmos was reducing him to atoms.

“NO, NO, NO,” he moaned, dropping to his knees. His aura grew black and crimson, seethed and boiled into the colors of a deep bruise; his chest struggled with all its might to prevent a geyser of pressure from disintegrating his heart into a million pieces, and there was a huge explosion and the mushroom cloud over Nagasaki took out the right side of his brain and the one at Hiroshima blew out his left.

Somehow in the middle of that vortex--maybe it was the only sound he could have possibly heard--the muffled whump of car doors closing registered in his brain, and he ran to the window one more time. It’s them! Havin’ a ball, as usual. Sean chasing Marcy to the stairwell door, grabbing, hugging, swaying drunkenly, hands copping free feels like a horny octopus, going back to the car for a 12-pack of beer.

They’re coming home. They’re going to find you out. You really fucked up now, buddy. They’ll tell all your friends what you did. You’ll be ruined.

Mike raced for the living room sofa and flopped down, pretending to be asleep, praying he'd put everything back in place in all the rooms. Calm down, he thought. Just ... calm ... down. Footsteps and giggles floating up the stairwell, the duo of fun-loving drug dealers inside, Sean standing by the couch.

“Hey dude, what's up? Taking a nap on us?” Mike blinked and acted sleepy. Sean tossed him a beer and Mike caught the cold can just before it thudded into his chest. Sean went in the kitchen to put the beer in the fridge, and when he returned he had the marijuana.

“Dude?” he said. “You okay? You look like shit. I thought you'd be tearing the place apart searching for this,” and he tossed Mike the big baggie, the whole chimichanga, the illusive half pound of Texas buds, slightly chilled from being left in the fridge a few hours.

“Geez,” Mike replied. “Give me some credit. You think I'd rip off my homey? I’ve just been lying here trying to get rid of a headache.”