FICTION: November 12, 2006

BY PONCHO FABULASH

Authors Introduction:
Smoking pot always turned me into a zombie. Pack-flick-rip. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I was gonna do my homework, I was gonna work out, I was even gonna call my mom. But I got high instead and listened to Bob Dylan all afternoon. I watched sixteen episodes of South Park. Pack-flick-rip. I ate four Snickers ice-cream bars before I fell victim to the old bong-water-in-my-coke-can trick and passed out on my futon for a three and half hour weed nap. This isn’t the exception, this is the rule. This was the way things have to be, because, well, I love smoking pot.
I deal, too. That’s why I can smoke so much. I couldn’t afford to buy weed every other day, so I struck up this deal with a friend and he eventually just gave me his connection. Ten simple numbers get to be pretty important when the guy on the other end of the phone needs to get rid of a pound every week. But sometimes, your regular dealer runs out or gets busted or just quits. It gets tough sometimes, so you have to branch out and find another guy for a month or so before you get another regular. This time was not regular.

The story:
It was a rainy night when we showed up at Bali’s Hookah Bar. We walked in and sat down. It smelled like weed. A waitress came over and asked us something. The minute she stared to speak, I forgot what she said, but I remembered why we were there. I told her that we needed to speak with Kahlil. She hesitated, peered at us through glazy eyes and said that he would be right out. I was getting hungry, so I asked her to bring something—anything!—from the kitchen. She smiled and said Bali’s always keeps something special for friends of Kahlil. I could smell the curry in her teeth. A few minutes later, a fat, young Arab man waddled out of the kitchen carrying a steaming bowl of what looked like grey chicken broth. He placed it on our table and handed each of us a spoon, keeping one for himself. Sitting down, he said, “Gentlemen, my name is Kahlil. What can I do for you?”
I’d never even been to a hookah bar in my life, let alone hash out a drug deal inside of one. I was shocked and I guess Kahlil picked up on that. He continued, “Don’t worry, my father owns this place, it’s safe.”
Jerry glanced at me across the table, then back at Kahlil. He cleared his throat and stammered, “You’re not like…a cop or anything, are you?”
Kahlil chuckled, but didn’t seem offended. “No, I’m not a cop. Let’s get down to business; I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your plate tonight, as I do.”
“Okay.” I wanted to get this over with and make it back to my place. I always felt uneasy every time I made a new deal with someone I didn’t know. I looked around at the empty hookah bar and decided that we would be okay. I kept going, “We need a pound, maybe more. Your nephew told me that you probably have a few different kinds. What kind of prices?” He listed a few names I recognized and reasonable prices, and then pulled out a bunch of plastic baggies with samples of a few of them. Jerry and I talked it over, and as we were about to make a choice, he pulled out another bag and said, “Oh, I almost forgot about this. This stuff is cheaper.”
We tilted our heads to the bag and asked him what it was. “Like I said, it’s cheaper, but it’s really weird. I haven’t even smoked it yet.” He paused and took a breath before he continued. He loved to gesture with his hands, criss-crossing them over his body every other word for emphasis. “All this other stuff I get from guys I know around here. But this stuff,” he said using two hands to point at the bag, “comes from across the ocean. My cousin in Turkey works for an international shipping company. He got sent to Annapolis a few weeks ago and brought over a duffel bag half full of it. He just gave it to me.”
I took the baggie from him. It looked like pretty standard weed, if not a little dry. But under the blue light of my cell phone I could see that it was covered in little white-pink crystals. It almost glowed in the dim room and I smelled it through the plastic. I was excited. I had never seen weed like this and I wanted it. I wanted as much as I could have.
I tried to maintain my composure and asked him how much he wanted for it. He stumbled over his words a little, but managed to spout out a number about as half as much as all the others. We matched eyes for a few seconds. I stared him down and could tell that he was keeping something from us. I wetted my lips and asked, “Why such a low price?”
“Well…I know this is going to sound stupid to you guys and I shouldn’t even say this but what the hell! You can decide for yourselves. My cousin told me this weed is under some kind of curse. He didn’t want it and all he said when he gave it to me was to be careful, because some witch doctor in Turkey did something to it. It’s crazy, but I dunno, I guess I still believe in that kind of stuff. I just don’t want to…it needs to…I just want to get rid of it.”
He looked embarrassed and stared at the ground waiting for our response. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was hands-down the strangest drug transaction I’d ever been part of. I didn’t know what to say, but before I could even think, Jerry almost yelled, “We’ll take it. Two pounds.” He was really excited, smiling stupidly, broadly, shaking in his chair. They both looked at me, so I just nodded my head and shrugged my shoulders. It looked pretty sweet to me.
One and a half pounds were for me, the rest was for a dealer friend of mine, Tom. He doesn’t have a solid connection, so when I pick up sometimes, he asks me to pick up for him too. He lives pretty close to me, so on the way home, I stopped by his house and dropped off his stuff. He opened the door as soon as I rang the bell and started grinning when he saw who it was. I gave him the half and a bunch of his money back. He was shocked.
“Don’t look so surprised, Tommy. We got a deal tonight. It’s some dank shit, only half the price. Let me know what you think.”
He stood there speechless for several seconds. He looked down at the bag, then up at me, then at the bag again. His mouth was wide open. He replied in wonder, “I love you man. I seriously fucking love you. I feel like I’ve already broken even. This is the best night of my life. Pot and money.” I left him standing in the doorway and made my way back to the car.
We always wait to get home before we sample a new bag. I have a small apartment in a large complex a few blocks away from a big university. About half of my neighbors are college kids so I rarely have to leave my house to sell. I pulled into the spot next to my roommate’s car. His windows were all fogged up; he had fallen asleep in the drivers seat with a bowl in his hand. This wasn’t the first time this has happened. It wasn’t even the second. This happened a lot. I got out of my car and headed for the front door as I said, “Jerry, get Bobby’s ass the fuck up. He’s gonna want to see this.”
We keep the bong on a shelf in the family room. Most people have their furniture facing the T.V., but we have ours in a circle in the corner of the room surrounding a low table. I went upstairs and immediately took out a handful of weed and put it in a ziplock bag. I stashed the rest in a safe under my bed.
When I got back downstairs Jerry and Bobby were sitting on one of the couches. Bobby had the bong in his hand and Jerry was methodically flicking a lighter. They were staring at me, bright eyed and bushy tailed. They were ready to smoke. I tossed the bag to Bobby and said, “Let her rip, buddies.” We all smiled.
Bobby packed a bowl and handed me the bong. I held it up to my eyes and looked at the crystals for a few seconds.
Pack, flick, rip. It hit so hard. The smoke stung the back of my throat then zipped into my lungs. It burnt everything in its path and swam through my body like a shark at night. Sneaky. I would have coughed, but I was already so fucked up that I couldn’t remember how. A head rush. This was some killer weed.
I exhaled, carefully handed the bong back to Bobby and stumbled towards the kitchen for a glass of water. I was walking to the rhythm of music that only I could hear. I was smiling. I passed a mirror on the way and paused to look at myself. My face was pale. There were veiny little blood rivers all over my eyeball. I kept on touching my right cheek bone just to make sure it was there. I turned around and headed back for the couch, completely neglecting my water. I had only taken one hit and I was higher than I had been in years. This was going to be an awesome night.
I flopped onto the couch and smiled when I realized that one of them had put on some music. It was some band Bobby kept on trying to tell me about, but I didn’t care about the group or what city it was from. The music coming out of my speakers was the best thing I had ever heard. It sounded like there were a thousand layers of sound in every note. It was too complex to even try and understand, so I just sat there and let it fill me up. My toes were bouncing to the beat but the rest of my body was a statue. I only moved when someone passed me the bong, and then only my arms.
The night turned into a blur. The entire room moved around my motionless body. Every action but my own happened in super-speed, everything was faster than it should have been. I was confused and feeling nauseous, but then it hit me: Jerry and Bobby aren’t moving really fast, I’m just moving really slow. “I must look pretty funny to them,” I thought.
“Hey guys, lets smoke more weed.” It was the only thing I could think of and I guess it happened, because soon enough the bong was in my hand filled with more white-pink crystals. I smoked and then just opened my mouth as wide as I could, watching the thick, white, smoke billow out. I put the bong on the floor and slowly toppled over onto a pile of pillows. You know that feeling when you’re really drunk, and you know if you take another shot than you’re going to throw up? That happens with weed too, but when you take that shot, that hit, your entire brain just shuts down. It hurts, but differently than you’ve ever had any kind of pain. It makes you feel like your brain isn’t even there; just an empty, stoned skull where something can bounce around like a Superball on asphalt.
So I laid on the couch and thought about everything going on inside my head. I thought about t.v. shows and I thought about music. I thought about America and I thought about people. I thought about how much everybody dreams at night and that if everybody always remembered all of their dreams then what kind of world we would have. I thought about revolution. I thought about believing in something. I thought about writing a movie about me sitting at my desk writing a story. I thought I lost my mind. I thought about so many more things.
“Yo dudes, I got crazy drymouth. Who wants a glass of water?” It was Bobby and his question smacked me away from myself.
“Yea,” I answered, “I want some. Get me chips and shit too, I’m real hungry.”
“Yea,” Jerry droned from the corner, “I want some chips and a hot fudge sundae and like four or five slices of cantaloupe. And find something I can like munch on too.” He slowly closed his eyes and stopped talking. Bobby had left room before he even opened his mouth. I started laughing, and just like that, I forgot about everything. I needed to eat—that was all I could think.
I felt my stomach pang in emptiness, telling my brain to make me eat. I had the hunger but was too stoned to actually do anything about it—Jerry popped up from the couch and looked at me. He seemed lost, unsure of where he was. I was entranced. He continued to stare at me, and then slowly, but heavily said, “I kind of feel a little strange right now.” His words drooled all over the room. Seeping into the couches and chairs, they took shape in mid air, then slowly hovered to the floor. He was slightly swaying back and forth, but continued to slur, “I feel like I’m not really myself…but a different kind all together? No…more like I’m completely bare on the inside. I’m in more basic form.”
I had no fucking clue what he was talking about, but he could have told me the time and I wouldn’t have understood. I just sat back and laughed and said, “Yea man, I know it.”
I suddenly felt a slight buzz on my thigh; just the tiniest, littlest vibration moving a little part of my leg. I felt it twice more, then reached my hand under my leg, and pulled out my cell phone. It was flashing all kinds of colors and lights at me, but through the blurry fireworks display I could make out, “TOM”S CELL.” I picked it up, “What up…Tommy boy?”
“Hey buddy! I wanted to tell you that I already sold like a lot of that weed.” He was almost as high as I was, but coherent. “A bunch of guys from your building are throwing a party tonight, so they bought like two ounces from me. They wanted to buy from you, but just saw me first I guess.” I really didn’t care what he had to say. I was too high to even hear him. I answered, “Yea, cool Tom. Whatever. I’ll see you later.” I hung up the phone and threw it onto the floor.
It felt like a few hours, but Bobby returned with water and chips and bread and cookies and anything else that was in our fridge. We all silently sat up and crowded around the food in the middle of the table. Without speaking, we ate straight for what must have been an hour and a half. After a session like that, we usually just groan and fall asleep for a while. But we finished, and no one look satisfied. I broke the ice, “Man, I’m still really hungry you guys.”
“Yea, I could definitely eat some more,” Bobby said. “I want a burrito with a shit load of meat in it. And tons of cheese and peppers and guacamole and stuff.” He looked satisfied, “Yea, that’s it.”
“Nah man, fuck burritos, a burger, right now. No, a double cheeseburger, with bacon in my hands right now. I’d kill a man for that. I swear, I would.” Jerry was drooling all over his sweatshirt, but I had him beat. I said confidently, “Fuck burritos?! Fuck double cheeseburgers! I want a steak right now. A huge fucking steak really rare. And when you cut into it there’s just blood everywhere and it’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten. I’d kill a man for that right now.”
“Yea, that would be sweet dude.” Bobby agreed. Jerry just drooled more. I started laughing uncontrollably, but managed to squeeze out between breaths, “I’m gonna go in the kitchen…and see if we have any steaks to eat now.”
I rose on unsteady legs and walked into the hallway, leaving their laughter in the family room. The lights were off and I was in too much of a hurry to bother with the switch on the wall, so my only illumination came from the freezer. I ferociously dug through piles of frozen corn and peas. I shoved my hand into the back, scraping my fingernails on the ice. I reached around a pint of ice cream and felt a frozen hunk of something wrapped in plastic. I pulled it out. A huge t-bone steak left over from our bar-b-q a few weeks ago. A motherfucking goldmine.
I was too excited to grill it, and in a stoned frenzy I threw it into the microwave for fifteen minutes.
I sat down at a kitchen chair in the dark, listening to the drone of the microwave. The circular, waving drone of the plate spinning and the microwaves emitting…a microwave…a micro wave. Two words, one word. Micro…wave. Wave. One word. As sure as I heard the sound, I could now see the waves. Huge microwaves drifting through the air, gliding through me, pushing around energy in the kitchen. But within the microwaves, I felt another beat. It was stronger and more powerful. It was internal, the beat of my heart, the rhythm of my body. I could feel every thud. Every single movement of my ventricles altered me to the fact of my existence. My breath was shortened, my chest tightened. I felt my entire body moving as an independent, self-sustaining being—
But then, I felt something else. It was a primal click, even deeper than the heart beat. A solid, constant, ancient click coming from the very base of my skull. It was a primitive feeling, and for some reason, I could tell it wanted blood.
I smelled the steak before it was done. Meaty vapors running through the air, brushing by my nose every time they crossed the room. After a few more grueling minutes of anticipation, the microwave beeped. I opened it and grabbed the meat with my bare hands. I paused for second, then tore into with my whole face. It wasn’t nearly cooked thoroughly, so the warm blood ran down my chin. It was the most delicious thing I’d even eaten.
I carried it to the couches like you would an egg—with two hands in front of you. The second I stepped into the room, Bobby and Jerry immediately stood up in front of me. They saw the steak, looked at me, and then devoured it in a four bite freak show, eating it out of my hands. I cackled.
We stood silently, not making eye contact with each others blood covered faces. It was good, but we needed more. We were still hungry.
Bobby spoke first, lowering his voice and almost growling: “Hey guys, let’s go to the grocery store and buy some more steaks.” His eyes were so sunken that all I could really see were two dark shadows on his face. We all decided it was a good idea, but needed to smoke more before we left. Pack-flick-rip. One more bowl, just for the road.
We poured into the hallway fifteen minutes later, bloodstains and all. Bouncing against the walls, we almost made it to the first staircase without running into a sober neighbor. It was Ross, a college kid who lived a few doors down. He buys from me every now and then, but I wouldn’t call him a pot smoker. He was a pretty big guy, not that muscular. He looked meaty and thick. He called after us, “Hey Poncho, I was wondering if you’re selling right now.”
Click…click…click…
I turned around and said, “Yeahhhhhh man.” I was starving. The worst munchies I had ever had. I couldn’t think of anything but satisfying this craving. I needed something to fill my stomach. I looked over at Jerry and Bobby and could tell that they were feeling the same. Their eyes seemed even more sunken and their mouths were slightly open. They were breathing heavily.
“Uhhhh, guys?,” Ross brought us back from the trance, “Can we go to your place then?”
“Sure Ross.” We lumbered home.
By the time we got back inside my apartment, it felt like my stomach was caving in on itself. Nothing mattered except getting something to eat. I grabbed my gut with my right hand and edged over to a futon. I felt like I was going crazy.

Click…
Click…
Click…

Ross was confused. He glanced between Jerry, Bobby, and I and said, “Ummmm, maybe I should go. You guys don’t look so good. I was going to go upstairs to Nick’s party, I heard he has some weed—”
“No!” I shouted from the futon. “I just need to get something to eat, then I’ll be okay.”
I stood up and walked towards Ross, my eyes fixed on his. “I just need to get some food. We were gonna get some steaks to eat,” I said monotonously, trudging toward the uneasy boy. “I want some steaks!” He put up his arms to cover his face as we converged on him, crying, he pleaded, “What are you guys doing, stop!”
Across the room, I heard Bobby groan “Brai…n…s.”
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For some people, smoking is a weekend thing. For some people, it’s not a thing at all. For me, it’s the only thing. It dulls the world and rounds off all of the sharp edges so that you can ingest reality one piece at a time. Just zoned out space in front of your face. A hazy cloudy mess punctuated with adventures into the real world to buy more Doritos from the sober saps at Stop n Shop. Zombies.