The Four-Twenty Farty Marty - #62
If you missed last week’s post about a sadistic cup eager to see the fate of a cookie every morning, please click here: [redacted]
(source)
It was a quiet porch that night. There was a White guy with a gold chain and two-tone baseball cap. It’s his favorite hat – “UC Davis 21” was sewn across the front. He rocked endlessly in his wooden rocker, listening, across from him, the words coming out of the swaying hammock. “And like, I was tired of it, you know?” Keshavi said, her nose ring getting a glitter with each swing. “He kept telling me that my math was wrong, and I was like, ‘No dude, like, I’m doing all the work and you’re an L7 engineer… your math is wrong’.” Some rolled hash fell into her fingers, and a quick hit later, she appended, “Some fucking people with their seniority complexes… know what I mean?” Next to her, a blonde girl in a big green sweater nodded in agreement. She sat comfortably on a meditation cushion. “Quiet Dan”, who was in his bean bag chair, said nothing. It’s things like this that require the right seating. Then, from inside the house, a tall fella knocked on the torn screen door, to which the dude in the rocking chair looked up. “Yeah bro?”
“Can I hang out with you guys out here?” he replied. It was hard to see him: dark clothes on black hair. The only indication there was someone standing there was the fella’s navy eyes.
“Sure, just careful with your step… Thor gets scared easily at night.”
“Oh, umm, okay.” He swung out the screen door and tip-toed around the creaks.
Have you noticed that things like this seem to never have enough seating? So the fella sat directly on the wood, against the siding. The glow from the neighborhood was their only source of light.
The dude in the rocking chair watched him get comfortable. “You know,” he began, “I should refinish this porch. Yeah, I’m going to do that. I’m going to refinish this porch.”
“I love that for you, baby,” Keshavi said. “But we don’t own it.” She then grabbed a glass ganja bowl from the girl in the sweater, and proceeded to toke.
“What?” he responded.
“We don’t own this house.”
Quiet Dan did bit of hit and sniffled his nose. “Do we really own anything?” said Dan. And the question stalled the neo-hippies for a good thirty seconds. What do we own? But the tall fella supposedly knew: “I’d say many things.”
Knowing glances dotted the circle, as the question was never meant to be answered out loud. And this prompted the dude in the rocker to pass a fresh made joint over to the guy. “Here.”
“Oh I don’t know man—”
“Bro, just a little… just enough for… our porch vibes.”
“Marijuana is not for me – I’m weird like that, that’s all. I’m already a very paranoid person and weed is the last thing I need to make that… more paranoid? Does that make sense?”
The dude didn’t say anything. He held his offer in the air.
“Like every time I do pot, my throat gets itchy and sore – it burns a lot, like I can’t stop coughing. Yeah – I just don’t like it.”
“Did you just say ‘every time you do pot’?” Dan asked.
“Every time I do pot, yeah?”
“So you’re not going to do some ‘pot’ tonight!”
“I think my uncle still refers to it as ‘pot’?” said the dude in the rocker. He turned to the tall fella. “Marty, it’s an herb. Like parsley.”
“Well, technically, it is still a drug –”
“You know parsley, right?”
Marty blinked at the thought. His blue eyes exposed an almost childlike innocence hidden behind them. “Well… they found that marijuana actually changes the chemistry of the brain. I think until you’re 25, the brain isn’t fully developed, and the marijuana molecules can absorb into the brain juice—”
“Marty.”
“—and that can cause irreparable brain damage... um, yes?”
“You’re being a fart.”
“Yeah,” Keshavi said, “You’re being a ding dong.”
“Okay babe, ding dong’s kinda harsh.”
“Sorry…”
“It’s okay, just dial it down to a two,” said the dude. With the joint still extended out, he commanded Marty to take it.
Marty gave in. He held his cusped hands out like a beggar waiting for a coin. The joint dropped into his palms, he brought it closer into his vision, and examined it. The sweater girl murmured about Marty’s odd posture, then asked him, “How many times have you done the devil’s lettuce?”
“Or more importantly,” Quiet Dan added, “Number of times you lit up some pot? And he laughed again – “Pot! He called it ‘pot’ unironically!”
Marty pondered all his moments with marijuana – “And second-hand doesn’t count…” Keshavi had to include – which left Marty with:
“Once? I think it was freshman year of college? My dorm mate was studying botany, and—”
“Only once!” the dude in the rocker shot back; his body now sat straight up in the chair. “So this is a magical moment for you? Oh my god, this is exciting. We get to be a part of this new experience for you. Oh my god – here’s my lighter.” He tossed his mini plastic flicker to Marty. “I’ll guide you.”
“Okay,” he replied. The joint was stiff in his lips, the lighter positioned too properly at the tip. “It’s a joint Marty, not a grenade.” A couple chuckles from the friends. “Relax. Are you able to relax?” And the dude explained to him that he has to keep the flame on the end and inhale, “keep breathing in”, until it fully engulfed his lungs. “Close your eyes,” he instructed, and then told him to light it.
Marty does so – “You’re about to dive. You’re going to submerge into the Mariana Trench. Now, cut the lighter and inhale. A long, deep inhalation, like you’re going to live with the dolphins. The dolphins are calling you, Marty, they want you to live with them. But you need to inhale.” – Marty was packed with smoke. – “Okay, now hold it. Submerge. Feel like the pressure of the water is dragging you into its depths. And you’re going to keep diving. Dive. Dive. Dive –” and they all joined in – “Dive. Dive. Dive. Dive…” and Marty held it. For a long time, until the duration became impressive.
“Fuck, are you a swimmer?” said Quiet Dan.
“Okay, okay,” started the dude. “Now, in one exhale—”
In one big cough, Marty released the entirety of the smoke, ensuing a fit of smaller coughs. Then a German Shepherd resting under the hammock started barking, loud, just enough for the dog on the next street over to kick into the groove as well. “THOR!” Keshavi demanded – “No! Stop!” Thor quieted down, unlike Marty, wrestling with a fire in his throat, whom everyone on the porch watched in mild amusement.
“—you alright, bro?”
“Yeah—COUGH—I’m just—COUGH, COUGH—I’m just not used—COUGH—it. Oh my goodness—COUGH—my eyes are watery. I need water—COUGH, COUGH, COUGH—”
“Go to the sink, bro, get water.” He threw his long legs out, stood straight up, and coughed all the way into the dark house. The rest of the porch friends could see the stove hood light flip on. The sound of him turning on the faucet and gulping water was audible.
“Did I ever finish my work story?” Keshavi asked the group. The sweater girl told her that she remembered her talking about it, but forgot what the story was about.
Marty returned to the porch. “Okay—COUGH—I’m back. Woo! Guys, that was—you know, you know what I think—wow, that hit hard. That really hit.” Then he paused for an instant. “What did I say? I was saying—oh yeah, you guys know what I think?”
The dude in the rocker looked at him. “Yeah… Martin?”
And Marty kept their attention for a brief sec – less because of what he had to say and more because he now appeared to be on another planet. All Marty saw on the dark porch were their smiles and slumped eyebrows.
He breathed in. “I think I’m an edibles guy.”