Where You Go When You Want to Think

This site has excerpts of my novel-in-progress, Hot Love on the Wing, as well as thoughts on post postmodernism, avant garde art, literature, music, and the community of artists in Bushwick and New York.

Monday, December 13, 2010

The Strabismics Pt. 3

    Kevin wore a black hoodie with an American flag bandanna and thin gold rimmed glasses. He strutted toward them and they began introductions. He was medium height with a short aquiline nose, sallow cheeks and sleepy eyes. His fuzzy hair fell to his shoulders under the rag Gabriel complimented for its patrioticness, for which Kevin thanked him. As they turned to walk back to Kevin's apartment,which was the same building they had leaned against, Kevin lit a cigarette. Gabriel noticed two natty dredlocks resting on his left shoulder.

They turned the corner and waited for Kevin to smoke his cigarette to the filter.
 He opened the door and led them up two flights of stairs and along a badly scratched wooden floor. Long spartan-gray walls showed a hallway without any signs of life. When they stopped Kevin opened a door to expose a room clouded with cigarette and weed smoke. The loft had a staircase that overshadowed the vestibule. Chili pepper light bulbs hung on a string over the large bright windows at the room's opposite end.

They walked to the seating area where there was a record player, a couch with two kids with half-closed eyes who nodded at Buckley and Gabriel as they sat down next to them, and an armchair for Kevin.  The coffee table was littered with bongs, scattered and trayed ash, empty cans of cheap beer, and cigarette cartons.  From where they sat they saw, on the other side of the staircase, a kitchen with exposed shelves of granola, cereal, and canned goods of a various assortment.

Kevin extracted what must have been about half a pound of weed from an open backpack that courted his chair's leg, looked up at our two friends, and asked how much. Buckley looked at Gabriel and said “Eighth?” Gabriel nodded and took out a twenty. Kevin placed clots of green onto his digital scale, picking up and removing, replacing like a great chef. He handed Buckley a drug-filled plastic sandwich bag, which he had rolled up and licked to keep sealed, the way most drug dealers do.

Gabriel took it from Buckley, who was thinking about his ultimate goal of the trip. He unrolled the bag and inhaled. It smelled like Jamaican petrichor – the way Bob Marley's backyard would smell after the first rain of the season. When he looked up, Buckley was pointing to Kevin's lap at two different viscous liquids, one russet, one chocolate colored. Kevin pointed to the chocolate one. Gabriel asked what these liquids were. Buckley, without looking at him said, "Resin. They need to dry a little before we add Tylenol PM."
"Why do you add Tylenol?"
"It allows for easier nasal ingestion."
"Once we add it, we chop it up to create a powder. It'll probably take 20 minutes."

3 of 5- Daniel Adler

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