23-Paul

Paul pulled up into the parking lot of the liquor store, but didn’t get out of the car. He just sat there, wondering exactly why he hesitated so.

It wasn’t just the hurdle of buying the alcohol from the liquor store—although it certainly did mark the strongest test yet for his fake ID. There was something else.

Just an hour ago he’d batted around a volleyball while sweating out last night’s alcohol, and his smile shone through naturally and his words flowed freely. But now, while alone, he felt different. He felt strangely tentative.

Lauren crept up into his thoughts quite a bit. He kept reminiscing about the weekend they’d had just a couple months ago. Lauren had the key to her parents’ apartment in Ocean City, where her family vacationed during the summer. She and Paul had driven out there secretly with a few of Lauren’s friends on a Saturday night, and they partied pretty hard—a lot of cards and drinking games, with frequent cigarette breaks on the balcony. In the morning, her friends had to take off early because one of them had something going on that day. So, when Paul and Lauren woke up it was gloriously just the two of them in the apartment. Naturally, they stayed in bed for quite some time. Though they had done plenty else, Lauren had told him previously that she wanted to wait a while before going all the way with him. Paul didn’t know how long a while would be, but that morning, perhaps it was the joyous freedom they had suddenly, it was like she just couldn’t wait any longer. They went all the way, with gusto, and then laid in bed for a while longer still, Lauren snuggled up beside him and his arms around her. After finally getting up, they showered and got dressed, and then strolled leisurely down the street. Paul had felt so awesome—smoky and a little hungover, tired and sexed out, and when he and Lauren held hands he felt much, much closer to her than ever before. With just the two of them, and no parents around—and not even any friends—it felt like they were adults. They went to a little coffeehouse—which also seemed crazy, who the hell passes up McDonalds breakfast for a stupid coffeehouse? But on that morning, it was actually perfect, even Paul had to admit it. He felt lazy and awesome as they lounged there for a while, having little breakfast delicacies and sipping some coffee, in their little adult world they’d just created and pretended was real—even though neither of them acknowledged this feeling, he knew she felt it too.

Then they got back in the car and drove back to reality, where they had parents and homework and a lot of sneaking around to do what they wanted. But he often thought back to that morning in Ocean City, quite dreamily. He liked that world they’d found. He wanted more of it.

His mind wandered further still. He thought ahead to next year, and even beyond that. He wondered what Lauren would be into in the coming years, when they actually would have freedom, and he wondered if he’d still offer that. Even if he did, it seemed unlikely they’d still be together—just due simply to the passage of time. That thought made him feel sad, because he hoped somehow that they would.

Pretending to be an adult sounded like it would be awkward and uncomfortable, but it was also quite intriguing, as the Ocean City experience had revealed to him. It was certainly much, much different than what he was accustomed to doing—which was just not giving a fuck.

Quite suddenly Paul popped the car door open and then walked briskly into the liquor store.

He moved as cool as could be, like this was something he did every day. Paul was good at this, he knew. He’d been practicing these types of things his whole life. Sure enough he passed the test with flying colors, as the cashier barely gave him a second look, and he walked out of the store with several bottles of hard alcohol. He loaded them in the trunk of his car and then pulled out of the parking lot, feeling both triumph and relief.

Paul bumped the tunes up even louder than normal as he drove, consuming the hip-hop like it was therapeutic. A few minutes later he arrived at Antwann’s house and parked on the side street. Then he unloaded the bottles and began carrying them toward the house.

Antwann sat on the back porch, with his sandy feet kicked up on the table still covered in last night’s wayward ash. He puffed from a Newport, with a relaxed, lazy look on his face, and the smoke drifted into the humid summer air. He started clapping upon sight of Paul.

“How’d I know you’d be the first one to come through?” Antwann jumped up happily, getting the door for him while also helping with the load, his eyes shining at the cargo before him. It was composed of numerous bottles of rum and vodka.

“I figured the daytime staff would present less of a challenge than the nighttime one,” Paul said. “The degree of difficulty might only increase, you know? So…it’s good to get on it.”

“It’s a damn fine strategy, my man.”

They set the bottles of hard alcohol down on the kitchen counter. With one quick glance at them, lined up side by side, the contents within silently screaming outrageous things, it was clear that their night had serious potential.

“We’re off to a good start here, but who do you think will be the one to screw up our plans?” Antwann asked. “You know someone will.”

“I don’t know, man. They might all come through. You watch. Stoners can surprise you, when properly motivated.”

Antwann nodded. “Well, can you hang out back here for a bit, and greet any of those stoners who might happen to drop by? I need to go take a shower. I still have sand on my ass.”

“Yeah, of course. Go ahead.”

Antwann walked inside.

Paul took Antwann’s position on the back porch, seated in the same chair, with his feet kicked up on the messy table. He noticed how Antwann had left his pack of Newports there. Paul sleekly took one and smoked it lazily, as Antwann had done. He immediately felt better back in this atmosphere. It felt like he was home. Nothing could bother him.

Moments later he watched Ronnie’s car pull up on the street and park, and then he saw Ronnie walking toward the porch. He wore a wife beater and carried two large bags of fruit, one in each arm. Paul laughed at the sight before him, how incredibly random it was.

“What?” Ronnie asked. He disappeared into the house, setting the fruit down in the kitchen and then came back out. He sat down at the porch table, huffing and puffing like it had been hard work. Almost immediately he appropriated one of Antwann’s unguarded cigarettes from the table.

Paul laughed again, heartily.

“What, fool?” Ronnie asked again.

“That was priceless, man,” Paul remarked.

The fruit, however, was not Ronnie’s most notable contribution to the evening’s festivities. Instead it would be a ton of weed they were going to roll into a single massive joint.

They’d talked about it earlier, after Trey told them about the record he’d found in his attic. It was an old Cheech and Chong album, and the record in the inner sleeve was wrapped in a giant rolling paper. Trey could hardly contain his enthusiasm conveying his grand dream about rolling it into a giant joint. He’d said that the rolling paper was an artifact of past, one that had never quite fulfilled its destiny. It had been passed on from one generation of stoners to the next, and so they had to finish the job. It was their duty, he’d said, with the joking-but-serious look on his face that he often liked to use.

Trey showed up soon enough and almost immediately stole a cigarette from Antwann’s pack on the table, as everyone else had done. Paul couldn’t help but laugh. The unguarded pack of Newports was like a shining beacon to everyone who walked in. And surely Antwann was going to be pissed off when he came back out and saw its load considerably lightened. It was like a comedy routine, like they had planned it. But of course they hadn’t. That’s what made it all so great.

Paul couldn’t stop grinning. It was nice to be home.

Trey looked happy like a little kid when he placed the giant rolling paper down on the table in front of everyone. It was longer and wider than a dinner plate. He also had a massive orange water cooler in tow—there were all sorts of lovely tools for the evening they had planned.

“Goddamn, we formin’ like Voltron in this bitch,” Ronnie had said. He grabbed them each a beer from the fridge, and they cracked them open and took the first sips of cold, cheap brew while sitting on the porch of a warm summer afternoon.

The giggling was relentless. It was going to be that kind of night, he could tell. He needed it too, after last night’s scare, which he knew had turned him into a semi head-case. Now, things felt right again. He’d only had half a can of cheap beer, but already he felt it working.

That’s when Antwann came out through the sliding glass door, freshly showered, and Paul saw his instant dismay, realizing where he’d left his pack of cigarettes. Antwann picked it up with a sigh, in the exact manner Paul knew he would. Paul’s constant chuckle never relented.

The joint conversation was similarly special. It started with them speculating whether or not it was even possible to roll a joint that big, and while they weren’t sure, everyone seemed willing and eager to find out. Ultimately, Ronnie and Antwann decided to contribute nearly a quarter to the joint, while Paul and Trey each donated a dub—or, in Trey’s case, the better part of one. The conversation peaked when Trey surmised they had altogether nearly a half-ounce, to which Ronnie remarked, “Look at Trey. When it comes to drug weight, suddenly he’s doing calculus and shit.” Paul lost it again.

They laid out all the pot on the table in front of them, merged together in an impressive pile on top of the rolling paper. They each sized it up hungrily.

Next came the argument about who should roll it. Even though Paul had seen on numerous occasions Ronnie roll blunts on his knee in a moving car with a fair amount of ease, Trey insisted he be given the honors. “I need this,” he said, again with his mock seriousness.

Trey pulled the paper and the pile of pot that it held over to him. He leaned his nose almost right down into it and inhaled with his eyes closed, like it was a religious experience. Then he began sifting through it, breaking up the buds and removing stems and seeds, operating with great speed and skill.

In the meantime, Paul, Ronnie, and Antwann went inside to prepare the alcohol for the party. In the kitchen, Antwann produced a knife and a cutting board and began slicing up the fruit slowly and awkwardly, in a manner hilariously opposite from Trey’s rapid marijuana preparation. Then he dumped the slices of fruit into the cooler and they followed it up with full bottles of liquor, juice, and even some Kool Aid, as both Paul and Ronnie stood around the cooler, helping to pour something in. Antwann stirred the red concoction with a big plastic ladle and occasionally tasted it, wincing each time.

“Damn, that’s nasty,” he said. He sipped it once more and winced again. “Nasty. But good, though.”

Ronnie tasted it too, and hollered. “It’s goddamn perfect.”

Then the guys all shot downstairs with thunderous feet on the steps. In the basement they rapidly rearranged the furniture, pushing the couch and chairs up against the wall to maximize the floor space. Then they brought out the speakers from Antwann’s room that had plenty of extra cable to allow for such an arrangement.

“Sound check,” Antwann said, and hit play on whatever disc happened to be in his CD changer. He pumped up the volume, and moments later the ruckus came loud and clear with the Wu-Tang Clan. Back on the newly created dance floor, Paul instantaneously started bobbing his head and rapping along. It was so raw and loud, and Paul thought to himself how much he loved that music. It actually felt cathartic, standing in the basement, the music booming, shaking the walls, and Paul hoped he always would love that shit, no matter how old he got.

“Sound okay?” Antwann asked, as he emerged from his room. Paul snapped out of it and simply gave him a thumbs up. Antwann nodded and cut the music off. Then they each took several steps at a time on their dash back upstairs.

Back in the kitchen, Antwann pulled out a pack of red plastic cups from a cupboard. He went first toward the nozzle, but Ronnie stopped him. “Nah, man, just dunk the cup into the top of the cooler. You know, so you can get fruit and shit.”

Antwann nodded in agreement and did just that.

The other guys filled up too and they stepped back on the porch with cups full. Paul sipped it and winced. It was indeed satisfying.

At the table, they saw Trey still working meticulously on the bud preparation. They took seats around him, looking on with great interest.

“How’s the mother of all joints coming along?” Antwann asked him.

“We’re getting there,” Trey replied. “What should I do with this, Antwann?” He pointed at a pile of stems and seeds to be discarded, cleanly separated from the pile of uniform green dank it sat next to.

Antwann shrugged, and then pointed to the yard. “Maybe I’ll get a surprise one day.”

Trey cast the stems and seeds into the grass. Then a look of pure concentration glazed over his face. He formed the dank into a thick, heavy line along the edge of the paper, and with a deep breath began the rolling process.

They guys crowded around and watched him intently, and with utter silence, like a crowd of people watching a professional golfer about to putt. The silence endured for nearly the entire rolling process, and when someone did talk, they whispered.

Finally, Trey took another deep breath, and sat back in his chair. Everyone looked at him.

“Done?” Paul asked.

“I think so.” Trey picked up the joint as the others gaped at it. Ronnie started giggling hysterically.

Trey passed the joint around the table as everyone inspected it. It was longer and thicker than any cigar Paul had ever seen.

“It needs a name,” Ronnie declared. “We gotta call it something.” He looked around the table, and then finally, stopped at Trey. “It’s all you, buddy. You rolled it. This was your thing. You name it.”

With no hesitation, Trey held the joint up and said, “It’s the Megaspliff.”

“Nice.”

Trey shrugged. “It was the first thing that popped in my head.” He produced a lighter from his pocket. “We ready to spark it, or what?”

“Let’s do it,” Antwann said, eagerly.

Just then another car pulled up and parked at the end of the line behind the others.

Ronnie grinned. “Hell yeah, my boy is right on time.”

Seconds later Raza strolled across the yard and up onto the back porch, looking curious why everyone was grinning.

“What the hell are you guys drinking?” he asked curiously. “You all look drunk already.”

“Jungle juice, bro,” Antwann said. “Go get yourself some.”

“Aw, word.”

“And check this shit out, Raza,” Trey said, holding up the massive joint.

“What is that?” Raza asked, incredulous. “There’s no way that’s what I think it is. Don’t mess with me here. I’m very sensitive about this.”

“We’re not messing with you, dude!” Trey shouted. “Get ready to smoke the Megaspliff.”

Raza still looked full of skepticism, and even paranoia, like he was walking into a practical joke. Trey handed him the joint and Raza cautiously looked it over and gave it a few good sniffs. Then he sat down in happy disbelief. “I love you guys,” he said, earnestly.

“Trey, you get the honors,” Ronnie said. “Light it up.”

It was getting dark out. Paul looked around the table and saw everyone’s faces giddy with excitement. “Everyone’s gotta hit this,” he declared.

“Yeah. This shit is gonna be legendary,” Antwann agreed.

“We’re gonna be talking about this for fuckin’ ever,” Trey said, nodding, holding the lighter up to the joint. But he hadn’t sparked it yet.

“Who all we missin’?” Ronnie asked.

“Rob. He’s working,” Paul said. “But he’ll be by later. We’ll save him the roach.”

“Mike Marelli,” Antwann added. “Where’s he at? I would think he’d be around for something like this.”

“Nah, not anymore,” Ronnie followed. “That dude has been like permanently MIA. I’m talkin’ about Joe, though. Where the hell is he at?”

Silence around the table.

“He’s probably with that Katherine girl,” Ronnie said, shaking his head. “That’s crazy. How did she get ahold of his nuts so fast?”

“Yeah,” Raza agreed. “He should be here for this. He’s lunchin.’ Whatever happened to bros before hos?”

Without speaking, Antwann picked up the cordless phone from the table and began punching a number into it. “I’m pagin’ him,” he said.

“Well, in the meantime…screw him,” Ronnie concluded. “If he ain’t here, he ain’t here.”

Trey held the lighter up to the massive joint yet again. “We ready?” he asked.

Hell yeah, we ready, Paul thought to himself, taking another deep sip from the loaded jungle juice, enjoying its bite. He looked around him and smiled. For the time being there was no ambiguity. Everything was perfectly simple. There was nowhere else he’d rather be, and of that, he felt assured. These guys were his brothers. Maybe not technically, but in every other way that mattered.

It felt good to be confident once more, to be decisive. Once again Paul felt like he knew exactly who he was. And when that joint got to him, he knew he was going to smoke himself silly. It was going to be legendary.

“Spark it,” Paul said, grinning.