Picking
up. 6:45 AM. The boy opened his eyes from his slumber. His vision was bleary,
so he blinked it away. He sat up, almost robotically as if this was part of his
schedule. Lifting himself out of bed, he kicked aside some old clothes as
rummaged for some money. He couldn’t find any so he quietly walked into his
mother’s room, the sound of the floorboards creaking with unwanted noise. The
boy stared at his mom for a moment before going to her desk. He gently pulled
apart the clasps to his mother’s purse and slipped out a fifty. He set down the
bag and began on his way out. He stopped at the door, turning his head to
listen. Her breaths were not the usual slow and steady breathing of when she
slept. She was awake. She knew. She began to cry quietly, little sniffles and
sharp inhales. The boy closed the door.
It was
quite the walk, but the boy didn’t mind. What he did mind was the bright
luminous sun, radiating down upon his pale skin and unkempt hair. He flipped up
his dark hood and crammed earphones in, blaring mismatched music flooding his
body.
“Yo. A
fifty sack.” Four words served for one purpose. The boy stood uncomfortably
inside the house, as the young unshaven man picked out big nuggets from his
glass jar and weighed them on the dirty scale, eventually sliding them into a
Ziploc bag with an index card. He shook it up and went back to the boy,
exchanging the bag for the money with one fluid motion.
Roll. The boy was back in his room, breaking
up the bud with his fingers. Neglecting to retrieve his grinder from his
friend’s house, he had to do this the old fashioned way. Slowly, a small pile began to appear, enough
for him anyways. He took a lengthy EZ wider paper and sprinkled the bud evenly
inside the fold of the paper. He picked it up and rolled it back and forth
between his fingers, making it nice and packed. The boy put it back onto the
table, rolling it using the table and his fingers, pushing it firmly to make
sure it was tight. Reaching the end, he licked the edges of the sticky part of the
paper, pressing it all together to seal it. He twisted the end of one of the
sides of the joint. Brushing the remnants of the weed into his plastic baggie,
he picked up his lighter and opened the window to climb onto the ledge of the
roof.
Burn. He lit up the twisted end of the
joint with his zippo, sucking in from the other end. Eventually tasting the
difference of when the embers reached the bud he sat back and puffed on the j.
He inhaled slowly, inviting the smoke to the chambers of his lungs. Coughing
out harshly, he spat out over the edge of the roof, feeling the high. He felt
good.
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