“You’re both screwed, dudes, fubar, you hear me?” Champ said. “I sold those other boots to Raymond. His feet and mine are the same size, like a coincidence, you know. Well, you know, really, I actually swapped those boots with Raymond, man, no moolah changed hands.”
“Well, lay it on me, brother man,” Maurice responded. “What did you and Raymond barter for those amazing boots, which I ain’t ever seen? I’m just sayin’, why the hell did you trade those amazing boots to the sorriest drug dealer on the West Side, Raymond Donahue, who you know mixes dried-up old herbs and real grass with his ragweed to sell to crazy-ass rich-douche reefer-heads who wouldn’t know great smoke from the kind blowin’ up and through their booties, you know what I mean?”
“Damn, Mo.” Lawrence peered at Maurice with pure awe, and in the moment forgot all about playing his toothless mouth instrument. “You shoulda been a poet or politician or something, boy. Your rap is greatness as anything I ever hear on TV at the Y.”
“Both of you are wigging me out, really spazzin’,” Champ said. “Come on, now, I’m gonna show you what I got from Raymond for those boots. Ray-Ray told me he mixed in some extra-special dust into this one here. You know it’s good, homeys, Ray-Ray ain’t shit but he don’t lie to me.”
Champion reached the fingers of his dirty right hand up and under his cap and into a fold in his Dominican do-rag, pulling out a dark-brown joint, not even half as thick as a No. 2 pencil. Champ displayed it proudly with his thumb and forefinger. “We gonna get high tonight, boys, you know what I’m sayin’?” he declared in a reverential tone.
To which both Maurice and Lawrence exploded with laughter.
“What the hell’s that?!” Maurice guffawed. “A doobie for a dwarfie? A baby phattie for baby rattie?”
“Aw, hell no!” Lawrence joined in. “It’s a toothpick joint, in case our dinner steaks and lobsters get stuck in our teeth... hhssssp... well, you-all’s teeth, anyway!” Which set him off laughing hysterically, so much so that he choked on his own final, “Hhssssp... hack-ack!”
“Quick!” Maurice faked a shout, holding his hands megaphone-like over his mouth. “Call in the troops, call in the FBI, call in the FDA, the NSA, NIA, CIA, and all them other IAs — Champ’s got hisself a major drug deal going down tonight, lemme tell you, boy!”
“And mind that special dust from Mr. Donahue!” Lawrence called out as well. “Special dust in da house!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mo added. “Keep them vacuums cleaners away, beautiful ladies and gentlemens, cuz we got us some special dust in this here special joint... the Champion Joint Smoke is what it is, Champ’s Champion Joint Smoke!”
“Funny, fellas, funny for real,” Champ said. “Well, you know, if that’s how y’all feel about it, guess I havta enjoy this little toke all on myself, you know, all on myself.” He waved the joint at the others. “Say bye-bye to the spliff, jokesters. This little baby’s all mines.”
That stopped Lawrence. He still hadn’t shown his own stash, didn’t want to show his stash, and no way wanted to share his stash with anyone, even his homeys. “Man, come on, Champ dude... hhssssp,” he said, stifling his giggles. “You know we playing. Right, Mo? Just... hhssssp... playing.”
“Yeah, Champ, chill.” Maurice had his own two joints, but the more high the merrier, he always said, especially if he didn’t have to work for it. “We gotta have us a laugh once in a while, right, man? Street homies need to get some laughs any time we can. Otherwise, what are we, dudes? We just like them folks working nine to five, know what I’m saying? One foot in the grave, one foot in the poor house, man, and another foot up our asses. Day after dang-dog day. Come on, we gotta chill and laugh with each other, at each other, whatever. Just chill and laugh.”
“Dude’s right on, Champ. Hhssssp. Speaking the truth as always, Maurice,” Lawrence agreed.
“Yeah, dudes, I hear you, all right,” Champ relented. “Okay, maybe I share a little bit, as long as we all are. Just don’t laugh at me no more... AND QUIT CALLIN’ ME A MEXICAN!”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Maurice said, a baby-blue BIC lighter magically appearing in his hands. He flicked the BIC and held the small flame to the already burnt end of the joint now clasped gently between his yellowed teeth. “Light ’em if you got ’em, boys.”
Maurice squinted his eyes as he gently inhaled, long and steady, holding the marijuana smoke deep in his lungs. When he finally stopped, a third of the blunt had burned away. Still squinting, he then held the joint’s red ember tip to his mouth and with his last spare lung-space sucked in the wispy smoke trail.
“Gettin’ high like ching chong, Mo, massive hit, bro.” Lawrence smiled, reaching out nonchalantly for Maurice to pass him the Mary Jane. They had done this many times over the last month or two — they didn’t always share, but if they had enough to go around they usually did, no questions asked either way. Tonight Mo passed Lawrence the lit joint.
Lawrence raised his eyebrows with a quick “Thanks, dude.” He sucked on the jay in three rapid inhalations, filling his lungs with the thick and pungent reefer smoke. Lawrence smiled at Maurice, exposing the gap in his teeth, then cocked his head slightly in Champ’s direction; Maurice responded with a simple nod of his head — Lawrence understood it was okay to pass Mo’s joint over to Champ for a toke. About an inch of the original joint was left.
“Thanks, fellas,” Champ said, accepting the offering and placing the smoldering jay between his tightly squeezed thumb and index finger. “High Mo-amigo,” Champ also said in his personal thank you, then took a long drag on the small butt. By the time he finished, only a tiny portion of the joint remained, an eighth of an inch or so. Champ’s lungs, like the others’, were used to taking long, full drags and holding the smoke deeply to allow the drug to fully work its magic. A doobie never lasted very long when the three of them shared it. And Maurice was right on too — the pot was damn good stuff.
Maurice expelled the reefer smoke he’d been holding in his lungs and reached into the front zipper pocket of his grimy Adidas backpack. From there he pulled out a small silver medical clamp, now serving its pharmaceutical duty as a roach clip. “I’ll take that roach, dude,” he said, reaching across Lawrence, deftly accepting the joint from Champ, and locking the clip’s teeth-lined jaws along the slightest edge of the butt. Pulling back, Maurice held the roach clip up as closely as possible to his lips without touching the sparked end of the roach, and, once again squinting his eyes, tenderly smoked the rest of the joint. Finally, with nothing left but a tiny scrap of rolling paper, he opened the roach clip and released the particle.
“All right, all right,” Champ said. “That was some good puff, Mo, good start, know what I’m saying? What’s next? Lawrence, what you got, bro?”
“Yeah, mo-fo Lo-Ro, whatchoo got, man?” Maurice asked, his eyes beginning to redden, his eyelids drooping slightly. “You got us a treat, High Lo?”
“Aw, man, you know how it is, fellas... hhssssp,” Lawrence began. He held his up his hands, palms facing out, wiggling his fingers. “Ain’t got no smoke, dudes... hhssssp.” Lawrence was lying; he was holding out on an eighth-ounce of Grade-A skunk weed, and felt no qualms about doing so.
“Aw, brother man,” Maurice cried out, “you messing with us or something, dude? Hell, you just smoked my ganja and now you tell us you buddels?”