“What the hell, Lawrence, you gotta be more weedsponsible than that, homeboy,” Champ chimed in. “We oughtta kick your butt up and down the creek for pulling that crap, you know.”
“Well, you guys are my street buds, right?” Lawrence replied. “I told you I was light earlier, remember... hhssssp?” But then, smiling, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a full pint of booze. “All righty then... hhssssp... tell you all what, you can kick my butt after we drink this here bottle of José Gold. Sí, sí, amigos?”
“Aw, man, thass cool!” Champ laughed. “I knew you wouldn’t hold out on us, Lawrence! Nothing goes better with getting stoned than getting drunk!”
“Hell, I’ll drink to that!” Maurice said, and when Lawrence passed him the bottle that’s exactly what he did.
The pint didn’t last too long, enough for just two rounds of glugs and guzzles.
Maurice finished the last sip, then tossed the empty bottle into the tangle of bushes on his right. “You crazy, drunk, high idiots, let’s quit BS’ing around and spark up my other joint.”
In just over ten minutes, the three homeless friends, sitting atop the creek’s crumbling retaining wall in the gloom of early night, had smoked a pretty phat joint and polished off a pint bottle of tequila. They were feeling no pain. This, however, did not stop Maurice from using his BIC to blaze his second joint. The smoking, passing, and sharing resumed at a more leisurely pace.
“Damn,” Maurice sighed, caressing his mountainous belly with both arms. “I got the damn munchies.”
“Yeah, me too,” Champ agreed, patting his stomach.
“No, dudes, hear what I’m sayin’, man,” Maurice said. “I mean I always got the munchies, but this time I really got the munchies.”
“Mo,” Lawrence said, “just don’t think about it, man... hhssssp. We gonna get some food later.”
“Yeah, right,” Champ said. “From where? You hear what I’m saying?”
“Hell,” Maurice wailed again, “I’d do anything for a burger and fries.”
“Don’t say that.” Lawrence glared at his homeys. “Don’t ever say you’d do anything for anything. Ever.”
There was a moment of silence while they each contemplated this advice. Either that or they were still thinking about hamburgers, fries, and tacos.
Champ broke the quiet. “So, real question: like what would you homeboys do for a regular place to stay, every day, regular food coming too, man? Like every day?”
“Shit ain’t gonna happen,” Maurice responded immediately. “So I ain’t answering.”
“Yeah,” Lawrence said. “Hhssssp... Why you asking, Champ, you ain’t asked stuff like that before.”
Maurice and Lawrence looked at Champ with their puffy eyes, red and bleary from partying, hunger, and feeling so dang tired.
Champ then explained about Gordon and the school at Laney, the school for homeless kids, dropouts, and fuck-ups. How Champ could get into that school, even have a place to stay, maybe a part-time job. And more than anything: how he could get off the damn street.
His two stoned street buddies thought he was crazy.
“Come on, Champ,” Maurice scoffed. “You? Back to school? Think about that, go back to school after all this? Come on, man.”
“What,” Lawrence added, “you think they gonna hand all that shit over to you for free? Hhssssp! Sure, sonny, come to school and, hey, live here too, and don’t forget your three squares a day — no cost, no payment. Just for you!... hhssssp.”
“Right,” Maurice said. “Sounds like prison to me. Don’t it sound like prison, homeys?”
“No, it ain’t prison,” Champ replied. “It’s some government program. And why not me? I can do it. I wanna do it. I didn’t even tell ol’ Gordon, but you wanna know what I done? I called that school. I spoke to the head dude! And we met at the school, man. Coach Gelman was cool, man, he told me I could do it!”
“Uh-oh, here we go again,” Mo shook his head. “Another homo-erecto freak, lookin’ for some Champ-action, yeah? What is it with these old dudes and you, amigo?”
“Come on, Maurice,” Champ answered, “it ain’t like that, you know. Not at all. Dude, Coach Gelman’s gonna deal with the details, I just gotta show up there Wednesday morning. He told me that.”
“Wednesday morning? At the college? Hhssssp. You gotta be totally messed up! You’re dreaming, Champ, look at you, dude... hhssssp! You’re a mess! You? In college? Yeah, right. And I’m going to the White House next Monday, meeting with the first lady and the prez! Maybe they gonna fix my teeth too... hhssssp.”
“Nah, see, I shoulda known,” Champ said. “I thought you guys were my homeboys, but you ain’t shit. Screw you both! Believe me, man, I’ma take care of my business, ain’t living like this no more. Coach Gelman even gave me his card — with his direct number and the day and time I’m meeting with him.”
Champ pulled a business card from another do-rag hiding place, holding it up close to his eyes to read it in the evening shadows. “See? Right here: East Campus, room 324. Gelman’s card, dudes. Says here: Tom Gelman, Track Coach and Director, Home Place School of Education, Laney Peralta College. Laugh at me all you want, but that’s where I’m going.”
With that stalwart declaration, Champion DeLeon Cromarté tapped his tightly closed fist against his heart three times in a solemn promise to himself. He pointed his finger and shook his head contemptuously at the others. Damn ’em, he thought, I’m better than that. I’ma live up to my name — I’ma be the Champion. And he reached for his special joint — Champ’s Champion Joint Smoke, as Maurice had named it. He pulled a matchbook from his pants pocket, and sparked the reefer between his lips with a big, bright flame. Before he inhaled, his thoughts flashed that this flame signified his own big and bright hopes for the future.
Champ squinted his eyes like Maurice had earlier — high like ching chong — as he sustained a long, drawn-out hit, two, maybe three times longer than any Maurice and Lawrence had taken. The other two watched with amazement and desire burning in their dull-lidded eyes as this monster toke demolished that Champion Joint Smoke. It was the MVP award — winning Champion Doobie Puff of all time! And Maurice and Lawrence held their own breath as their friend utilized years of experienced reefer smoking and overall drug abuse to draw that weed directly into his burnt-out lungs, along with whatever special dust had been added. They watched in ignorant appreciation as the doobage, bartered seemingly ages ago for a pair of used winter boots, quickly disappeared: one-quarter gone, one-third, one-half, two-thirds, then slowly — charred — completely away.
Champ closed his eyes momentarily as the last spark disappeared. The other two saw him relax his shoulders, holding the pungent smoke deep in his lungs for full effect. Suddenly, Champ made a snorting noise with his nose as he felt the hot, thick smoke begin to burn. A wilder snort erupted as a wispy smoke trail escaped a corner of Champ’s lips. He raised a finger to block the smoky exodus, but then his eyes flew open wide as, finally, he could hold his breath no longer. He groaned, letting out raspy, heaving coughs as the remaining smoke rushed from his lungs, flying up into the chilly darkness of the night. The dark pupils of Champ’s eyes raced wickedly back and forth across the scene — from Maurice to Lawrence, from Lawrence to Maurice — as his coughing fit continued, spewing jagged, painful rasps. And at exactly that moment when Champ simultaneously caught both of his street friends’ astonished stares in his own, he fell from the crumbling concrete wall, collapsing to the ground in a heap. Champ thrashed in agony for three counts, his body seizing up in massive, racking convulsions, his breath coming in gagging gasps. And then, in a flash, his body suddenly lay limp and quiet.