dope, with a kick even harder than pure honey oil. It was bouncing around his skull, looking for the washrooms, finally giving up and pissing all over his cerebral cortex.
He handed the joint to Lloyd, who regarded it with distaste. “Good,” Jamie croaked.
“Smells bad,” Lloyd complained. He managed two quick puffs before he squeaked, shook his head and started hacking and coughing like a terminal case. Jamie laughed and laughed; Lyle favored them with a tight, absurd smile.
“Fuckin’ guys,” he said, starting another joint. “Keep smoking, pal,” he advised Jamie. “Remember: too much reality can be detrimental to your health.”
Jamie raised the joint to his lips. It took a long time to get there. As Lyle looked on he took three fast hoots, then one long, slow one before passing it to Lloyd.
“You got it. Yeah,” Lyle said. “You’re a big boy now. On the A-Team.”
“Right on,” Jamie said.
“Now you know why I call this stuff Oblivion,” Lyle took the spliff from Lloyd. “This shit’ll take you there. Never-Never Land.”
A couple of years later someone remembered Shaun. Lyle rolled another joint of Oblivion then carefully, reverently sealed up the baggie. They walked into the living room in time to catch the opening riffs of Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb”.
They knelt in a circle, passed “Oblivion” around like a holy relic, each of them sharing a moment of intimate communion with it before reluctantly surrendering it to the next pilgrim. And the music was like a chorus of angels, even when it turned on them with a snarl, sawing into their guts, ripping glistening coils of intestine from their stomachs, hollowing them out like Halloween pumpkins.
Jamie felt nothing. He was past the point of no return and saw no road signs indicating the way back. He decided to hang on and hope for the best. But the thing he was riding didn’t want to be rode and more than once he ended up flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He heard someone laughing. He didn’t care. Nice ceiling. He walked around on it for awhile, scuffing chunks of plaster on to their heads. No one seemed to notice so he gave up and swung down. He skulked about looking for something to munch on, then thought “fuck it” and headed off in search of a 7-11.
He did all of that without moving a muscle.
This is very bad, he thought. He wondered if the others were tripping out like this. He bugged his eyes out at them. Well? But they didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe they were ignoring him. Should he be getting pissed off?
He had to breathe with his mouth open, that was important.
He resolved that if he lived through this he would definitely buy a quarter of Lyle’s fucked up dope. Then he came to the conclusion that reality was prejudicial to the norm and just as quickly forgot about it. The meaning of life is irrelevant. Be a seeker of truth of the highways and byways of vigilance…and don’t drive drunk.
WHAT?
Jamie shook his head. He was convinced he was having some kind of stroke or aneurism. Every so often he’d get a jolt, this rush, and everything would collapse in on him and he’d feel like he was suffocating. Total paralysis. Higher brain functions short-circuiting.
Bzzz bzzz bzzz
Something was nudging him. It was the Lyle-thing. “Wannanotherone?”
“Ah…ah…”
“Do you? Here.” Another joint. Jesus, when would it end?
For awhile it seemed like it never would. The music played on and on; time meted out in four or five-minute increments. The Doors. Blue Oyster Cult. Sabbath. Iron Maiden. AC/DC.
It was during “Back in Black” that Jamie realized he was capable of coherent thought again. He could raise his head. Manipulate his fingers. Blink.
He checked his watch. Nearly midnight. Unbelievable.
Time sure flies here in the Twilight Zone.
Shaun got up, stretched, announced that he was heading to bed. Lyle gave indications he was preparing to leave.
“Wow,” Jamie said to him, “that sure was some wicked dope, bro.”
“No shit,” Lloyd concurred, “fuckin’ near blew my head off.”
Lyle shrugged modestly. “Glad you liked it. I like to initiate people every so often. Good people.”
“You—ah—wouldn’t want to sell any of—” Lyle was shaking his head.
“No can do. There are very limited quantities available and I’m a greedy kind of guy. I’m willing to give you a taste every now and then but that’s it.”
“C’mon, Lyle,” Lloyd whined, “lay a couple of doobies on us, for old time’s sake.”
Lyle kept shaking his head. “Nope. Besides,” he said with a half-assed grin, “I’m not sure you can handle it.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve done acid, mesc, DA, even that shit that guy sold us. Remember?” This directed at Shaun. “We thought it was angel dust only—”
“This is different,” Lyle insisted. “Don’t tell me it didn’t feel different to you. You never smoked anything like that before.”
“No, but—”
“But nothing.” Lyle’s face was animated now but…by what? Fear? Anger? Scorn? “Oblivion is bad medicine. Habit-forming. If I gave you a couple of joints you’d smoke them tonight and don’t tell me you wouldn’t ’cause I know you. And then you’d come around asking for more. I’ve been smoking dope since before you were born but I still have a helluva tough time controlling myself, holding off harvesting my plants before they’re ready—”
“You grow it yourself?” Jamie asked.
Lyle looked nervous. “Yeah. Well, just Oblivion. It’s sort of a…secret recipe, I guess you’d call it.”
“Wha-a-at?” Shaun was skeptical. “Hey, dude, it’s just dope. You can only grow it so many—”
“IT’S NOT JUST DOPE!” Lyle’s fervor startled them. “It’s…” He rubbed his face. “Okay, I guess I’m fucked up enough to let you in on my secret.”
“A drumroll please,” Lloyd quipped.
Lyle glared at him. “I grow it myself, yeah. I started as a kind of experiment. About…I dunno, a year ago…no, longer than that. It’s not important. Anyway, I bought this really good grass off a guy. He said it was Thai, I dunno, maybe it was. It was so good I thought, hey, I’m gonna try growing some of this shit. I’ve tried a couple of times but the quality was never that good. I decided to give it one more try with these seeds.” The smug look on Lyle’s face was making Jamie uneasy. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear. “I took extra care with this batch. I bought a big plant pot and found some lights at a garage sale.” Shaun yawned into his fist. “I needed some dirt, some really good dirt that had lots of nutrients and stuff in it. I was gonna buy potting soil—potting soil for pot, right?—but then one day it hit me like a shot. I told myself, stick to the natural stuff, man, don’t go for no store-bought substitutes. Now ask yourself: where’s the best dirt in the world, got lots of fertilizer, plenty of good, organic ingredients—”
“A farm,” Lloyd suggested, stating the obvious.
“No, man,” Lyle said, waiting a half-beat before delivering the punch line, “a graveyard.”
“…graveyard…” Lloyd repeated.
Jamie thought about the color of the dope, the smell, the…taste.
“Yup,” Lyle bobbed his head. “I figured, hey, the dirt there’s gotta be chock full of all the stuff plants need. And I was right! The very first seeds I planted grew into these beautiful, bushy plants. And the dope…” His eyes rolled. “Fantastic. Like…well, you guys know what I’m talking about.” Grinning slyly. “There. Now you know my secret. Is that freaky or what?” Without waiting for an answer he headed off to the kitchen to collect his things.
After he left the room the three of them glanced at each other. No one could think of anything to say. Shaun finally made everyone grin when he twirled a finger beside his head. Jamie nodded somberly.
Jamie’s eight quarters lay in a neat stack on the table. Weighed and bagged.
“You got something for him to pu
t it in?” Lyle asked Lloyd, who speedily produced a brown lunch bag that did the trick.
“Did I give you—” Jamie started going through his pockets.
“Already taken care of,” Lyle assured him.
Jamie couldn’t remember giving him the money but it was gone so…
Lyle seemed a bit addled as he left. He kept checking to make sure he had his keys and his dope and mumbled about how he’d ridden his bike over and now, shit, it’s gotten so late and my bike doesn’t have any of those reflector things—
Jamie could tell he was angling for a ride but the idea of being trapped in a car with the irrepressible Lyle Q. Fucked didn’t exactly make his liver quiver or his dong long. So he didn’t say anything.
Finally, after a lot of stalling and the inevitable soul brother handshakes, Lyle literally stumbled out the door.
“That guy is a fucking wing-nut,” Shaun declared, once he was gone.
“He’s harmless,” Lloyd said but he didn’t look so sure. “Just a bit of a flake.”
“I’m with Shaun,” Jamie spoke up, “I think he’s nuts. That shit about the graveyard and the dirt—”
“He was fucking with you,” Lloyd said.
“He did a good job.” Jamie’s stomach was churning.
“Forget about it.” Lloyd feinted a slap at his head on the way to the sink but Jamie didn’t react to it. “Even if he did get dirt from a boneyard, what difference does it make? A friend of mine grows pot in pigshit. Disgusting, huh? Tell me what the difference is.” Pouring himself a glass of water.
“I’m not sure,” Jamie said. “All I know