Stoned Again

A middle-aged neighbor of mine recently confessed to me his desire to try drugs for the first time. I briefly considered rolling him a joint filled with catnip, but was subsequently appalled by an image of him frantically chasing a ball of yarn around the room.

Knowing that coke or salvia would make him go beserk and that ecstasy would make an addict out of him, I decided weed would be the safest best. Also, I thought it would be fun to get stoned myself, even though I'd sworn off all drugs after an "incident" in Baltimore two summers ago.

We sat on my stoop after work one night?cozily hidden under a wool blanket?and began puffing away on one of the many joints I had rolled. After about 10 minutes I found myself in a slower, slightly curved dimension.

I looked up at Bob droopy-eyed and asked him if he was stoned yet. Although he responded in the affirmative, I could tell by his antsy behavior and the way he glanced at me that he wasn't stoned at all. Unconcerned, I retreated into myself.

Smoking weed is like time-traveling; it opened a window to the past, when I was a teenager and my best friend and I would go to the tennis courts behind our apartment building to sneak a blunt. Because it was so dark and our blunt was so tiny, we'd inevitably have a fit at the 7-Eleven when we saw each other's eyelashes were singed.

Out of the blue, Bob declared that he wanted to go to the supermarket, and we were suddenly there, among the aisles of the brightly lit packaged goods.

"I feel like I'm at a circus," I said.

"Huh? What? What'd you say?"

His eyes got wider with each question mark. I recoiled; my horror must have shown on my face, because he backed off and picked up a box of Rice-a-Roni. He read the back, put it back down, then frantically looked around.

I asked him what race he was, as if that would provide some sort of explanation for his behavior.

"I'm American," he said and moved toward the nuts display. That could only mean he was something embarrassing.

I watched him as he poured cashews into a plastic bag. He tied it up, looked around then disappeared around the corner. Feeling abandoned, I walked toward the fruit display, where the grapefruits and oranges seemed iridescent and slightly suspended. I was reaching for one when I heard a male voice say?

"Ms. Cho."

I turned around. It was a professor I'd had a crush on. We would grin at each other whenever one of my classmates gave a stupid answer. Also, he gave me A+'s on my papers, which secretly thrilled me.

"Prof. Anderson," I said, a little freaked out. He was standing there with his closely shaved head of salt-and-pepper hair and frameless glasses. He was shorter than me, but still imposing.

We somehow found ourselves in the poultry section. He had a package of Perdue chicken breasts in his basket. Things seemed to materialize in his basket without his having to reach for them.

"I take it you like being a reporter?" he asked thoughtfully.

I smiled and waited a little too long before answering. To the point where his smile faded a little.

"Yes," I said. "Yes. It's a good profession to be in."

Hearing a commotion, we looked up to see Bob barreling toward us. He had a shopping cart full of items and was throwing in more stuff as he came down the aisle: Cap'n Crunch, ramen noodles, boxes of couscous, apple sauce. He stopped short in front of us, stared with wide eyes, then turned his cart and disappeared into the next aisle.

"Who was that?"

"My neighbor," I said. "He's stoned."

"I see," Prof. Anderson said, grinning serenely, a little bit like Yoda this time.

After some more small talk, I said it was good seeing him and ran to catch up with Bob, who was about to leave without me. Back at Bob's apartment we turned on the tv and watched the cheerful weatherman tell us it would be sunny tomorrow, with a chance of drizzle.

"Drizzle. Hmph," Bob said, having acquired a hillbilly accent in my mind. "That would be a good name for a little girl."

With that, I got up to go back home.

Back in my room, I curled up near my windowsill like a dope fiend and lit another joint. When I inhaled I could hear the joint burning with a slow crackling sound. Outside I could hear shoes clacking on the pavement on the street below.

I looked outside. It was a skinny sorority girl dressed in black. Her shoulders were hunched to her ears in cold. I exhaled and watched her walk down the street.