clerk’s cubbyhole and up the stairs to Joe’s room.
Perry sat on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t see a radio, Joe.”
“Radio? Nope, no. I don’t have a radio. Yet. I’m gonna get one, though.”
“Make yourself at home, Joe. It’s your room, isn’t it? And you’re with a friend, so relax.”
Joe sat on a straight-backed wooden chair. “It make a lot of difference in here to have a radio.”
“Yes it would. It’s very bad not having one.”
Joe said, “I believe I’d like to have me a transistor, you know about them and all?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Mm-hm, well, I’m saving for one.”
“Starting when?”
“Tomorrow.” A moment passed, then Joe said, “What I want, I want one with some power in here, not one of them little dinkies.” He looked around the place, scanning the dark walls quickly. “You understand what I mean?”
“Exactly,” Perry said. “You want a radio with some power. You don’t want one of those little dinkies.”
Perry placed a thin, hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth and lighted it. He sucked some smoke out of it, making a hissing sound, then held his breath and handed it to Joe. Joe tried to imitate Perry, but he gave away his inexperience by emitting the smoke at once.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Joe. You must learn from me and then you’ll know. Now—” he held the cigarette in the air between them—”this is not tobacco, Joe, this is a special cigarette, containing the dried leaves and flowers of a hemp known botanically as
Cannabis sativa
. It’s comparable to the high-powered non-dinky transistor radio you’re saving up for starting tomorrow. No, that’s not quite true. You and I are the radios, the
Cannabis sativa
is the, uh, juice, power….”
He stopped talking and filled his lungs again, using sign language to get the technique across to Joe. Together they finished the cigarette and then they sat in silence for a few minutes and then they smoked another one. Joe got up to open the window. Perry told him not to. Then Joe realized he was enjoying his own movements in a new way, and this caused him to smile.
“That stuff
helps,”
he said. “I believe it helps.”
Perry took the tiny ends of the two cigarettes they had smoked and tore them to pieces, dropping the fragments into the sink and washing them down the drain. “Unlike tobacco, the butt of the
Cannabis sativa
must be disposed of entirely, Joe. There.”
“Hey!” Joe said suddenly. “That was
marijuana!
That cigarette had marijuana in it!”
“That’s right, Joe.”
“Hell!” Joe was delighted. “No wonder I feel so nutty! You sure are one sneaky devil, Perry.” He went about the room testing his responses to movement, to seeing, to simply being, and he found them altered, heightened, and he felt more amused with himself than ever before.
Perry lay back on the bed. He took a long while adjusting himself, and when he was spread out comfortably, ankles crossed, hands behind his head, he said, “You comfortable there, Joe?”
“I’m fine,” Joe said. But suddenly he wasn’t fine at all. Something was wrong and he couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was as if some nameless threat were creeping silently into the room from under the door and through the cracks in the window and he was at a loss to stop it, or even describe it.
“Is there anything you want, Joe?”
“Oh no, no, I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re not fine, Joe.”
“Huh?”
“You need help.”
“Do I?”
“Oh, yes, definitely. And I, in concert with the
Cannabis sativa
, am here for just that purpose: to help you find out what you want and show you how to take it.”
Joe felt as if his heart were filled with air; it might burst, and painfully, dangerously; he pressed on it with the palm of his hand. That didn’t help at all. He picked up a book of
Perry sat on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t see a radio, Joe.”
“Radio? Nope, no. I don’t have a radio. Yet. I’m gonna get one, though.”
“Make yourself at home, Joe. It’s your room, isn’t it? And you’re with a friend, so relax.”
Joe sat on a straight-backed wooden chair. “It make a lot of difference in here to have a radio.”
“Yes it would. It’s very bad not having one.”
Joe said, “I believe I’d like to have me a transistor, you know about them and all?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Mm-hm, well, I’m saving for one.”
“Starting when?”
“Tomorrow.” A moment passed, then Joe said, “What I want, I want one with some power in here, not one of them little dinkies.” He looked around the place, scanning the dark walls quickly. “You understand what I mean?”
“Exactly,” Perry said. “You want a radio with some power. You don’t want one of those little dinkies.”
Perry placed a thin, hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth and lighted it. He sucked some smoke out of it, making a hissing sound, then held his breath and handed it to Joe. Joe tried to imitate Perry, but he gave away his inexperience by emitting the smoke at once.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Joe. You must learn from me and then you’ll know. Now—” he held the cigarette in the air between them—”this is not tobacco, Joe, this is a special cigarette, containing the dried leaves and flowers of a hemp known botanically as
Cannabis sativa
. It’s comparable to the high-powered non-dinky transistor radio you’re saving up for starting tomorrow. No, that’s not quite true. You and I are the radios, the
Cannabis sativa
is the, uh, juice, power….”
He stopped talking and filled his lungs again, using sign language to get the technique across to Joe. Together they finished the cigarette and then they sat in silence for a few minutes and then they smoked another one. Joe got up to open the window. Perry told him not to. Then Joe realized he was enjoying his own movements in a new way, and this caused him to smile.
“That stuff
helps,”
he said. “I believe it helps.”
Perry took the tiny ends of the two cigarettes they had smoked and tore them to pieces, dropping the fragments into the sink and washing them down the drain. “Unlike tobacco, the butt of the
Cannabis sativa
must be disposed of entirely, Joe. There.”
“Hey!” Joe said suddenly. “That was
marijuana!
That cigarette had marijuana in it!”
“That’s right, Joe.”
“Hell!” Joe was delighted. “No wonder I feel so nutty! You sure are one sneaky devil, Perry.” He went about the room testing his responses to movement, to seeing, to simply being, and he found them altered, heightened, and he felt more amused with himself than ever before.
Perry lay back on the bed. He took a long while adjusting himself, and when he was spread out comfortably, ankles crossed, hands behind his head, he said, “You comfortable there, Joe?”
“I’m fine,” Joe said. But suddenly he wasn’t fine at all. Something was wrong and he couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was as if some nameless threat were creeping silently into the room from under the door and through the cracks in the window and he was at a loss to stop it, or even describe it.
“Is there anything you want, Joe?”
“Oh no, no, I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re not fine, Joe.”
“Huh?”
“You need help.”
“Do I?”
“Oh, yes, definitely. And I, in concert with the
Cannabis sativa
, am here for just that purpose: to help you find out what you want and show you how to take it.”
Joe felt as if his heart were filled with air; it might burst, and painfully, dangerously; he pressed on it with the palm of his hand. That didn’t help at all. He picked up a book of
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