funny business I’m mixed up in.”
“You need to clip your nails,” she said.
“Mom usually trims them, but she’s been busy this week,” I explained. “Moms have lives, too, you know.”
Puddin’ acted surprised that Mom trims my nails. She didn’t say it. Her face said it all.
“I thought we could tell each other anything,” I said.
“Not that,” said Puddin’.
Her back was against the tollbooth wall and her knees were up in the air, making her skirt fall in such a way that I noticed how her fishnet hose were being held up by garters. I forgot about the package for a minute and we did some things on the floor of the tollbooth that it might not be fitting to mention.
We weren’t really on the floor because there was no room to stretch out. I guess I can say we were in kind of a sitting position although I don’t want to get into any further detail.
I do suppose it would be okay to tell a joke on myself. At one point I was making what I assumed to be some erotic noises, which looking back were probably pitched higher than I intended. These noises, in any case, seemed to be effective, so I made them louder and more frequently until Puddin’ said, “Hey.”
“What?” I said.
“Can you please stop making those noises?” she said.
Suddenly I got out of the mood for whatever it was we were doing. We sat on opposite sides of the tollbooth, on the floor. I was sitting cross-legged and Puddin’ had her legs out in front of her like a doll, and even though she’s not very tall her feet were touching my knees. I asked her to open the package and look at it.
“Be careful, it might be a bomb,” I said.
“It can’t be a bomb,” she said. “That isn’t something God would do to me.”
She opened the package and we looked at what was lying on the newspaper.
At first glance I thought it might be a block of frozen spinach. But really it was darker, like dirt, and there was an oiliness or moistness to it.
“What you have there is a brick of hash,” said Puddin’.
“Is that what it is?” I said.
“Remember when Prince took me on a cruise down the Nile?” she said. “I burned a lot of hash on that trip.”
“Is that the terminology?” I said.
“Let’s burn some,” she said.
“We can’t. It doesn’t belong to me.”
“Who does it belong to?”
“My supervisor. Wrap it back up.”
“What’s your supervisor doing with a brick of hash?”
“That’s not for me to say. She entrusted it to me for delivery and I gave her my word.”
“You’re ethical for a hash mule. Let me roll us a couple, come on. I’ll pinch it right back into acceptable brick form, I swear. I’ll wrap it good and tight and nobody will know the diff.”
Puddin’ then offered, in coarse language, an incentive for my cooperation. It sounded exciting, the way she said it, so I acquiesced to her terms and went to work on Puddin’ in the manner indicated.
I had been endeavoring for several long minutes to give her some pleasure by the certain means she had suggested when Puddin’ suddenly said, “I hate Newt Gingrich.”
About two minutes later she said, “Hey. Who was the forgotten Beatle?” A minute after that she said a third thing, which was, “That’s enough. Who taught you to do that?”
I sat up. “Nobody,” I said.
“That’s what I thought,” she said.
“Pete Best,” I said.
“What?” she said.
“He was the forgotten Beatle.”
Puddin’ tidied herself in a way that indicated our activities were over. “Okay, you got what you wanted,” she said. “Fork over the hash.”
“Please take a reasonable amount,” I said. “You didn’t seem to enjoy what I was doing. And now my back hurts.”
Puddin’ wasn’t listening. She fished in her backpack and sighed. “After all that, I’m out of rolling papers. We need to use our wits, like on that TV show. Bow down for me.”
I did what Puddin’ said. She climbed on my shoulders and told me to get up so she could disable
“You need to clip your nails,” she said.
“Mom usually trims them, but she’s been busy this week,” I explained. “Moms have lives, too, you know.”
Puddin’ acted surprised that Mom trims my nails. She didn’t say it. Her face said it all.
“I thought we could tell each other anything,” I said.
“Not that,” said Puddin’.
Her back was against the tollbooth wall and her knees were up in the air, making her skirt fall in such a way that I noticed how her fishnet hose were being held up by garters. I forgot about the package for a minute and we did some things on the floor of the tollbooth that it might not be fitting to mention.
We weren’t really on the floor because there was no room to stretch out. I guess I can say we were in kind of a sitting position although I don’t want to get into any further detail.
I do suppose it would be okay to tell a joke on myself. At one point I was making what I assumed to be some erotic noises, which looking back were probably pitched higher than I intended. These noises, in any case, seemed to be effective, so I made them louder and more frequently until Puddin’ said, “Hey.”
“What?” I said.
“Can you please stop making those noises?” she said.
Suddenly I got out of the mood for whatever it was we were doing. We sat on opposite sides of the tollbooth, on the floor. I was sitting cross-legged and Puddin’ had her legs out in front of her like a doll, and even though she’s not very tall her feet were touching my knees. I asked her to open the package and look at it.
“Be careful, it might be a bomb,” I said.
“It can’t be a bomb,” she said. “That isn’t something God would do to me.”
She opened the package and we looked at what was lying on the newspaper.
At first glance I thought it might be a block of frozen spinach. But really it was darker, like dirt, and there was an oiliness or moistness to it.
“What you have there is a brick of hash,” said Puddin’.
“Is that what it is?” I said.
“Remember when Prince took me on a cruise down the Nile?” she said. “I burned a lot of hash on that trip.”
“Is that the terminology?” I said.
“Let’s burn some,” she said.
“We can’t. It doesn’t belong to me.”
“Who does it belong to?”
“My supervisor. Wrap it back up.”
“What’s your supervisor doing with a brick of hash?”
“That’s not for me to say. She entrusted it to me for delivery and I gave her my word.”
“You’re ethical for a hash mule. Let me roll us a couple, come on. I’ll pinch it right back into acceptable brick form, I swear. I’ll wrap it good and tight and nobody will know the diff.”
Puddin’ then offered, in coarse language, an incentive for my cooperation. It sounded exciting, the way she said it, so I acquiesced to her terms and went to work on Puddin’ in the manner indicated.
I had been endeavoring for several long minutes to give her some pleasure by the certain means she had suggested when Puddin’ suddenly said, “I hate Newt Gingrich.”
About two minutes later she said, “Hey. Who was the forgotten Beatle?” A minute after that she said a third thing, which was, “That’s enough. Who taught you to do that?”
I sat up. “Nobody,” I said.
“That’s what I thought,” she said.
“Pete Best,” I said.
“What?” she said.
“He was the forgotten Beatle.”
Puddin’ tidied herself in a way that indicated our activities were over. “Okay, you got what you wanted,” she said. “Fork over the hash.”
“Please take a reasonable amount,” I said. “You didn’t seem to enjoy what I was doing. And now my back hurts.”
Puddin’ wasn’t listening. She fished in her backpack and sighed. “After all that, I’m out of rolling papers. We need to use our wits, like on that TV show. Bow down for me.”
I did what Puddin’ said. She climbed on my shoulders and told me to get up so she could disable
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