his clothes off. I take the wheels and truck from him, feeling as much of his hand as I can, and shove them in my pack. “Thanks.” I look him in the eye and we get sort of stuck together through our eyes. It’s totally inspiring and sexy and embarrassing at the same time.
He looks away and his face goes blank, like he just came out of a trance. “Happy birthday.” He reaches for his anarchy clock and sets the dial to morning. He grabs his keys and twirls them around his finger. His key chain is a small green lizard. “Marcus, I’m outta here, man. See you tonight?”
Marcus looks up from his phone conversation. “Clay, it’s only five.”
“Cover for me, brah.” He flips him off jokingly. Clay gets what he wants when he wants it.
I need him. I can’t walk another step or take another breath without him. I’m addicted. I’ll need methadone when we have to separate.
“Come on.” He walks to the door and I follow him outside holding my broken board and my pack.
“Uh…so, thanks again. That’s cool of you.” I shift my weight back and forth and play with my balls through my pocket without thinking about it.
Clay casts his eyes down to where my hand is still bouncing my balls up and down, then he gets in his truck--a gray Toyota pickup that’s all dented up and dirty like he drove through the Sahara and back and never washed it. I take my hand out immediately and I don’t know what to do with it. I shove it in my armpit and pull on the hairs.
He rolls down the window. “You wanna smoke a joint?”
Something’s not right. Things never go this good for me. This is a set-up.
He leans over and unlocks the passenger door. “Get in, brah.”
I walk around the back of the truck, so he doesn’t have a chance to really look at me and decide I’m just a stupid little 16-year-old loser. I throw my broken board in the back and open the door. It smells like sand, sweat, and dirty clothes. The floor is covered with old fast food cups, empty cigarette packs, torn-up surf magazines, a couple of video boxes, and the T-shirt I saw him wearing the other day at the shop--a green one with a flaming volcano on the front. I want to smell it.
I throw my pack on the floor and almost reach for the seat belt, but decide that’s not very cool. I look forward and take deep breaths to calm myself down. I’m afraid to look over at him. I might not be able to control myself. I’ll blurt out, I love you . There’s a dried gourd head hanging from the rear-view mirror.
“Weed and papers are in the glove box.”
I open it and a load of tape cases and tapes and a chunk of sand-encrusted surf wax fall out onto the floor and into my lap. I find the pot and papers in a little cloth bag.
“Roll one, brah.”
I don’t know how to roll a joint, but I try. I grab a video box to use for a flat surface and pour a little weed out on it and break it up with my fingers. I pull a paper out of the case and attempt to roll a joint. Some pot spills as we turn a corner.
I manage to roll something that looks vaguely like a joint. “How’d you break your arm?”
“Playing football. We were playing on my friend’s roof this one night and it was raining. I went out for the ball and ran off the edge.”
This is so fun and easy after hanging out with Jared the genius
He looks away and his face goes blank, like he just came out of a trance. “Happy birthday.” He reaches for his anarchy clock and sets the dial to morning. He grabs his keys and twirls them around his finger. His key chain is a small green lizard. “Marcus, I’m outta here, man. See you tonight?”
Marcus looks up from his phone conversation. “Clay, it’s only five.”
“Cover for me, brah.” He flips him off jokingly. Clay gets what he wants when he wants it.
I need him. I can’t walk another step or take another breath without him. I’m addicted. I’ll need methadone when we have to separate.
“Come on.” He walks to the door and I follow him outside holding my broken board and my pack.
“Uh…so, thanks again. That’s cool of you.” I shift my weight back and forth and play with my balls through my pocket without thinking about it.
Clay casts his eyes down to where my hand is still bouncing my balls up and down, then he gets in his truck--a gray Toyota pickup that’s all dented up and dirty like he drove through the Sahara and back and never washed it. I take my hand out immediately and I don’t know what to do with it. I shove it in my armpit and pull on the hairs.
He rolls down the window. “You wanna smoke a joint?”
Something’s not right. Things never go this good for me. This is a set-up.
He leans over and unlocks the passenger door. “Get in, brah.”
I walk around the back of the truck, so he doesn’t have a chance to really look at me and decide I’m just a stupid little 16-year-old loser. I throw my broken board in the back and open the door. It smells like sand, sweat, and dirty clothes. The floor is covered with old fast food cups, empty cigarette packs, torn-up surf magazines, a couple of video boxes, and the T-shirt I saw him wearing the other day at the shop--a green one with a flaming volcano on the front. I want to smell it.
I throw my pack on the floor and almost reach for the seat belt, but decide that’s not very cool. I look forward and take deep breaths to calm myself down. I’m afraid to look over at him. I might not be able to control myself. I’ll blurt out, I love you . There’s a dried gourd head hanging from the rear-view mirror.
“Weed and papers are in the glove box.”
I open it and a load of tape cases and tapes and a chunk of sand-encrusted surf wax fall out onto the floor and into my lap. I find the pot and papers in a little cloth bag.
“Roll one, brah.”
I don’t know how to roll a joint, but I try. I grab a video box to use for a flat surface and pour a little weed out on it and break it up with my fingers. I pull a paper out of the case and attempt to roll a joint. Some pot spills as we turn a corner.
I manage to roll something that looks vaguely like a joint. “How’d you break your arm?”
“Playing football. We were playing on my friend’s roof this one night and it was raining. I went out for the ball and ran off the edge.”
This is so fun and easy after hanging out with Jared the genius
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