Fingerless Gloves Read Online Free PDF Page A

my seat back to its proper position. I was sufficiently high by 8pm. The bass drum inside my head switched over to double-pedal as I calmly placed the bag of drugs and the piece of paraphernalia back in their hiding place, safely stowed in the glove box. I pulled out a plastic knob, wisely adorned with a picture of a light bulb, to turn the headlights on. Everything seemed to be in front of me…the hospital, the black-orange clouds, the trees that formed the border on one side of town. As I slowly pulled away, red lights and bouncing tires brought more emergencies into the lot. For once, the world seemed slow. I was never one of those contemplative stoners trying to figure out hidden meaning in Yo Gabba Gabba episodes or Animal Collective albums. Tonight was different and, for some reason, I appreciated the way the streetlights came together, as I flew past them, into one, solid white line. Before I left the parking lot that night, I took notice of the hospitals height and depth and thought briefly of the human hands that created the structure.
    I slowly pulled back onto a main road and reached for the bottle of lukewarm water that was jammed into the Escape’s cup holder. Once my fingers got past the iPod cables, gas receipts, gum wrappers and books of matches, I carefully unscrewed the water bottles “eco cap.” This is simply a more difficult twist-off cap, designed to save on plastic: A good idea in theory, but executed poorly as it usually results in the thirsty party spilling water everywhere but in their mouth. The water tasted metallic, like drinking from a bathtub. I felt it slowly make its way down my numbed throat, and drip like a faucet into my stomach. I felt it fill me up…like a cartoon gas tank. It was the same sensation as biting on your tongue after oral surgery. You know you’re doing something, but the sensation is so disconnected that the action, not the result, becomes the most interesting thing in the world. While my freezing stomach filled with spring water, I merged onto the main highway. I swished water around in my mouth …and took my eyes off the road for a second to gargle, then spit out the window. My destination was a dollar store called Burn Your Bucks.
    As the car headlights created top-speed fireflies coming right at my face, I tried to wrap my head around why I had chosen Burn Your Bucks. Fact remains, this dollar store didn’t leave much to the imagination. They sold banana-clip hair weaves, Crystal Pepsi, and Wonka Gobstoppers in foreign packaging. I had never, in all my years living in this town, purchased anything useful from that dollar store…unless you consider a mosquito net and some Jolt Cola useful. Off the highway, the gigantic neon green dollar sign exploding into flames marked my destination. It shone like a beacon for weary tourists, even though we were far from any kind of tourism.
    The shopping plaza was fairly crowded as I pulled in and accidentally parked across two spots. Truth be told, while my high driving has always been up to par, my high parking could use work. My eyes burned red as families knowingly avoided me. My steps were uneven and slow. Inside the store, the fluorescent aisles held everything from rolls of wrapping paper to rubber kitchen gloves. I spotted World War II Lego playsets and neglected children’s books. The carpeting was spotted and stained. The cashiers watched me enter, knowing full well they’d have to deal with me soon enough. While I wandered aimlessly, one of the employees on patrol stopped me, looked me up and down, and asked me if I needed any help with anything. “Not right now….just simply… browsing” was all I could make my voice box push forth out of my lips.
    The employee, all 20 of his years collected poorly underneath him, stood pimply with matted hair. He leaned in and asked, “Whatever you’re on, I need some tonight for me and my girl. Can you hook it up?” The horror must have crept over my face like the