Too Much

Oo! My bonged-over head.

I've just smoked pot, pretty much, all weekend. Wooo! The green pungent plant is nearly all gone, I gave myself that leeway. Soon, gone forever… everish.

The light fades.

Big smile.

I sit outside on my back veranda over looking my rear garden and just keep rolling those joints. Magic fingers. Sitting at the wrought iron table sitting on the wicker chairs.

The smoke floats over the side fence and I often wonder what they think.

The boys next door. There is Roy and Ryan and Ross, the 3 Rs. Roy is the owners son. Ryan always walks around with his shirt off. Ross always says hello.

They've never said anything about the smoke floating over the fence.

"It's a wonder," says Matt.

"You think I smoke them out some days?"

"Like a smoke house," says Matt. “Full of ham.”

“You’re full of ham,” I say.

Even when I think I will wait a considerable time before I roll another joint, I’ll be back out there rolling some more, sooner rather than later. No, don't listen to Matt.

I can look at the time for when I smoke the joint, you know in some attempt to regulate my smoking, but then, because my head is so thick, my eyes so heavy, and my memory gold fish like, I can forget all about the time of which I took note of when I smoked it.

I have the mull box lid on my knees, with the mulli in the mull bowl on the lid, balance precariously, with the box of paraphilia on the garden, wrought iron table within reach.

I pre-cut the roaches, way earlier, I cut up a whole lot at once, so I am ready to go when need be.

Roll, pack, lick, stick, light, drag

Ah, kicking back and a nice long drag, it is then I remember that I took the time I smoked the previous joint. 

“Oh god? How long has it been. Please let it be an hour.” 

And when I look at my watch, so often it has only been 10 minutes.

“That can’t be right,” I say out loud. “Has this damn watch stopped.” Then I laugh. And I take another few drags. I don’t care no, not really. I’ll be disappointed when that bag is empty, but I’ll worry about that, oh, I don’t know, somewhere way off in the future, I hope.

I can't be too worried about it though, when Jumbo makes house deliveries.

“Ha ha, what am I like,” I say.

“You are a head,” says Matt.

Then I repeat the process over and over and over again, until Matt. Is looking cross-eyed at me.

“It’s too much,” Matt slurs.

“I don’t make you smoke.”

“I know,” says Matt.

“You never say no.”

“You never stop smoking,” says Matt.

Shrug. What do I care? I like being stoned, so fuck it, so what if I am a pig with it. It just makes me even nicer.

Smoke pot kids, it is the best thing you can do.

“You should just grow a funnel in the top of your head.”

“You are very funny.”

“It would be easier.”

“Very funny.”

“In fact, in evolutionary terms, give it a thousand years and your descendants will probably come with funnels,” says Matt. “A big cartilage funnel out the tops of their heads.”

“My descendants?” I say. “In a thousand years?”

“Yeah, it’s how they’ll develop.”

“Do you think I am going to have kids?”

“Oh, yes, well…” says Matt.

“Do you want to have kids?”

“Ha ha ha.”

“Apparently, they can mix our sperm now and we can both father one kid.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I read that somewhere," I say. "It was developed just for gay guys.”

“It was developed just for gay guys.”

“Yeah, a little me and you.”

“A little me and you?”

“Yeah, could you imagine what he’d be like?’

“Imagine.”

I pull out the mull box. Lid on my lap. Mull bowl, rolling machine. I fish around in the box for a roach.

“Do you want to practise?” asks Matt.

I find the roach and start to roll it up.

“I think I have smoking down pat,” I say.

I slide the roach into the rolling machine and start to pour in the tobacco/pot mix.

“Ha, ha,” says Matt. “You don’t think I know that?”

“Well, I would have guessed.”

I pull a cigarette paper from the cigarette paper packet.

“No.” Matt smiles. “Practise having kids,” he says all deep down low.”

I lick the paper.

“Practise having kid?”

I slide the licked paper into the rolling machine.

“Yeah,” says Matt. “That pot makes me wanna.”

I snap the rolling machine shut and out pops a perfectly rolled joint.

“Practise having kids?” I repeat.

I slide the joint into my mouth and light it.

“Yeah,” says Matt.

I puff on the joint. I exhale a cloud of smoke. I grab Matt by the shirt and pull him towards me. I kiss him passionately on the lips. He kisses me passionately back with his big, soft, wet, sweet lips.

“I sure do,” I say. My throat clags up with heat and my voice cracks, even I hear how sexy I sound. Matt would have to believe what ‘practising having kids’ made me think of doing to him.

I hand him the joint.

Matt coughs as he exhales.

“What would we call him?” I say.

“Him?” says Matt.

“It would have to be a him,” I say.

“Felix,” says Matt.

“Hugo,” I say.

“Oliver,” says Matt.

“Sam,” I say.

“Would we let him smoke pot?” asks Matt.

“As long as he buys his own, sure, ” I say.

“Would we let him have sex under our roof,” asks Matt.

“Yeah, sure,” I say.

“Gay, or straight?” asks Matt.

“I don’t care,” I say.

“What would you want him to be?” asks Matt.

“Happy,” I say.

“Happy?” questions Matt. “Happy?”

“Yes, happy?” I question.

“What about an animator, or a guitarist for a rock band, or the person who masters fusion…” asks Matt. 

“A poet, a painter, a sculptor, a writer,” I say.

“A successful one?” says Matt.

“Yes, of course, a successful one,” I say.

“A baker, a candlestick maker,” says Matt.

“A florist, an ice skater, a donut maker, the leader of the new world order,” I say.

“I want him to be smart, and funny and good looking,” says Matt.

“I’d just want him to be happy,” I say.

“But life is more than that,” says Matt. “It is success, and fulfilment, and feeling loved…”

“And sunshine and puppy dogs and long walks into the sunset in the country,” I say.

“It is everything…” says Matt.

“It is having someone to whisper to on a warm night, to take your hand as your flick off the lights and close the door,” I say.

Matt smiles at me.

I pull out the mull box. Lid on my lap. Mull bowl, rolling machine. I fish around in the box for a roach…

“Is it ethical even to have kids?” asks Matt.

“Yeah, no,” I say.

“Yeah, no?”

“Yeah, it is a valid question. And no, not unless we start to take climate change seriously,” I say.

“It makes you think?” says Matt.

“Global temperatures are rising, greenhouse gas emissions are increasing, the ice sheets are melting,” I say.

“So, no kid then?” asks Matt.

“I guess not,” I say. “But let’s go and practise just in case.”

“Keep our…” Matt laughs.

I know him too well. “Oar in?” I ask.

“Is that what we are calling it now?” asks Matt.