“Whassat?” I said, cocking my head like Come again?

“I said,” he said. “Are you hung?”

He was smiling again.

“Liiike…”

He nodded down.

“Ah. Like that.” I dragged. “You know. Not so much, honestly.”

“Can I see?”

I let out a laugh. “Nah, bro. Nah.”

“I’m really good,” he said. “The best.”

“I believe you.”

He gestured like So what’s the problem?

“That’s just…not my mode right now,” I said.

He stared at me blankly.

After some moments: “So that’s how…You able to survive like that? Doing that?”

He looked down. Shook his head. Sighed.

“I’m able to get,” going quiet a sec, rubbing his face, either itchy or distressed I couldn’t tell. Then looking up, grinning, and saying, “I’m able to get what I need.”

“Food?”

“Not food,” the moon and his crackling ember appearing, seemingly suddenly, like the lone lights in a sea of darkness. “But that fire. When I need it, I do what I gotta to get it.”

I considered this.

Then said, “I feel you, bro. I fucking feel you,” taking one final, greedy drag before stubbing out and stuffing the butt into the overflowing butt jar on the bedside table.

4

HORSE RIDER

February 2018

Got a ziplock of shrooms from V in the mail.

For my birthday.

Bday shrooms.

With a melted stick of fair-trade chocolate to chase em with.

Received the package two days before my birthday, but opened it anyhow.

On my way back inside from my 1 p.m., morning smoke.

Partway through my morning coffee.

I was on a tight schedule for my day’s first shift, but I took a sec to read the card.

It was a quote.

Just a quote.

Characteristically cryptic stuff from V.

When art, become independent, depicts its world in dazzling colors, a moment of life has grown old and it cannot be rejuvenated with dazzling colors. It can only be evoked as a memory. The greatness of art begins to appear only at the dusk of life.

By some guy Guy.

‘Guy Debord.’

Hm.

Nice.

Espresso from coffees numbers two through four started spewing steam, so set down the shroomies and attended to it.

Turned off the stove, dumped the espresso into the mason jar with the dented lid from that once it went flying off my bike on Market. Added equal parts half-and-half and ice. Sealed the lid shut and stuck it into my bike’s bottle holder.

Same espresso pot V and I kept on deck in Humboldt, dangling off the backpack strap. To spark up with the single-burner camp stove for that trim-break quickie.

Handle melted and misshapen from that once we got too stoned and forgot about it.

1:17.

Lunch rush waning.