Warm Guinness ran down Rick’s chin in rivers. The sticky Georgia heat ensnared the
two young men in an endless sweat, but they didn’t indulge in the privilege of complaining.
Logan, who had swiped the 6 pack from his step-dad-of-the-week’s fridge, eagerly snickered at
his companion’s barbaric attempt at chugging the brew. When Rick was finished, the can
dropped to the ground with a pitiful tone.
“Tastes like sourdough.” Rick croaked, pushing up the thick Ray-Ban frames Mr. Orange wore in
Reservoir Dogs.
The wet ground felt uneven underneath the soles of his new Converse sneakers. Rick
could still feel the nitrogen from the Guinness on his tongue as the beer traveled down his throat
and into his stomach. As soon as it made impact, his gut lurched and upended itself in violent
protest. It didn’t help that Rick forgot to grab his lunch that morning.
“To you it tastes like shitty bread, to me it tastes like freedom. The forbidden fruit has
always been the sweetest. ” Logan proudly declared; groggyfrom being 2 beers deep at 4:00
PM on a Wednesday in the middle of the woods.
Then, just as soon as the brew went down the hatch, it came right back up. Rick realized
that fact just soon enough to turn away from Logan’s gaze. He was going to hurl. No way
around it. He knew the real reason why he took the trek to the woods,where Logan usually was
on any given day, but this little tidbit never crossed his mind.
Rick instinctively turned on his heels, grinding his shoes into the red Georgia clay and
puked onto the roach-ridden floor of the duly named “smoking woods” that lay like a cancer near
every semi-rural Georgia high school. Logan, ever the sadist, doubled over in a boisterous
laughter.
“You fuckin’ liar, you never drank before in your life!” Spat out Logan in between rounds of
hysterical laughter.
“I coulda sworn you were a Fruity Pebbles guy,what is that? Lucky Charms, ya fuckin mick?”
Logan gleefully hollered, he wasn’t the only one who cracked jokes about Rick’s unconfirmed
sexuality. Although he had used more vulgar language in private to describe Rick’s lack of
dates, he never really hated him. There was an unspoken bond between the two. They’d nod
when they’d walk past each other on the way to 3rd period, acknowledging a mutual respect.
Logan gave him the least shit. But, sadly nothing else came of it. Until today, when Logan found
himself being joined by Rick after the final bell; drinking buddies are always nice.
Rick’s shoddy corpse quietly settled down from the sudden panic. The alarm bells in his
nerves stopped ringing. His stomach gurgled one last warning then steadied. His legs, however,
were still uneasy.
“I wanted to seem cool.” Rick said, flat as a board.
Logan cocked his head to one side, examining Rick like a newly arrived conquistador sizing up
an unwitting Mayan.
“You’re a fucking trip. I might keep you around.” Logan said, analyzing every inch of the young
man before him.
“Ever smoked grass?” Logan asked, as the snake unto Eve.
“Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me.” Rick parroted, in his best Dustin Hoffman imitation.
His arms at his side, head cocked as if he were under the domineering arched leg of the woman
herself. Logan stared at him with a blank expression. He knew not the reference, the movie, nor
the actor to which Rick was imitating with a haunting candor. Rick stood there like a scarecrow,
until he realized he was getting nowhere with his impersonation.
“I want to try.” Rick said, with flashbacks to health class screenings of Reefer Madness and
Devil’s Harvest screamed in his head.
Logan stood there, with a cheshire smile slowly spreading across his face as the
realization dawned on him that seeing Rick high would be the funniest thing he had ever
witnessed in his brief time on earth. He could have never imagined that this kid, a choir boy
compared to himself, would try weed.
“Goes to show you never can tell, huh.” Logan half heartedly sang, as he pulled out 2 joints
wrapped in his mother’s butcher’s paper from the hidden pocket of his faded denim coat. Logan
moved closer to Rick, mud long faded on his shit-kicker combat boots shoplifted from an army
surplus store.
“C’est la vie’, say the old folks!” mumbled Rick, finishing the Chuck Berry lyric he had
heard in a late night smoke sesh while Pulp Fiction played in the background. At that moment,
Rick finally found some connection with his biggest crush in the world.
Truth is, Rick had a crush on Logan for years. He just never had the guts to talk to him.
They were too different. But, both of them filled their own strange role in life. Logan was always
the class clown, on the odd occasion he decided to show up. Logan was the court jester that
everyone laughs at but never really looks at beyond the surface. Everyone knew him, no one
liked him. He was always ready to play Mr. Generous whenever he had any acid or weed to
share and was always ready to leech off those who did when he ran dry. He seemed a pretty
happy, if nihilistic, guy. He would be dead before he was old enough to drink the beers hidden
deep in his bag. Among the scarce few that showed up to his funeral,on a cold October day, a
shy man with thick glasses would be one. It was a closed casket, the shotgun didn’t leave much
to say goodbye to.
Rick,on the other hand, was the kind of guy who stayed to himself whenever he wasn’t at
robotics or marching band, choosing old Samurai movies over parties. The stoic violence
combined with the intelligence of the heroic leads brought him to watch whatever he could get
his hands on. The brilliant blades and damsels in distress added an amount of grace and
danger to his mundane life that he never could achieve.
Then, when he had re-watched the last Kurosawa movie for the 100th time, and realized
he had seen every Samurai movie he could get his hands on, he became obsessed over
cowboy movies. Then, it became sci-fi b-movies, then horror movies. On and on he stayed in his
room for hours and hours watching everything and taking ridiculous amounts of psychotically
methodical notes on every movie he had ever watched. He saw adventure on the screen and he
became addicted to it.
He saw the same thing in Logan. The wild stories he would tell, the dark cynical humor,
every aspect was alluring to the recluse. His blue eyes are what Rick would spend hours
daydreaming about in math class, after he had already bulldozed whatever work was put in front
of him. He could spend hours just staring into the twin lakes that god, or the devil depending on
which teacher you ask, put ever so perfectly on the face of his polar opposite.
“So you do know a few things!” Logan said, surprised, slapping the back of the boy
hopelessly in love with him.
He pulled out an naked woman the size of his hand from his pocket, flicked her open,
and lit one of the joints with the sex shop lighter he stole from his mother’s nightstand. He took
an expertly done puff from the roach, one that should go down in the history books. Draw,
breathe, hold, out. No coughing. He passed it to Rick, who knew the smell from band camp, and
was eager to impress the experienced stoner. Rick put the joint in his mouth and did his best
impression of Logan. It didn’t work. He drew in the smoke, but immediately started coughing as
the darkness touched his tongue for the first time.
0 for 2 on substance abuse, Logan showed him all the steps to properly hit a joint. It all
started with Logan clubbing Rick on the back as he began coughing. Logan’s touch was heavy
but thoughtful, this wasn’t the first cherry Logan had popped.
“Coughing is good, it opens up your lungs or whatever.” Logan had trailed off not
knowing where exactly he was going. This was some good shit, Logan knew it immediately. One
hit and he was already faded. Imagine that. Rick stopped coughing; his eyes were red and puffy.
Then, the lesson had begun.
“Ok, you want to draw in the smoke and then breathe in through your nose while it’s in
your mouth.” Rick did as he was told. The humidity and the heat were brutal on his sheltered
skin, but frankly he didn’t care. This moment, despite everything, was heaven for him.
Logan put his hand on Rick’s shoulder. Rick’s entire body started to buzz. There is no
way in hell he would ever let this moment be forgotten. All of the countless nights imagining
himself as the helpless starlet being saved by a blue eyed samurai, cowboy, space cadet, or
whatever arch-angel Rick imagined had been worth it. This is what he was waiting for.
“Hold on to it, don’t let it go.” Logan said, already slipping.
Rick would never dare let it go. Let this go.
Logan leaned in close.
“Now, breathe out slowly.”
Rick did.
“Good job, are you feeling anything?”
“Yes…” Rick moaned, as both started slowly fading out of boring,straight, reality.
While Rick was dancing the charleston with Buster Keaton through the streets of sepia
toned Hollywoodland, Logan stammered out semi coherent ramblings from time to time such as,
“Yeah, I’m feeling it… this is… some wild shit…”
Logan said, as he pulled his hand up to his face. His mitt,heavy as an anchor, enamored
him. He stared at his crooked fingers, which had each simultaneously turned into the holy grail,
shining brilliantly in the light like a prism. Then he felt something growing elsewhere on his body.
He looked down, and felt the spear of destiny emerge from below his belt. Then he turned his
head to see each digit on his hand turned from 4 grails into a crucifix with a different member of
The Beatles on it. Lennon was the one adorned with the crown of thorns, bleeding profusely
while singing Beautiful Boy. No words were coming out of his mouth, just his lips moving in time
like a broken marionette.
Logan, ever the comic, turned on his radio announcer pastiche and cried, “Ladies and
gentlemen, this high is brought to you by the catholic church. Give us your money today, you
sick fucking heathen!” At this notion they all roared in laughter. Buster Keaton, Rick, Logan, and
The Beatles, who belted their cries in a harmony of sorrow and raucous laughter. The symphony
of voices lasted all the way through the rest of the blisteringly hot afternoon and into the night.
Talking about anything and nothing all at the same time. Ranging in topics from the meaning of
life to who they had crushes on. Both lied more than they told the truth. By the time they
sobered up, they did not remember what they were laughing about. Both were covered in
ridiculous amounts of red clay,and neither remembered fully what they did while they were high.
Flashes of what happened between them appeared like damaged polaroids of lover’s long past
to the both of them in the years to come. Sweet, bitter little memories that both longed for the
rest of their days.
Delirious laughter was replaced by the hum of cicadas and the light of the fireflies. It was
time to get back. Although Rick loved spending time with his star-crossed paramore, his parents
would be getting worried. He never stayed out this late. He never really went out at all. He got
up, brushed himself off the best he could, and blew a kiss goodbye to Logan, who didn’t
reciprocate. As he walked away he felt like Ilsa Lund at the end of Casablanca.
Logan lumbered off towards the direction of his mother’s apartment. He cracked a beer,
wolfed it, and cracked another one. The mechanical process went on until the well ran dry and
he had nothing but dead soldiers in his wake. If he was going to face another night at home, he
wasn’t doing it sober. Prepared to be greeted by the unending loneliness that awaits, he crawled
through his bedroom window and into the abyss of another night. The high of the joints was far
gone, the buzz of the beer slowly coming on. In the fleeting valley of sobriety between high and
drunk, he wondered whether he could battle his conscience to sleep that night. Either way, the
chance encounter with Rick was the last time he ever felt truly happy, before he pulled the
trigger.