Non- Fiction

                                                                Monday Mornings 

It was a cold December morning. I lay awake for about an hour deciding whether or not school was worth it that day. The sun shone bright through the thinly layered blue sky, breaking past the shades and glaring my eyes forcing me to shake under warm blanket. I’d try to find reason to go to school but the shortness of days and overall lax nature of the courses made it hard to find. Senior year began to feel like a joke and I couldn’t bare the idea of listening to another one of Mr. O’s stories about the good ol’ days when he coached football.

One thing that kept me going against the hush backdrop of Monday morning suburbia was that oh so magical text you’d get every once in awhile. 

Borey: You got 5 on it?

Me: hell fuckin yea I got 5 on it.

The quick jump start I needed. hearing the buzzing and beeps of Joe Briefcase coffee spillers, that lovely hum of rushes to work. I heard it in the manic screams and yells of the morning program down the block that reminded me of youth. I used to be excited about going to school. 

Borey would always hit me with the “OMW”  text. When really, he meant he was still getting changed and would be another 20 minutes even though he only lived 5 minutes away. But, I waited patiently. The kind of patience that makes you want to jump out of your skin and find every mirror in the house just to make sure you were ready and weren’t losing your goddamn mind. 

Borey pulled up and I’d run out of my house like a madman and hop in the car. We were giddy like schoolgirls ready to smoke a fat blunt. “Can you believe this man Terry Loud sells $10 dubs?” Borey would say. Our usual go to spot was the pond. There was a nice, quaint little bridge overlooking the pond and on Monday mornings, you didn't want to miss it. 

We’d buzz down there, moving past the school buses and soccer moms and park in the same spot we always did on these joyous occasions. Borey always trusted me with the aux cause I had the fire playlists. We Major by Kanye West was always my go to Wake N Bake song because of it’s triumphant horns and piano keys laced by Mike Dean that would swirl and loop your eardrums in aquatic fashion. “Puff-puff pass, don't fuck up rotation” was the go to line. It was the golden rule of any successful cypher. 

“Turn on the heat doooood, I’m fareeeeezing” I would say. “Just a second, let Mila warm up real quick.” Borey replied, always a little slow to the punch.

Then came the most important part. Rolling. Like Method Man said “Roll that shit. Light that shit. Smoke that shit.” 

We were zen Buddhists when it came to splitting a dutch. Watching our breaths, focusing our energy, meditative in our approach. Gently run the grooves of your fingers along the the brown paper dutch to find the perfect part of the vein to snap your fingers into and split perfectly down the middle.

CUCHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

It’d make the perfect little sound when you split the dutch just right and dump it’s guts out the window. It was like heaven the way it’s crackle would permeate and synthesize the eardrums. Hollowing out the sounds of Kanye West’s boastful lyrics, even if just for a split second. I could follow the waves for eternity and be in complete bliss. 

I didn’t mind breaking up the weed and watching it’s eternal green flakes fall graciously into crisp dollar bill. The nugs were beautiful, flakes of orange and purple were crystallized under warm rays of sun. The smell and aura tickled my nose hairs wishing I had a nose trimmer, so I could get rid of my fucking nose hairs. Borey would smile “$10 dollar dubs…” shaking his head in disbelief. When I was done breaking up I’d pass him the bill slow and gentle like we were in a lab with a test tube that had the cure to all the diseases in the free world. He’d bulldoze the weed from crisp bill into the inner papers of the dutch wrappings and spread it evenly, ensuring a nice smooth smoke. That was most important and the final step before leaving the zen monastery. The roll. 

The rolling of fingers, adjacent to each end of the wrapper. The slow coil of grooves your fingers make, keeping the weed nice and secure. The disgusting but necessary doggy slobber you make on the outer end of the blunt. Nesting and one tuning what extra paper you have left so there’s no further attention needed in the middle of the cypher. No one wants to play doctor. He’d take his time, patiently waiting until the blunt roll was complete. “Alrighty” giving it one last lick, “lets do the damn thing.” Hopping out the car, we’d walk slowly to the bridge facing the pond. The cracks of dead leaves under muddy boots fascinated the senses. The dance of sparkles on water like a tiny galaxy as birds on scarecrow branches watched from above, desperate to take a hit. 

That first hit, the smooth burn and flare similar to the sounds of an old vinyl on first spin. It hits you. Every breath and exhale reaching closer to the core. I could feel the rise in my finger tips and ease of tight coil around my spine that trickled down past my legs onto my feet causing a slight lift, causing me to be off balance. I’d catch my breath then cough until my ears rung and my eyes were filled with tears. My face would pull back a grin that was Nicholson-esque, desperate for another hit, as I passed the torch with the authority of an opening to the olympics. “Bro, one day, when we’re long gone, kids are gonna be smoking blunts in class” Borey’s idea of the utopian society. I laughed, I didn’t agree with him but I loved the idea and stared past his shoulder observing the calm ripples and murky green algae of the pond. 

The middle of the blunt burnt slowest, some zen rollers would stuff the middle of the blunt intentionally so you could enjoy the slow, smooth burn just a little longer and the hits had a little extra. 

The sun and sky had new meaning that morning. The rays were elongated and seemed infinite as they danced past the bridge into the naked woods. I could see the dirt muster up enough strength to point me in the right direction. Ripping the blunt with no end in sight we kept laughing at nothing and decided to walk in a little more. We walked past a bend where there was a perfect log to sit on, high and alright.

With another pull, the blunt was harsher than before and filled the lung with a lifetime of smoke. I looked up, I was above the tree lines and fear lines of my brow, floating through the naked sky, like a newborn baby taking his first steps. I was lost for a second. School was no longer a burden, I was clear and free from what lingered in school hallways. I didn’t know anymore, I didn’t care to know. My eyes and ears were fully in tune with the vibrations of that cold December morning. 

“Yo…where’s the lighter” Borey hollered, the blunt had gone out. We were too caught up in the clouds to notice. Ah fuck, where did I put this thing. I shuffled for a few minutes giving my pockets the old pat down. BIC lighters had that extraordinary ability to find unforeseen wormholes and vanish into oblivion. Wait, there it was, back pocket, where it always is. Only took me 2 minutes. Borey watched idly holding the blunt thinking of reasons not to smack me, “There I go being human again” I said. He laughed and lit the blunt back up. For a second, I was above the trees, birds and clouds. Floating with each breath that seemed to dissipate the less attention I paid to it. This void had swallowed me whole and I forgot who I was. But then, I misplaced a lighter and realized I’m just a fucking idiot. 

“Lets go to school” and off we went.