CHAPTER II: He Rolled Smoke
He rolled smoke every morning.
Our garage was a maze of stashed pipes, lighters, and small plastic bags. He tucked beer cans in between broken stems and a trail of discarded seeds followed him around. Weed kept him loose. Weed was the smell of his beard and the inside of his pockets.
I had my run with marijuana in California; my old boyfriend drove us out to meet Nubia, “an Indian princess” every Saturday. She unrolled velvet bands to display buds of all levels of ‘high.’ Weed kept me paranoid. Weed was the ongoing reminder I wasn’t made for drugs.
Some people are made for drugs. Some people are made broken before they even leave the gate. He embraced his broken. He carried it around like a newborn baby – limp neck, opaque eyelids, hole in its scull.
I examined his ‘broken’ on our first date. I got drunk on Sangria in a movie theater while he pushed his hands between my thighs. We drove down back roads and he rolled joints while I licked the last drops of a paper bag-wrapped vodka bottle. He was from the torn-up and so was I. I smiled and so did he.
He bought Vicodin sometimes. He kept Xanax in his glove box and I skipped class when he came over. I drank cheap champagne until I was naked and he moved around inside of me until we were ready for cheeseburgers and beer.
He was comfort. He was a long path of smoke – gentle and smooth, with no definitive beginning or end.
He wasn’t ‘broken’ anymore; and I guess, as I watched him roll smoke from the driver’s seat, I was made for drugs after all.