I found something I had written long ago gathering dust with dried up little bug critters squished between the pages. I have no clue how they found their way into a box sealed for the last 30 years. But they did. Four or five notebook pages hand scratched with a pencil that did not have an eraser. I assume this because rather than erase a mistake, I just scratched it out and moved on. I must have had a drug induced delusion of grandeur. I had begun a piece of fiction.
Who knows? I might have even decided that this was the one. The grand story that would put me at the front of the line at Random House. After struggling through the chicken scratch, I decided I might have actually been aiming this piece in the direction of "High Times" or maybe "Rolling Stone". It's pretty bizarre and a reflection of where my mind was back then. Or where my mind wasn't. I honestly do not remember writing this. But there it was. My patented capitals only writing where I just make the first letter of a sentence or name bigger than the rest.
I noticed some things right off the bat. I am much better at putting coherent thought to paper now than I was back then. Sentences stretched 30-40 words. Not one single paragraph break. And punctuation, well what's that? The spelling was cool. I caught onto spelling at an early age. Early enough that my drugged years were not able to erode it's solid foundation. I could be comatose and still nail most normal words humans run into.
So here it is. I doubt anyone can tell me where this one came from. I have re-worked it some. No, make that re-worked it a lot. I also abbreviated it. Much of it.....okay most of it........is stupidity cubed. But I find it amusing now.
It was appropriately titled "Stoned Again"
The cheap 3 for a dollar hash pipe fell into his lap just as he finished firing up the little chunks of "Black Rubber" with the Bic he stole from Jake. The red hot coals scattered and were lost inside the folds and wrinkles of his jeans clad crotch. Like Indian smoke signals, wisps of smoke floated upward from those nooks and crannies in his pants. As he frantically collected all he could find, he tried to remember how many chunks he had hacked off the quarter ounce and thrown in the pipe. Was it 6 or was it 8? He had located 5 to this point. At least one was still loose doggin it.
He considered what to do now. The recently returned smoldering chunks in the pipe drew his attention away from the potential fire event in his pants. "That last piece is probably out," he thought. "Have to finish the bowl before all that beautiful hash goes up in smoke." So he threw all his attention to the job at hand. He filled his lungs one more time and sat back snick, snick, snicking with eyes bulging as the hash smoke expanded in his lungs.
All the while in his pants down near his naughty bits that lost chunk of black hash was busy. Heated to combustion temperature, it quickly passed through the faded jeans he was wearing and found a home just shy of one of the boys. The aroma of melting hair should have clued him in but he was oblivious and focused on finishing the bowl he started. He yanked another pull on the last glass pipe he had of the dozen he scored not 2 months ago. As he toked he whined to himself and to no one particular, "Those damn glass pipes. Just don't hold up. Sit on em once and they're toast."
All he could think about was had he been smart, he would have bought more while they were on sale. That would have resolved the issue. He did not dwell on the fact that at least two of those cheap glass pipes had opened up some sizable gashes in his ass when they did break. His ole lady even tried to get him to get the one cut stitched up. He promised he'd get around to it. And then promptly forgot about it. Forgotten that is until it flared up into a pus oozing mess that made sitting an uncomfortable inconvenience for several weeks while he took antibiotics and had it drained a few times.
The misplaced piece of red hot hash finally worked it's way through the bunched pubic hair and sizzled in for a landing right next to Lefty. The hash toking came to an abrupt halt as our hero sprung from his barco lounge position to full standing alert and flailing at his crotch trying to put that piece of hash out of his misery. Almost leaving his feet when he jumped up, he hit the street light he had found and thought was so cool to wire up and dangle only 5 feet over the coffee table in the living room. Caught his head perfect and knocked his stoned butt right out.
And then this narrative begins to really disintegrate. A series of sentences had been started and then cast aside and a new series started. One had Hash boy once again visiting the hospital for self inflicted drug use stupidity.
Another had his ole lady finding him and tearing into him for bleeding on the new fake oriental rug.
And finally something about cops, bad dudes from downtown and a stolen bicycle. The narrative never really got started again.
All I can figure is I must have gotten hand cramps, become bored, or passed out. Even back then I would often write to ward off the occasional bouts of insomnia.
And one final note - As is my habit of late, I wanted to find some suitable images to go with this post. I typed in the word "Hookah" into the Photobucket search machine. 7,882 images became available for me to wind my way through. 7,882 pictures of hookahs, people using hookahs, and at least one of a dog and a hookah. I made it to page 150 before my eyes began to cross and I felt the beginnings of a contact high coming on. I am just amazed at the things folks take pictures of. 7,882 images. Wow.