Chapter 8

In the house the television is colorful with dancing Latinos or Hispanics and I stand to close to the TV and I notice the thousands of pixels and I laugh quietly to myself and I feel the static dancing onto my nose as it makes contact with the screen and I feel the invisible static tickle my hair, as if my hair was able to feel.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

Annie is standing at the base of the stairs, her hair in her face, uncombed, her soft face free of makeup and she looks beautiful, naturally beautiful, a perfect combination of me and Andrea, and her eyes are tired and juvenile and almond and shes probably stoned like I am, and shes standing there, leaning against the railing of the stairs, vaguely smiling at me in the dark, her young face illuminated by the dancing beans on the TV.

“Just woke up, and I heard sounds, like doors closing and stuff.”

“I went outside to uhh, feed the dogs, and I was just, you know, conversing with them.”

“Oh.”

Annie disappeared around the corner into the kitchen and I heard the fridge come alive as she opened it. I stepped back from the TV screen and fell on the couch, my invisible body warmth still asleep under the blankets. Annie walked back in the room holding a glass of orange juice.

“What the hell are you watching, Dad?” She let a laugh escape her throat.

“I don't know, some beans talking about midgets and dancing. You know, the usual antics of Mexican television programs.” She laughed again and sat down near me, covering herself with a blanket. “What are you doing up so early?”

“I told you I heard noises.”

“Oh, yeah. The dogs.” I covered up my body more trying to hide the smell, if there was any still lingering on me. “I heard you talking to somebody.”

She swallowed wrong and choked a little and tried to hide it with a quick answer. 

“Oh that was just, uhh, the wrong number, some a*****e had the wrong number.”

“Isn't that always the case?” 

She didn't reply, her glazed eyes stared blankly at the TV screen. I changed the channel when her eyes reflected a light of annoyance and I changed the channel.

“I don't want to go back to school, its too soon.” Andrea whispered.

I look over at her and she holds the orange glass near her face.

“I know. Me either. I still used to doing nothing. That's what Christmas break is for you know, just to do nothing.” I clear my throat and stand up. “Well I should go take a shower.”

I walk past Annie and walk behind the couch and lean my head as close to hers as possible and sniff silently, searching for any herbal odors. 

“Dad! What are you doing?”

I jump back and pretend I have something cradled in my hand.

“There was a bug in your hair.”

“Oh, my, God. Why did you tell me that? Now I have to go throw up.”

I stepped back to let Annie run past me and then drop the invisible bug on the floor. A door shuts somewhere nearby and I hear the pipes behind the walls shift as water comes rushing through them. Annie's in the shower and the dogs are barking outside and the house still feels like it is asleep.

           Outside the sun is getting brighter and it bleeds through the windows. I have an urge to walk outside. I go through the garage and open up my marijuana box and grab a joint that I probably rolled last week. Outside its not so cold now that the sun is out and it warms me. I light the joint and suck in the smoke. The sun is warm and the cold around me is consumed by the smoke. The smoke is warm, and I inhale it and close my eyes. I blow the smoke out. I suck on it again, the beautiful harsh excrement of fire and plant flowing into my lungs. My eyes are closed. I take another hit and feel the heat on my fingers. I toss the dead joint on the ground and blow out the calming smoke. My eyes are closed. A car drives by and probably sees me standing with my eyes closed. 

I open my eyes, my artificial eyes, and they swallow the sun. Everything it seems, is being seen through a pair of artificial eyes. Fake. Synthetic. I close my eyes. I open them. Everything is vivid, and everything is so perfectly synchronized, and everything is so detailed, that all of it is fake. I look down at the concrete driveway and the details are overwhelming. To think of all the things that exist, and to think of all the millions of individual details there are...

Why don't you just stop thinking for once. You're going to give yourself and ulcer.

A bicycle rushes through the air and the mobile details come swarming back into view. Things can move. It was right there, a moment ago, but now it is right here. And the details grew substantially now that the bike is right here. It reminds me of buildings in the distance, or an airplane in the sky. They are so far away, and so small, yet there are hundreds of conscious minds up there, probably thinking the same thing about that little house down there. Probably thinking that the people down there are thinking about the people up here. What.?

The bike stops in front of me, and it's Sean Smith, my son who lives next door.

“Hello, Mr. Greene. I got your newspaper, as requested by your mail order document stating that, Yes, You Want To Receive Newspapers Now.” Sean smiled and reached for his sack of papers.

“Yeah, I canceled it actually. I didn't order a new subscription.”

Sean looked away and almost frowned.

“Well you're on my list.”

“Well I'm not paying for it, but I'll take one.”

I took the rolled paper out of his hand and Sean looked at me confused.

“Okay.”

“How's your mom?”

“She's right there, right next door, why don't you go on in and ask her.” He pointed at his house right next to mine, the roof visible over the hedge that divided our property.

“I would but I'm a little stoned right now and I don't really want to have any confrontations. So I'm just asking the son of the third party.”

“Well she's f*****g fantastic. Got any weed, Mr. Greene?”

“Of course I do young lad, but to think that I would actually sell you some? A teacher selling marijuana to his student slash next door neighbor, who is clearly a minor--”

“Hey, I'm almost seventeen you know.”

“Oh are you now?”

“Yeah.”

“Think of how much trouble I would get in if I sold you pot.”

Sean gripped the handles of his bike and looked at the ground. He sighed and looked back up at me. “I won't tell anyone.”

I burst out laughing. “If I thought you would tell anyone, I don't think I would have just told you that I'm a high right now.”

“Seriously, yo. You can trust me.”

“Yes, I know Sean, I know.”

And I did. Sean Smith was probably the most trusted person I know, mostly because we have a subconscious bond. We share similar thought patterns. We share the same genetics goddammit. S**t, he's my kid! He's practically me!

“Well?” He eyed me with pleading eyes under bushy dark brows. He was about to pedal off to the next house, which he should have done in the first place.

“I'm not going to sell you any,” I whispered. Sean sighed and started to pedal. I grabbed his shoulder. “because it's illegal. But I'll let you take some.”

“What do you mean? Like if I get caught I say--”

“--that you stole it from--”

“--the forest?”

“What? No. Never mind, just, come on.” I motioned with my hand to come up the driveway. Sean got off his bike and pushed it behind me. “So are you almost done with your paper route?”

“No, I just left my house. You were my first stop.”

I stopped and turned to him. “Don't you think you should finish your job before you start buying weed from your teacher?”

“I thought I wasn't buying from you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well its only almost six.”

“School starts in a couple hours.”

“Yeah but it only takes me an hour to finish. There are other kids who have different routes too. I have the shortest I think.”

We were at the side door that went into the garage.

“Lean your bike against the fence. And be quiet.”

I opened the door and we walked into the garage. I didn't turn the light on because my pot box was right under the tool box. I grabbed it and opened it and took out a joint.

“Here you go. One nice joint produced by the fantastic Mr. Greene.”

“Hey, what was that stuff in that bag?”

“Oh that, that's some crazy s**t. Not for kids.”

“What is it?”

“It's called the Devils Vegetable.” I handed Sean the bag. “Take a whiff.”

Sean opened the bag and put his nose in it and inhaled. The smell struck me and I was two feet away. “Oh my Lord.”

“Right? I believe that right there is the best weed I have ever lit.”

“Can I try some?” His eyes looked eager and hungry.

“No! Are you kidding me? Not before school. I smoked some of that last week and practically got lost in the grocery store.”

“Awh, come on, Mr. Greene.”

“No way. Some other time kid. Go smoke that J on your bike and enjoy the dawn.”

“Well what kind of weed is in the joint?”

“S**t, I don't know, f*****g five dollar weed. Now get outta here.” It wasn't cheap weed, it was actually expensive medical marijuana that I bought from a dispensary.

I opened the door and shuffled Sean out. He grabbed his bike and slowly coasted down the concrete to the end of the drive and onto the road. I walked out to the road and stood by him, leaning on my mailbox.  

“You can have that joint, and I'll keep this newspaper.” 

“Sounds like a fair deal.”

“Absolutely.”

“You gotta light?”

“Sure I do.” I revealed the Zippo out of my pocket and handed it to Sean. He lit the end of the joint and smoke hovered around his face. He coughed.

“So what-(cough) are we doing-(cough) today at sch-(cough)(cough)school?”

“Gimme that.” I took the joint and took a hit off of it. I handed it back to Sean who was tearing at the eyes. “I don't even know. It's the first day back. I guess I'll just have you guys write about what you did for Christmas or some s**t. Easy s**t.”

“Oh sweet. That sounds easy.”

“Yeah.” I looked down at my feet and breathed in the wafting smoke through my nostrils. “Now get outta here kid. Go throw some papers.”

“You got it. Thanks for the joint Mr. G!”

“Anytime kid.” I probably shouldn't have told him anytime. I should have said You betcha or something like that. I waved at the figure slowly getting smaller in the distance, the details blurring away. The cannabis smoke bellowed behind him like car exhaust. 

I looked down at the paper in my hands pulled the rubber band off and opened it up. I sat down on the curb and the newspapers fell apart and spilled out on the road. I cursed myself and picked the papers up. Before I could put the papers back in a decent pile my eyes found a squared off section with bold text. It was the obituaries, and my artificial eyes found the details I wish I never read. Linda Couch found dead in her house. Autopsy Report: Death by Chocolate Cake. Funeral Sunday the 12th.

And suddenly it all made sense. The details that I overlooked. The details that I thought were just marijuana induced imagination. The artificial details of my highness. The secret symphonies that emerged through the glass windows of the house next door. The old lady who lived next door. The lights that flickered on and off. The fear that radiated off the house. The antagonizing glare of the house that sent me rushing into my own in piss pants fear. Every time I had looked over and felt its evil breath breathe on my soul, the old lady had been dead inside of it. It was haunted. That is the only explanation! The only f*****g explanation.

But I also have to accept the fact that all the times I thought I saw something through the windows of the dead old lady's house I was baked out of my cranium. Hell, I'm high at least eighty percent of the time.

Too much s**t has been going on in the very recent moments of my odd life, and I sit and watch it all fly by in a blur, all at once and uncontrollable. What happens, every move that I make was always meant to happen and every single cause and effect that gets created and subjected to reality was always meant to happen. Every single little incident seems to be scripted as I sit on the curb of Simpson Street, my back against the hollow mailbox. Everything that has happened to me, all the information that gets sucked through my eyes and into the caged brain, is basically cosmic inevitability.  

I get up off the curb and walk in the middle of the road. I look up at the early morning sky, stick my hand in my boxers and scratch, walk back to the curb and trip and fall in itchy comforting grass and I find myself there for at least seven minutes unable to stand up and control my psycho-inebriated self.

The front door opens and Andrea walks out in a long dark silk robe, her n*****s little ripples in the material. Shes holding a coffee cup in both hands and she stands above me and takes a drink and says,

“What the f**k are you doing lying in the grass?”

I look up at her with squinted eyes and grin. I laugh seeps out of my mouth onto her freshly shaven leg. I touch her knee with my thumb. My fingers run down to her toes and I say,

“You know what. We got a f*****g newspaper. A f*****g free newspaper.”

“So what?”

“I canceled our subscription for newspapers, but the newspaper boy, you know, the kid next door,” I point over my shoulder at the old colonial house behind the tall bushy hedge, “Sean Smith f*****g let me steal a newspaper from him.”

“Steven, what the f**k are you talking about?”

I pick up the newspaper and place it up under her robe. “A f*****g newspaper!”

“Are you f*****g high? What the s**t are you doing. Are you drunk? You better not be drinking red wine with breakfast again.”

“Red wine and waffles is the best combination of anything ever combined, okay?”

“Do you want some toast?”

“Of course I want some toast, put some on the table please, and pour me a glass of coffee. A lot of sugar and don't go f****n' overboard with the creamer, Andrea. Jesus Christ you f*****g tried to kill me last time with that creamer at Denny's. You got me there, you crazy b***h.”

Andrea's slapped me in the forehead, I'm sure she was aiming for my cheek, plant a nice stinging palm rape, but she hit me in the f*****g temple with the heel of her hand. Goddammit.

“What the s**t?”

“What is your problem Steve? What the f**k are you---God never mind, moron. I'm not talking to you.” Andrea strutted off towards the door, and I started standing up.

“Nice a*s baby.”

She looked at me with a little secret grin that stretched her lips, ever so slightly. She disappeared behind the red door and I was on my feet. I started laughing, hard blunt shouts echoing painfully out of my throat, my body heaving out laughs in breaths and convulsions. My forehead aches where I was socked and I pick up the newspaper and toss it at the door.