I ate as soon as I got home from work, cleaned up, consulted with a contractor who arrived just before Sonja screeched into the driveway like overproof rum, loaded the car with the Hammer and set off into a Canadian evening as perfect as a backhander into the top corner in sudden death.
Traffic had settled and we found our destination without encountering demented drivers. Jimi Hendrix's "Machine Gun" drowned out the noise of my own rubber on the road. I tried not to think of the wars going on but I thought of the wars going on. Motherfuckers.
The summer wind played between the yellow seeds of the tall grass. There were just a couple other people on the trail until I came to the bench I like to sit on and feed the Hammer her biscuits. The bench was already occupied by two country teenagers in love. They were passing a bomber back and forth. The bomber's smoke circled them like wet wolves before disappearing into a field of four foot high corn.
The girl said, "This is really good shit."
The boy said, "It's the stuff my dad grows. It's the best."
Pot always smells great to those of us who do not smoke it any more. The smell of it reminds us of smoking it when we too were teenagers in love.
I came home, cracked a beer and joined Ben Mulroney and Sonja on the couch.
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