Mary Jane's Magnificat

CONCOCTING - Of men who are mice

Jack's place was packed full of patrons by then. The parking lot in the back was at that time when it always had a car on the roll looking out for a spot. Peering down Main Street in the twilight, Sam scratched his head. Bill scowled, jammed his hands in his pockets and kicked the ground. At a loss for words, they looked at each other and tried to smile, but their own respective fears and doubts would win this encounter. They stepped on the sidewalk in different directions.

"Jack's?" Bill offered.

"Yeah. I'm going to need a few pints after this donkey-assed debacle, but I got to clear my head first."

"I'll meet you at the bar, but I want to hear what the fuck is really going on. You owe me that."

Contorting his brow as far as it would twist, Bill rounded the corner and shuffled toward Jack's place. Sam watched him walk away and stepped into an alley. It was one of those hidden slots between two identical brick buildings that's hardly noticeable unless something goes in or out of it. He followed the older, chewed concrete until he saw his blue hatchback Honda parked behind a dumpster. Not that he'd admit it to anyone but seeing her was reassuring for someone without insurance and more than a few parking citations on the record. She was small, which kept her easy to park discreetly, yet she was comfortable to Sam. The paint was faded, the trim was missing and a lone crack sprawled across the back window. The door creaked open and Sam jumped into the driver's seat. He pulled a joint out of his pocket, searched for a book of matches until he found one in the glove box and set it all ablaze. As smoke plumed all around him, Sam puffed long and held his breath while cranking the engine, ramming the car in gear and screeching the tires as he sped away. The bumper of his car nicked the dumpster that wobbled but remained standing.

"Fucking bullshit!" Sam yelled as white smoke poured out.

Sam in his blue hatchback almost took the corner too fast. The rear tires left a couple question marks on the street after he was gone. Not even Sam knew where he was going at that point. He just wanted to smoke and drive. The tires screeched as he turned a corner and he sped through a yellow light. He smoked joints while he drove. Yes, that is a bad example. Do not do as Sam does. Driving and smoking was relaxing to Sam most of the time. It's the real reason why he started smoking joints instead of pipes and bongs. They're much easier to transport and smoke on the fly, and require no cleaning and you can swallow them if there's ever a need to. Of course, as he has smoked over the years, it's always gotten easier. There was a time in high school when he had to choose between an apple and a soda can. He'd spit and scowl if you offered that to him by this point in his life, but he could laugh about stealing screens from the bathroom faucets in all his old friends' houses. Not today, however, nothing made him smile. After he finished the joint, he searched his pocket for his phone and merged on the highway at the same time.

"Fucking bullshit!" He yelled at the top of his lungs.

Mumbling more profanities, Sam stared at his phone and swerved around traffic. He flipped through the screen, found a number and listened to the ringing even though he didn't need to. A familiar woman's voicemail message had begun to play but Sam hung up before the first phrase was out. Although the other drivers around him would have preferred he paid more attention to the road, Sam couldn't wait, found another number and a man's voice answered immediately. Then Dave burst into a fit of coughing before he cleared his throat and resumed.

"Yeah boy?" Dave asked.

"Hey Dave. What the fuck is going on?" Sam cried. "I thought you said things were cool."

"I said I've gotten him to forget about shit before," Dave said and coughed some more. "And I'd try, which I did. I can't do any more."

Holding the phone to his ear, Sam guided the dirty hatchback into the next lane as he thought.