Pushing back her shoulders, I searched her face. “I have an idea. Stay here, get comfortable, take off your shoes.” I pointed to the shelves of vinyl. “Pick a record. I’ll be right back.”
I left the loft, took the elevator, ran across the street, and hustled up three flights of stairs in one minute. Rick Smith was the only stoner I knew in a five-mile radius. I pounded on his door.
He answered wearing sweats, a rainbow-colored sweatband, and no shirt. He had an extremely toned body for being a forty-something writer who only left his house to walk his cat, Jackie Chan. “Matt, my man, what’s up?” He was out of breath.
“Sorry, Rick, did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, no, I was just doin’ Tae Bo.”
“Oh, Tae Bo. Is that still around?”
“Well, it’s not like it could disappear; it’s an exercise, bro. Come on in.” He held the door wide open. I had never been in his apartment, only to the door; I had returned Jackie Chan once after he got out.
It was like I had traveled back in time, and I kind of liked it. Everything in his apartment was old but in perfect condition. The Toshiba TV in the corner was paused on Billy Blanks in midmotion. Rick was exercising to a seriously old Tae Bo video. “Is that a VHS?”
“Oh yeah, my VCR works like a dream. Why get rid of it, you know?”
“Yeah.” I expected his apartment to seem like a hoarder’s, but it was totally the opposite.
He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle out of the refrigerator. “Welcome to my humble abode. Can I offer you some water, or perhaps a wheatgrass shot? I have an emulsifier, too, if you’d like me to whip you up a nice, fresh juice.”
“Oh, thank you, Rick. You are too kind.” He was a health nut. I thought idly that I probably should have read one of his books before I came over and asked him for pot.
“To what do I owe this visit?”
“Yeah, so um, I don’t exactly know how to say this, but . . . I have an old friend over and we . . .”
“You guys need some reefer?”
“Yes!” I pointed at him like he had won The Price Is Right. No one used the term reefer anymore, but whatever.
“Why’d you think I’d have any? You think I’m a stoner or something? You think I’m some kind of drug dealer?” His face was blank.
“Oh shit.” I would have sworn on a Bible that every time I saw him his eyes were bulging and bloodshot, and he reeked of pot.
“Ha! I’m kidding, bro. I’ll totally spot you.” He chuckled and then slapped me on the shoulder as he passed by me. “One sec.”
He came back holding a prescription canister with no label. I could see the buds inside. Lifting it up to my face, he said, “Listen and listen closely. This is King Kush. It’s medicinal marijuana. I got it from the first medical marijuana dispensary on the East Coast. I rented a car and drove all the way to fucking Maine to get this shit. Do not pass go, do not fuck around, do you understand me?” His beady eyes were shooting lasers at me.
“Rick, I don’t know. You’re starting to scare me.”
“It superstrong. You’ll love it and you’ll thank me.” He pulled a pack of papers from a drawer and held them out. “Need these?”
“Uh, yeah.” I took the papers and the pot and shoved them into my pockets.
“Roll her thin, man, and smoke like half with your buddy at first before you do any more.”
“What if my buddy is a five-foot-five, small-boned woman?”
“She’ll be fine. Women love this shit.”
Walking toward the door, I turned back. “Rick, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Ah, no worries. Consider it payment for bringing Jackie Chan back that day.”
Back in my apartment, Grace was sitting on the couch with her tights-clad feet propped up on the coffee table. She had put Coltrane on the record player and her eyes were closed, head resting back against the couch, looking like she was at home. God, I love her.
“Guess what?” I held up the pot.
She looked over at me. “We’re gonna get stoned and dance?”
“Preferably naked.”
“Don’t press your luck.”
I kneeled by the table and rolled a very imperfect joint. Grace was giggling the entire time. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“Here, let me do it.” She took a new paper and rolled a nice, skinny, perfectly tight one.
“Gracie, why are you so good at that?”
“Tati and I do this every once in a while. Well, more like every first Sunday of the month.”
“You’re kidding? Leave it to Tatiana to delegate specific time for weed-smoking.”
“Yep, some things never change.” She lit it and took a puff. Holding the smoke in, she said in a tiny voice, “Who would want them to?”
We smoked and things got a little hazy. I put on Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and Grace got up and started dancing around. She flipped her hair all over as I watched in awe, bobbing my head, wondering how the fuck I ever let her get away.
“Dance with me, Matt.”
I got up and we danced around until the song was over, and then “You Are the Sunshine of My Life” came on. We froze, staring at each other, until Grace buckled over, cracking up. “This is such a cheesy song.”
“Graceland Marie Starr, this is a great song. It’s a classic.” I took a hold of her and spun her around, then brought her to my chest and made a few exaggerated dance moves.