Robby leaned forward in the beanbag chair, dropping a small baggie on the coffee table. “Want a bump? I got an eight-ball just for the occasion, man.”
“Naw,” Jake replied, expecting the situation. “I’m sorry, dude. I haven’t done that shit in a long time.”
“But you’re gonna toke before the concert, right? I got some kush shit, all purple-y and glistening. This dude from the docks held it special for me cause I told him my good buddy was visiting.”
Jake chuckled uneasily. “Yeah, bro. Maybe a toke at the tailgate. I just don’t want to get too fucked up. It’s been a minute and I’m getting’ fuckin’ old, man. I can’t even handle a pizza and beer anymore. Remember when we used to slam an entire pizza and wings and a twelve-pack and be totally fine the next day?”
“Fuckin’ marriage and kids made you a pussy, bro. You used to be cool.” Rob’s eyes were wild with blind confidence.
“Naw, man. I think that shit saved my ass, actually. I don’t have to look over my shoulder anymore or deal with hangovers or sketchy-ass dealers or cops or bein’ broke. It was constant anxiety, especially if I was runnin’ low. Now I can just roll the trash to the end of my driveway and it’s like the best feeling in the world─just normal, grown-up stress─but I feel safer, you know? Good ol’ American stress: mortgage and insurance and mass shootings.”
Rob shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat, bro-bro. I don’t think I’ll ever stop gettin’ fucked up. Hey! Did I tell you that I almost fuckin’ died a few months back?”
“No…”
“Yeah, man. At a party. Fuckin’ fentanyl─shit was nuts. Ambulance came – I was blue, bro.”
“Robby…” Jake said, losing the words.
“What? I’m good, man. You know me.”
Jake gazed across the table at his old friend, his heart breaking.
Grey Sparrow Journal 