27 12 2007
dirt does smoke
I was digging through a Tupperware container full of shake when I found something that looked like knocked off dirt from a boot tread. It was about the size of a fingernail, geometrically smooth and even along two parallel sides, but broken off and crumbly on the other two.
“What the, how did this get in here?” I asked my wife accusingly. It had been raining for thirty days straight and my wife liked wearing girl-boots in the mud.
I held it up for her to see, but she didn’t look up.
“What?” she said.
I smelled it. “It smells like pot,” I said.
“What is it?”
“Probably because it’s been sitting in pot.” I held it in between my fingers.
She was sitting at a table sewing pages into books.
The other day I had found big clumps of boot tread dirt on the carpet. I hadn’t been happy about it. Our landlord was a cheap, cruel man, who wanted nothing more than to hold onto our deposit forever.
I wonder if this is hash, I thought. I broke it in two and smelled it again. I decided to call the guy I bought the weed from in the first place and find out for sure.
He wasn’t home, so I left him a message.
“Smoke it,” my wife said.
“No way,” I said.
“What else could it be?”
I thought about it for a few minutes.
“Smoke it,” she said, finally.
An hour and a half later we were at a Lebanese restaurant. I was watching her stab and swab hummus with fresh baked pita bread.
“I don’t know if that was hash,” I said.
“It wasn’t very good. Do you feel stoned?”
“I feel a little sick. Maybe it was just dirt.”
“Dirt doesn’t smoke. I think it was just bad hash.”
Just then my phone rang. It was my friend who sold me the pot.
“You bastard,” he started.