We were in Ape’s basement, back when he had that place on Fullerton. We were passing around a joint, crushing tall boys, and hitting some rock through a glass-rose stem. I had the joint in one hand, a beer in the other, and a Marb burning in the ashtray.
“I just don’t have enough mouths,” I said.
“Only one rock left,” Ape said.
“Fuck.”
Ape got up, went into the bathroom, and brought back a toilet-paper tube. He took a real bellringer off the stem, put the tube to his mouth, and emptied his exhaust into my lungs like a lover.
Leave a Reply