METANOIA

CANNABIS

Barry had finished erasing his digital history with Melinda. The act itself had been almost therapeutic, the seemingly irreversible destruction of his past, nearly euphoric. Yet the intention behind the act was entirely different. In his mind, he was destroying to create something. If only this questionable method worked, he could maybe get back to the woman he loved. If he kept his mouth shut, then maybe, just maybe, they could work it all out, he thought to himself. This gave him momentary relief because now he had hope.

Hope is a wicked card we are dealt, and its wickedness is difficult to see behind the veil of relief it offers. It is the heroin of emotions, and its promises are essentially empty. Yet, like the good junkies we are, we want more of it every day. Hope is the beast that breeds pain; it is the mother of let down, and the scorcher of rage. Like heroin, when the chips are down, it is the drug that keeps you going. On the rare occasions it pays out, do we really "discover" the merit to hope. We often forget it is only a placebo for our misery.

Even with the AC Barry was sweating, as he often did. He felt a single droplet race down from his gnarly testicles and make its way trickling down his leg. His lips were damp, partly from the whiskey. He hadn't taken a shower that morning, and his own fetid aroma had begun to offend him. Then again, he was too intoxicated to be self-conscious about it.

Taylor swayed next to him, trying to out dance her boredom as Barry stuffed more skeletons in his closet. Barry wanted to show his appreciation to this woman now that the task he had been given was completed.

Barry was a beast, and he thanked Taylor the only way he knew he could, by giving her a bear hug. Drunk as he was, he only let go when he heard her back crack. She also had a peculiar fragrance, something between a bakery and marijuana like a sweet donut sprayed by a skunk.

Taylor smiled coyly, slightly infatuated with the man's monstrous strength. "Shall we celebrate?" she muttered as she reached down between her breasts, and pulled out a barely smoked joint from her bra. As the ashes from her previous hit fell to her breast, she wiped them with the back of her hand, and as she slapped about her tit, a puffy nipple peeked out for a second. Barry watched the process with intrigue. Somehow, he found something sexy in that action, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He wasn't quite sure if it was her indifference to her nudity or the flash of her bare breast. It had taken a while before Barry realized he had been staring intently at her breasts with his mouth half agape. It took even longer for him to realize she really didn't care.

Barry lurched toward her, buttering off from his stool, nearly toppling it. He registered with slight surprise he was exceedingly drunk. His movements were sluggish, and his soul drained.

She held the joint up between them, "Wanna step outside for a minute?" Barry stared at the joint as if it was a religious relic. He had tried smoking cigarettes once or twice in his life, but he had never tried cannabis. He already felt he had hit rock bottom. What could possibly go wrong, he mused? His face and the torpid nod of his head telegraphed his thoughts to Taylor.

Taylor held Barry's hand as he followed her sheepishly. Her top was open on the back, and a white creature peeked back at him from between her dreads. It was some sort of body art; perhaps a bird he could not exactly make out sprawled across her back. As he followed, it eyed Barry closely from amidst her dreads. It looked like it was painted with some sort of white marker, a form of tattooing with which he was unfamiliar perhaps. Polynesian or tribal flames danced around it, also white. Barry averted his eyes as it annoyed him.

They walked to the back of the building and through a thick metal door. Time had been elusive; the darkness inside the bar was perhaps to blame. As he stepped out, Barry was surprised at how light it still was. The blazing sun was obtrusive at best, and he placed himself in the shade, where he felt comfortable.

Taylor took a lazy hit from the joint and gave it to Barry. Barry looked at it inexplicably. It was out of his world. Barely having smoked, he had no idea what to do. He dragged it to his lips lethargically, holding it off to the side, mimicking some old poster he had seen somewhere. He sucked on it like a kid sucking juice, afraid his mouth was going to fill with some sort of amorphous extraterrestrial substance. He wasn't inhaling it, but it made him cough immediately.

He struggled as his wet lips stuck to the joint; the paper was odd in that it wasn't cigarette paper. It was damp somehow. Taylor watched him, amused. "You've never smoked before, have you?" Barry wasn't ashamed, and said flatly, "Nope." Even in such a short phrase, his speech slurred. He tried again.

Taylor took the joint from his lips. Her fingertip grazed his bottom lip. It tickled. "I'ma teach you an easy way. Now, when I let go, gasp for air."

"You let go of what now?" Before Barry could finish, Taylor took a monster hit from her joint and pressed her cushy lips to his.

Barry only had a handful of women as romantic interests in his life. He had been with only three of them. He never once cheated, nor did he feel compelled to. Let's be honest, he never really got the chance. His entire existence trembled at the touch of her full damp lips, like something tore away at his hard set essence, melting away his determination and self-set rules. He felt he was cheating on the sanctity of his marriage, and it was all happening too fast. Even though his marriage was clearly ending, and even though he didn't instigate it, this felt like a betrayal.

He raised his hand in protest. The ringing in his ears intensified almost instantly. He placed his hand on her shoulder wanting to push her away. Yet, instead of pushing, he just held onto it feebly. In that lingering second, something overcame him, and as usual, the decision was made for him.

As she blew the smoke into his mouth, he inhaled reflexively. The sacrilege was alluring. Gently, she placed the tip of her tongue on his. When she let go, he took another gasp of air and stood there in silence for a moment as if he was about to say something profound. Then he went into another coughing fit.

As he was coughing his lungs out, Taylor was staring at the joint in her hand. She mused aloud to herself, "Shit, I think this is the one rolled in acid."

Barry didn't even hear her through the convulsions of his chest and the ringing in his ears. Even without the THC, paranoia was setting in. He felt he had crossed a line of no return.

Taylor smiled awkwardly, "Hate to tell you, but you are in for a trip."

Those words meant nothing to Barry, who was far too busy coughing his life away. He was bent over, holding his knees, and in between coughs, he felt like he was going to puke, although he wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the joint, or the sacrilege that drove him to it.

Taylor laughed at his coughing: "Another one?"

Barry didn't object.

Within minutes, he was smoking on his own, finishing the acid-laced blunt.