Sing Me Home

AN: So this is 100000000000% fiction, but I tried to stay to the facts as I can. And if anyone can tell me what Haye's view on cigarettes are that would be a huge help. Enjoy  :)

                ‘He’s got potential.’ I find myself once again trying to find a reason to not like this new guy. ‘Because, you know, I’m an actual music critic.’ I laugh to myself, driving the back roads of my state a packed bowl in my hand.  The sky was blue and the air was crisp, a perfect setting for some cloud chasing.  It was a habit I picked up, not so coincidently once I got my car. Of course, gas was a lot cheaper back then.  Listen to me I sound like an old woman, but back then I had my crappy four cylinder. The Nissan didn’t quite purr like this baby.

                Shadows passed over head and I brought the glass piece up to my mouth, lit, inhaled, and let the skunky smoke rise up slowly.  

“You give and ya take,

Ya come and ya go.”

                The beat of the music and the experience from the THC gave me a moment of brilliance, sort of like my heartbeat a little faster.

“You leave me wonderin’ if I’ll ever know” A crescendo wonderfully placed turned my fast heartbeat into a smile. The thrill of the music got mixed into the thrill of zooming over the mountain edges of Maine.  The fact that if I didn’t pay attention to the curves of the road I could go tumbling to my demise was light years away.  All I could feel was the music, the wind, and the sunshine.

“How much you feel, how much you don’t.”  Soon I was humming along. Then by the third time the chorus came a long I was full blown belting the lyrics. I mean some of them were wrong and I screwed up a million and five times, but I sang to it.

                When the song ended another came on, not by the new guy though. ‘Why didn’t I pay attention to the name of the artist?’ I was high, that’s why.  Patience is a virtue with country music recently.  In order to listen to one good song you have to listen to a hundred other passable ones first, but when you hear that good one it sounds and feels a little like sex, it’s so good.

My hand reached out to change the channel to my main choice of music, rock. What kind of rock you may ask?  All kinds; Green Day, Three Doors Down, Lit, Queens, Elvis… The list never ends. As long as there’s a real story to the song you can bet your ass I’ll like it. Except for FUN.  Fuck FUN.

The road starts to get a little more populated and there’s a farm house downhill a little ways. A little old woman lives in that farm house with her son Billy. He’s a good kid. Grows good weed too. Once a year his father, bless his soul, throws a Weed Festival; which in reality is just all us hippies having a crazy three day gathering smoking, drinking, and some dosing.

 It’s the safest place in the world despite the illegal activity, and going back is sort of like going home.  The first time I left the commune I cried for two weeks.  I felt caged in the fast track life back in the city, but as it is life has to go on no matter how much it sucks, but here I am again. Handmade signs made from cardboard and cheap supplies were set up everywhere welcoming me back home.

I paid for my ticket and followed the line of tie-dye cloth down to the bottom of the hill behind the stage trying to find a spot to put my car.

“You one of the performers?” A girl asked me after flitting over to me, her scarves billowing around her.  She was a slight thing and looked just like a forest pixie. She smiled at me.

“Yup.” I smiled, patting my guitar case that is in the passenger side.

“I like your hair! It looks like a peacock feather!” She stated reaching in through my window to touch a strand.  I laughed and bent my head so she had more access to its short length.  “I’m Kitty by the way, and you can park right by the forests edge, right there.” She pointed to an old pine tree a few yards away.  “Did you come with any friends?”