Walking out of This World

Twelve

We slip into the familiar BMW. "Ready for a ride." His course voice beats the air like a drum.

"Right, Jenkins," Warren fires back. "It's time for a meeting of the minds."

"I don't know how much of John's mind is ready for a serious confab," Jenkins grumbles like he's talking out of a paper bag. "He's been smoking some green."

"Well...you really like that stuff...do you, John?" Warren asks, a mischievous smile spreading across his face and infecting his words with an intended meaning.

"He's one of us now," Jenkins interrupts, letting his words build a bridge between us.

"Is that right, John?" Warren asks.

"Well, yeah!" I reply. I feel the words slipping out of the thin green haze hovering in my brain.

We are driving down First Street when Warren shepherds the car into a left turn onto Crossover Street, a block west of the homeless shelter. The BMW slides into a parking space behind Sally's Bar. We walk around to the front of the red brick building and stop, facing a brown metal door.

Warren pulls out a plastic card, like you get at a hotel. He touches a little green light below the door knob. There's a click and Jenkins pulls the door open. Warren and Jenkins look around before entering, like a submarine captain peering through a periscope.

The door slams behind our backs and a long creaky stairway welcomes our feet on its steps for an upward climb. We turn left at the top of the stairs and enter a short, dark musty hallway. Warren and Jenkins stop in front of another wooden door, framed with a dark border. The top horizontal piece displays a black 6.

Warren taps another tiny green light, Jenkins pulls the door open toward the empty hall.

"Home sweet home," Warren's words skip into the room.

The wood floor spreads out before us pointing to a tall window that is covered by a cheap plastic blind. To the right of the window, where two adjoining walls make a corner, a small round table and four chairs appear to be waiting for our arrival.

"Have a seat," Warren directs.

We each pull a chair back from their cozy embrace of the table and rest our bodies on their cool surfaces.

"What do you like about smoking the greenies?" Warren asks, leaning back in his chair. His eyes appear to be reflecting the smile on his face.

A gossamer thread reaches into One's tapestry.

"It makes me feel smooth," I reply.

"How's that?" Jenkins growls.

"It takes the worries away and makes everything look good," I reply.

"Have you felt any ill affects?" Warren's words slither around my head.

The silky threads are plying a persuasive innuendo.

"No. Rather it's like walking out of this world. There is so much that is unseen without the green," I continue, a bit amused with my rhyming words.

The need to put everything on hold lifts out of somewhere. The green haze is lifting, relinquishing its hold on my reasoning. Something has shifted. It's not the same me in there. My eyes are turning inward and focusing on another motif.

"I think you've formed a revealing attachment to one of our brotherhood principles—Party On!" Warren announces.

"What do ya say, John? Ya want to join the party," Jenkins growls impatiently.