Our lunch time heroes assembled themselves in the park every afternoon. Really it was their park, but the powers that be demanded they share it with the public, so they did. When they arrived, each one parked his car, gathered his supplies, and waited for the others to arrive. Once all were gathered, they marched up the hill with elongated steps and shortened breath. Six boys, each a Southern California Cowboy in his own right. When things got heavy, they reached to their pockets for six shooters, but they came up short, armed with only raggedy packs of Marlboro Reds and Spirit blues, except maybe B-man, who always packed light with a menthol or two.

Routine was simple. Whoever had stash duty that day had rolling rights. Today was Jimmy’s day. Jimmy always had the orange pack of one and a quarter Zig Zags, and he took care of his papers, well, poorly. The top flap was ripped, torn, tangled, wet, occasionally – I never understood why he took care of them like that. It didn’t matter much to me either way, what was his was his business. 

Jimmy always lit the candle, the paper tip at the end of the joint that one twists to keep the ingredients in. I bite my ends off, but that’s more of a character flaw than anything else. I respected Jimmy’s way of doing things and didn’t say anything. Besides, I couldn’t judge. Today was Jimmy’s roll.

From his bag, Jimmy extracted a weathered copy of the Free Mason’s Bible he’d found at an abandoned house party. He placed it between his knees and began carefully assembling his ingredients on the soft leather. While Jimmy cautiously picked apart the flower, Fezik spoke. 

“My lady left today.”

Condolences were offered, and manly love was expressed, in attitude more than words. They all knew that women came just as often as women left. Still, it sucked though. 

The boys weren’t really hippies, and they weren’t really punks. They weren’t really poets, and they weren’t really addicts. They weren’t really different, but they sure as hell weren’t the same. Something really was different about those boys. Something really felt different when those six boys gathered together at a graffiti laden bench in the middle of a public park to disappoint their parents and laugh at the wind. Something about that really felt different.  

Jimmy flipped his zippo so smoothly against his ripped blue jeans that the flame would actually wait for his command to catch. “Catch,” he would say, and catch it would. He let the flame grow wide before he kissed the spliff to it. He watched the candle burn from twisted paper to bliss before taking his first puff. Our cowboy cadre watched his first hits with great scrutiny. If all went to plan, it would burn slow, and even. It did, so we relaxed. He took his last puff of smoke with a smile before passing it off to bigfoot. 

Bigfoot never really got off right with the spliff. He looked at it quizzically, as though it might hurt him. I suppose it didn’t do much good for his heart, but, why worry? The sun was shining, it was a glorious afternoon in the park, surely nothing could be wrong.  

Bigfoot drove old baby blue. Baby blue had no seatbelts or rearview mirrors. Jimmy used to say that Baby Blue was the safest car he ever drove in because Bigfoot drove it. That was false. Baby Blue was unquestionably a death trap and that was exclusively because Bigfoot drove it. He always said, “why do I need rearview mirrors when I’ve got my whole life ahead of me?” And he certainly drove like it was.  

There are three things I have come to know with great certainty in this life. The sun will rise tomorrow, the Cubs will never win a World Series again, and, when I’m in the park, the spliff will find its way to me. A quick crossover from bigfoot’s right to mine and we were in business. I take my first drag, long and slow. I watch the paper melt to ash. I don’t pull away while the ash builds at the top. I breathe in until it collapses under its own weight, and then I pass it along. That quick head change splits time in two, before and now, pre and post, here and there. I think about cats as I ponder the absurdity, and then I laugh. 

The spliff ends after the second rotation. Bigfoot looks at the crumpled roach protruding from the concrete table. 

“It’s just so sad, when it’s gone,” he says.

We all take a moment of silence for our fallen friend and consider the transience of our own lives, then, B-man suggests another. No one speaks, but all consent.

The sun starts to set, and it’s time to go home. Even from my hilltop idyll I can hear the horns of rush hour. I know it’s time to go, but I really don’t want to face the traffic, especially by myself. It’ll always be there, but I could always stay a little while longer, and just smoke one more, here, in the park.