I picked up a dose of Mexican shrooms on the way back to my apartment. It was running deeper into the evening so I ate them immediately after arriving home. I emptied the contents of my backpack and placed Murder in Amsterdam on the dining table to read another day. I washed up, put on a jacket, grabbed my dugout and wallet, and left. I didn’t feel like hanging at home while shrooming. I originally intended to explore underlying issues related to relationships, but that moment had passed. The weather was too nice to stay inside and I wanted the night air. Even though I hadn’t been shrooming as much, the Mexican was the weakest strain. I figured it would be perfect for a night out.
I rode my bike to Leidseplein and parked it on a crowded rack next to the massive Art Deco American Hotel. My bike was getting scratched up from all the tight fits, but overall it was still in good shape. Parking bikes in Amsterdam was like parking cars in Chicago neighborhoods. Dings were inevitable; no reason to fret. Just chill and quit worrying.
I walked to the square and almost got flattened by two young women twisting and turning while looking at a giant fold-out map. They apologized, speaking English. Young Americans, ditzy young Americans, full of pop and wow, eyes wide, confused, excited, and anxious, but feverishly wanting everything all at once. Before I could stop myself, I asked them if they needed help; I felt pity for them with their gigantic unwieldy map splayed out for all the Leidseplein to see. I saw the smirks and shakes of heads all around. It was too early in the year for dumbstruck young tourists in the middle of the Leidseplein. Every move they made screamed "We're clueless!"
When they heard me speak English they excitedly jumped and exuded “thank gawwwwwds” as if I was a wise man walking through the desert with a gallon of water. I calmed them and said, “There are plenty of people here who speak English. This isn't North Korea. The culture is different, but not that different, you know?” One woman had light brown hair and the other was a dark brunette. The darker brunette said, “Yeah, it is—pot is legal here!” Oh, dear fucking fuck. “Yeah, that’s true. Are you looking for a coffeeshop or something?” I turned to the bright neon of the garish Bulldog coffeeshop, probably the most well-known outpost of the most obnoxious chain of coffeeshops in Amsterdam, truly the McDonald’s of coffeeshops. I felt nauseous the first time I saw this coffeeshop. If it had been the only coffeeshop in all of Amsterdam then I would have held my nose and purchased some buds. Fortunately, the city is civilized.
As goofy and horrifyingly naïve as these girls seemed—they were acting like girls so I thought of them that way—I didn’t want to send them to the Bulldog. No, I couldn't in good conscience. Fortunately, they weren’t looking for a coffeeshop at the time. The lighter brunette said, “We’re looking for the International Budget Hostel.” A good choice, but I quickly asked if they had reservations. The lighter brunette said they did. Maybe they weren’t lost in the desert after all. I let go of judgmentalness and told them I could show them where it is. “It’s not far at all.” I had stayed at the Amsterdam Inn on the other side of the Leidsegracht on my second trip to Amsterdam. “My name's Michael, by the way.” The lighter-haired brunette introduced herself as Heather and the darker-haired girl was named Danielle.
The shrooms hit me as we walked by the Melkweg on Lijnbaansgracht. The lights shimmering on the canal exploded vibrantly, euphoria warmed my body, holiness dripped from my eyes. My relative disinterest in the girls was obliterated by a profound understanding that I was walking with two human beings, life forms not so different than me—presumably. Alive and aware in a universe of lifelessness. I looked at the women—I no longer thought of them as girls; too denigrating. I was surprised that they weren’t as awed by existence as I was. I wanted to open their eyes, to really open them, so that they could be amazed by being in a foreign land while walking freely wherever they wanted. It didn't even matter that we couldn’t fly.
As we crossed over the bridge I found words. “What are you doing … after the, um … hostel?” Fucking Mexicans were punching me harder than I expected. Heather shook her head and Danielle said, “We need to find some pot.” Ah. Heather asked me, “Do you know a good coffeeshop?” Did I know a good coffeeshop? Was it possible to know a coffeeshop? No more than to know a brick or a bee. “I know of good coffeeshops.” That felt right. That meant something. Still, the women looked disturbed. “Listen, I can walk you to a good coffeeshop.” They looked satisfied.
As we walked on the sidewalk toward the hostel, several walkers passed us from the other direction. I had great difficulty walking by them because it wasn’t always clear which group would step in the street, ours or theirs. The women, fortunately, seemed to have a sense of how to do this. They may not have been aware that they were alive, but they knew how to negotiate their way through space around object beings. I desperately wanted to hug the people we passed, to wake them up with a brush of love, but I was only able to peer at them with intimate intentions. Only a few saw me and they didn't like being noticed.
Momentary sadnesses dissipated quickly as more walkers came forward and the lights of apartment windows called for my attention. There was constant motion and sometimes I couldn’t tell if it was my motion or the motion of others. The windows and the objects therein seemed to be in motion as well, but that didn't agree with me. I saw a lamp shimmering and wondered if there were department stores with salespeople who might ask me if I wanted a lamp dance. Lap dances were common, but lamp dances? I would pay for that.
A smattering of backpacking vagabonds in small clusters hovered outside the hostel. Danielle asked me to wait for them as they went inside. Her words were mixed with the sounds emanating from the vagabonds uttering at different volumes. I turned to my right and saw bright lights coming at me at a clip outpacing a comet. I screamed and wildly scampered toward the canal. I wrapped an arm around a tree and my feet lifted off the ground before swinging back to the dirt. Holy shit, that was close; I had nearly run into the canal. If the tree hadn’t been there, I would have. More importantly, I had narrowly escaped from the oncoming lights. However, when I looked at the street all I saw was a tiny Volkswagen puttering along.
Violent laughter from the stagnant wanderers pierced my ears. I looked their way while clinging to the tree. Their faces were contorted, some benignly amused, others maliciously enjoying themselves. I felt hurt, embarrassed, but then angry. All of the emotions seemed disembodied and I watched them above me as they took shape. The colors molted and bled into each other; different emotions were created, emotions I couldn't identify at all. The shapes dispersed until there was nothing but a hazy blood mist. It was a message: Emotional harms were physiological.
I lit a cigarette and sat with my legs dangling over the embankment of the canal. Lights slowly swam on the surface as I watched cars, bicycles, and pedestrians moving on the other side. The sky was orange and low-hanging clouds were lit up ominously by the city lights. I couldn't think clearly and I could tell it was because the lit windows of the apartments across the way made a pattern I couldn't identify. I closed my eyes, but that just made everything more confusing.
As I puffed my cigarette, I looked at my watch, but I it didn't make sense at all. I looked back up and across the canal. The procession of objects continued. The canal flowed slowly, at pace with the walkers. Everything moved, even the buildings, mostly because the lights from cars and scooters forced them to stretch and condense. There was always something shifting. Movement wasn't merely visible. The sounds moved, too. Sounds of cars, people talking, and cyclists ringing bells. The feelings in my body shifted as well; air moved across my face and hands. My butt numbed and my back ached. Change was constant.
I tossed my cigarette aside, stood up, walked over to the tree, and pulled out my dugout, grinding pot into my bat. As I lit up I felt the shrooms jack up even more. The effects were heavily sensory. Not sensual, sensory. My mind remained busy attending to my senses and I had to will myself to give up on organization. Only one small group of vagabonds remained. They had lost interest in me; just as well. They were creatures that existed, no more living from my perspective than the dancing lamps. They moved and created sounds, but it was impossible to tell if the movement was internally or externally generated. Either way, they weren't sentient. They walled themselves from any notice of the world as if it wasn't all around them. They traded sound symbols while the physical world swirled.
It was difficult to fathom such obliviousness. They might have been mechanistically organic. I wasn’t negatively judging; I simply noticed. Why should awareness be the most valuable quality of being, though? It was difficult to shake that value, to conceive of an alternative characteristic that was preferable. I sighed and slumped against the tree. It didn’t notice me, but I connected with it. I was connected and disconnected simultaneously; I couldn’t distinguish where connection ended and disconnection began. Inexplicable without being chaotic, no way to understand what was happening or why. A car driving down the road? A cyclist following behind? Sequences, yes, but that explained nothing. Was there a purpose?
I had to fight off the notion that it was all a ruse, a massive citywide performance put together for me, like I was in the Truman Show. I wasn't worth the effort. The city’s resources could be put to better use than creating an illusion of meaning through movement. Funny, but ridiculous. I ran across the street to the group of wanderers, each of them disheveled, young, ethnic in a way I couldn't classify. Then again, I couldn't classify too well at all. I said, “Hey, there’s a lot going on right now. It may be of no consequence to you, but the whole city is moving around. I don't know if you're sentient or not, it doesn't appear that you are, but just in case I wanted you to know so you could appreciate all of this activity and the strange shapes and colors and sounds everywhere. It's possible that it's being done for our benefit, but it might be just for me. That's all I have to say about that.”
The vagabonds smiled and laughed, signs of recognition. The women walked out of the hostel toward me. Danielle asked if the wanderers were my friends. She and Heather had changed clothes; they looked ready to go out and have fun. I couldn’t really register whether I was attracted to them or not. They seemed like “two more” rather than “two more women who are attractive” or “two more women who are not attractive.”
Before I could say anything the women were talking with the guys. I tried to follow the conversation, but there were too many voices overlapping. Everything was in English, but the guys had accents. From the four corners of the Earth they had come: Air, fire, water, earth. Elementals talking with two humanlings of female persuasion. I, an awareness observing the happenings without the ability to categorize. Their liveliness was more interesting than the cars and cyclists, but that might have been due to proximity. With the backdrop of cars, cycles, buildings, trees, the canal, and the lights on the streets from the apartment windows, I felt like I was watching a play that insisted I had a role within it, possibly a concoction of Antonin Artaud. Perhaps he had never died and all I had experienced in life was his ongoing work.
Layers layered even as I noticed that the elementals and humanlings were looking at me. They were expectant, but I didn't know what was expected. I wanted to observe, but my character hadn’t been written out of the script quite yet. I blinked a few times, tried to change my perspective, and opened my mouth to let out sound symbols. “I’m supposed to say something now, aren’t I?” The entire lot of them burst into laughter. One of the vagabonds spoke up. “Man, what are you on?”
I just looked at the guy, exasperated that he could wonder about something so mundane. One of his buddies grabbed his attention and then the four guys walked to the south, jabbering gibberish to one another on the way. For whatever reason, the women didn’t go with them. I asked them why. Danielle laughed and said, “Because they’re going to a club for gay men. Weren’t you listening?” I shrugged. Heather wanted to go to a coffeeshop; they looked at me expectantly. I had somehow gotten roped into being their escort for the evening. They looked at me like I was insane which brought me back into their world a bit. I said, “Oh. Um, I guess we should go, right?”
I started walking without being attentive to which way I was going. We had to stumble onto a coffeeshop somewhere; they were everywhere after all. The women followed me, apparently believing I knew where I was going. As we came to the bridge to cross onto Prinsengracht, I momentarily forgot what we were doing. I had gotten lost in the trees above. Buds were beginning to sprout a little. I was so happy that it was finally happening. I remembered why the women were with me for no discernible reason at all. No matter which direction I walked we would be in Amsterdam and this seemed to be rather important.
The women were walking on either side of me and when they spoke it was like hearing sounds from speakers on opposite sides of the room. I thought of Heather as a devil on my left shoulder and Danielle as an angel on my right. They were neither good nor evil, just symbols of left and right. A thought that decided it wanted to be thought. The devil asked me if I was Dutch. I turned to her and asked, “What do you think?” She said, “I don’t know. Do you live here?” I looked down. “No, not right at this spot, although I’m alive right here right now.” The angel giggled. “You’re really weird.” I turned to her and said, “I suppose it’s because I’m Dutch.” The devil said, “Really? You speak English so well. You don’t even have an accent.” I said, “Of course not. I’ve been speaking English longer than either one of you have been alive.” No comments after that. “Sorry, I didn’t intend to be rude. It just happened that way.” The angel repeated, “You're so weird.”
We crossed a bridge at the end of the block and walked along the Prinsengracht next to the canal, out of the street. We had to dodge trees, bike racks, and parked cars, but being near the railing next to the canal allowed wonderful views of the apartments across the way, particularly the brightly-lit apartment windows which left wavy reflections of neon pastels on the surface of the canal. The women loved this as much as I did and I enjoyed listening to them talk with one another about how romantic the canals were and how wonderful it was to be in such a fairy-tale city.
They were walking next to one another and I was closest to the street. My vibe mellowed, warmth spread throughout my body, a gentle buzzing love. As I watched the women, I wondered how they had come to trust me, but I was also happy watching them being happy. Months ago I would have found it strange to be guiding two women around Amsterdam while I was shrooming, but no longer. Why wouldn't it be this way?
Danielle said, “It must have been incredible living here your whole life.” I looked at her and smiled, but said, “I haven’t lived here my whole life.” She looked surprised. “I’ve traveled a lot.” Both of the women seemed intrigued. “It’s a long story.” We walked a little further then Heather said, “So, what’s the story?” I sighed then said, "I’ll tell you when we find a coffeeshop. You guys want a toke now, though?” They said yes so I grinded weed into the bat for each of them and then took a couple hits of my own.
We continued walking along the Prinsengracht and I realized we were heading east. Shit, west and north would have led to better coffeeshops in the Nieuwe Zijde. Then again, they didn’t know any better. On the other hand, I didn’t know if they were experienced smokers, if they had access to quality buds where they lived. “I usually don’t ask this question because it’s often inconsequential, but it might give me an idea of the quality of buds you smoke.” Danielle said they were from Atlanta. I didn’t know shit about Atlanta so that was no help at all. “Good herb in Atlanta?” The women said in unison, “Oh, yeah, definitely.” I asked them what types of buds had been floating around before they left. “Train Wreck, New York Diesel, Bubble Gum, OG Kush?” Blank stares. Uh oh. Well, back to girls again.
We crossed Leidsestraat and continued following Prinsengracht. We came up to the Easy Times Coffeeshop and the girls looked at me expectantly. I had only been there once in the past. The interior was spacious, a mix of tables and chill-out spaces. The music had been loud, too loud, I remembered that. It wouldn’t have been my choice, but for their purposes it was good enough. The weed selection wasn’t bad from what I remembered. The quality was okay, too, fairly fresh, possibly due to turnover. I couldn’t remember how well it was cut, but it didn’t really matter.
When we went inside, there was reggae blasting, but not as loud as I had remembered. Probably just the result of gradual hearing loss. I asked Heather and Danielle whether they wanted to get a bong or a vaporizer to smoke at a table, the bar, or the cushioned seats in the back. They looked at one another, indecisive. “You can get pre-rolled joints, too, if you don’t want to stay or even if you want to stay but want to be able to smoke after you leave. It’s not worth buying a pipe if you’re not going to be in Amsterdam long.” They agreed on pre-rolled joints.
As we stepped up to the counter I asked them if they wanted mixed joints or straight-up weed. Again, cluelessness. “Mixed joints are a blend of tobacco and pot. The tobacco keeps the joint burning, but obviously you’re inhaling less weed each hit. They’re cheaper, though, so you can always purchase a few to go.” I pointed at the menu and they took their time looking. The chap working gave us space. The place wasn’t crowded, not even half full, but it was early in the week during the off-season and the place was big. Danielle asked me about the difference between haze and Kush joints. “Haze is a sativa and Kush is an indica.” That didn’t seem to help at all. “They have different effects. Some think haze has stronger effects, but I personally like Kush because I get an 'airy' high, a little more euphoria. But that’s me. Everybody has different body and brain chemistry so you never know until you try them. Believe me, though, I like the haze, too. Just depends on how you want to feel.”
Danielle nodded her head and looked back down. She seemed to be pretending to understand which made me lean toward suggesting a mixed joint, perhaps neither pure haze nor pure Kush, just the generic weed joint mixed with tobacco. That was my suggestion for smoking in the place and maybe they could purchase a few more of each type to go. “Depends on whether you’re okay with tobacco.” Heather got the bud merchant’s attention and ordered a mixed weed joint, a pure haze joint, and a pure Kush joint. Danielle still looked unsure, but she skipped the mixed joints and went with one pure haze and one pure Kush joint.
After they paid we went toward the back to sit on the colorful cushioned seats. There were ochre and lavender strips of Arabian thin sheer fabric several feet wide strewn across the ceiling, pinned every eight feet, give or take, light purple walls near the top of the ceilings highlighted by individual lights spaced a few feet apart from one another, the color of the lower half of the walls a light but raw umber. Black and cracked silver-top coffee tables and end tables were scattered here and there, some with ashtrays and some with purplish vases with lit candles emitting pleasing scents. The reggae wasn’t quite as loud in the back; that, or I had acclimated to it.
We found a spot with an ashtray and sat down around the coffee table. Heather asked why I didn’t purchase anything. I pulled the dugout out of my pocket and waved it. She smiled and said, “Oh, yeah.” I loaded the bat and had a toke. The effects of the shrooms had lessened, but the herb enhanced them again. The softly lit interior had a pleasing ambience. The place was better than I had remembered, but maybe that was because of the time of year. I sat back and my body melded with the cushion. I watched Heather light up then cough. I asked her if she smoked cigarettes. She shook her head no. “Why did you get the mixed joint then?” Her eyes were watering and when she finally stopped her coughing spasms she croaked, “Because you said they stay lit.” I tried not to laugh, managed to keep it to a chuckle. Danielle, meanwhile, confidently lit up. I asked if she was smoking the Kush or the haze. “Haze.” I asked them how often they smoked. I loaded my bat again as Heather answered. “It kind of goes in streaks. Danielle’s boyfriend sometimes has weed and he smokes us up. Otherwise, at parties.”
“So, are you backpacking through Europe, just staying in Amsterdam, or … what?” Danielle took another hit and I could see her eyes were starting to glaze over. Heather had only taken one toke and she had put her joint on the lip of the ashtray. She said, “We’re backpacking. We're here for a couple days then Paris and the south of France. After that, we haven’t decided.” I asked Heather if they had Eurail passes. “Yeah. One month.” I smiled. “That’s how I did it the first time.” Danielle took another hit and as I was about to tell her to slow down Heather said, “What do you mean you did it that way? You said you were Dutch.”
Oh, yeah. I smiled and said, “I am, but I didn’t live here until I was an adult. I grew up in the States.” I was loved making up stories for the kids. If they came crashing down so be it. I said to Heather, “Have another puff. You need to catch up to your crazy friend. She’s going to smoke that whole joint in a couple of minutes.” As I said that Danielle was about to light up again. Her eyes were slits. “Danielle, whoa, slow down. You’re not going to be able to walk if you keep it up.” I was even more concerned that she was going to get sick. If she didn’t smoke daily and wasn't used to higher quality pot then, well, it wouldn’t be good. I figured about two puffs would have been adequate for each of them, maybe three for Heather since she was smoking a mixed joint. I didn’t expect Danielle to puff and puff and puff so relentlessly.
Danielle didn’t seem to hear me at all as she took another hit. She put down the joint—thankfully, but she didn’t even make it to the ashtray. I picked it up and put it on the lip. She was baked. At least we weren’t far from their hostel. I was ready to go; the shrooms were still affecting me in a mild, easygoing way and I wanted to be outside to enjoy them more. The interior ambience was nice, but the girls were now too stoned to be entertaining. Danielle was a lump and Heather was swaying in her seat. At least she had a dreamy smile on her face.
“Do you want to get some fresh air, walk around the city, enjoy being high outside?” Danielle’s eyes were closed. She may have passed out, it was hard to tell. Heather, though, pouted for a second and then smiled a wavy gravy smile. “No, maaaaan, let’s staaaaay.” There were a couple of other small groups in the lounge area nearby. I saw them look over, laughing a little. They were foreigners, too, but obviously more familiar with coffeeshops. Watching noobs get high created a mixture of amusement and annoyance. I felt some sense of responsibility for the girls; why that should be, I wasn’t sure. I just didn’t want them to get lost or pass out on the street.
Empathy, I thought, empathy. I had been young once, after all. Heather took another hit then put the last half of her joint back in the green tube and capped it with the lid before putting it in her coat pocket. Danielle, meanwhile, had opened her eyes. They were still slits and her face was pale. She looked like a zombie. I asked her if she was okay. She responded with a whimpering gurgle. I said to Heather, still with a shit-eating grin on her face, that we needed to get Danielle outside before she yacked. Heather frowned and exaggeratedly slurred to Danielle, “Don’t worrrrry, babeeee, I here unnn youuuuu are soooooo beyoooooful.” Then she fell back into her seat cackling uncontrollably. Her laugh was infectious; I wasn't the only one in the room laughing with or at her.
I took a hard look at Danielle. She was only going to get worse. If she hadn’t smoked so much so fast. Ah, youth. Danielle had given me a gift: I remembered why I was glad to be in my thirties. I decided some water was in order so I went to the bar and ordered a couple bottles. When I got back I realized it was definitely time to go. Danielle had toppled over on the seat and was about to fall on the ground. She was moaning horribly. Heather, meanwhile, was laughing so hard she was snorting. I helped Danielle sit up and opened a bottle of water. She only took a few sips and then cringed. I looked over at Heather and said, “Help me get Danielle out of here.” Heather was still laughing, guffawing, with a huge snot bubble growing out of one of her nostrils. I started laughing, too. She wiped it on her sleeve and turned to me. “What did you say?” I laughingly said, “Help me get Danielle outside. She's super fucked up.”
That sobered Heather just enough for her to stand up. She stumbled a bit and while she did I put one of Danielle’s arms around me and stood her up. Her head flopped back as I started walking her out, her feet dragging more than walking. Heather was no help at all. She swerved back and forth in front of me, almost falling down, but somehow maintained her balance. As we waddled through the bar, the looks on the faces of the other customers ranged from amusement to disdain. The guy behind the bar just shook his head and sighed. I didn’t disagree.
As we neared the door I heard a round of applause. It was a ridiculous situation. I finally got Danielle outside into the fresh air and walked her to the railing of the Prinsengracht. Heather weaved her way to us. I looked back and saw a couple people from the coffeeshop walking outside. They stood across the street smiling widely while watching. A few pedestrians walking nearby took an interest as well. I felt Danielle’s body tense and then heard the godawful sound of retching. I held her hair back as she heaved again, this time watching the yellowish-orange goo spew from her mouth into the canal. I had barely gotten her outside in time.
Heather, meanwhile, was talking with the pedestrians behind me. I couldn’t make out what she was saying; her voice was loud, but incoherent. There was a chorus of laughter after that and then a huge roar of laughter. I turned around and saw that she had fallen in the street. I shifted my eyes a little bit and saw a car coming toward her. I yelled, “Get the fuck out of the street, Heather!” As I yelled, Danielle convulsed again and I had to turn away from Heather to hold Danielle tight. She heaved so powerfully her feet left the ground. She had been on the cusp of falling over the railing into the canal.
When I looked back toward the street, I saw the car had stopped and a couple of the guys who had been watching were helping Heather to the sidewalk near the entrance to Easy Times. Jesus Christ, these girls. Danielle let rip a rapid series of dry heaves before slumping to the ground. I had one of the bottles of water with me so I opened it. I looked into her eyes and saw she was still dazed; she was in pain, but at least more alert. “Do you want some water?” She nodded so I held it to her lips. She took several sips then took the bottle from me and drank more. I pulled it away from her after she had drank nearly half of it. I didn’t want her to puke again.
“Can you stand up?” She nodded and wiped her mouth with her coat sleeve. She smelled rank, but I helped her up. She was almost steady on her feet and there was a little more color in her face. I put my arm under hers around her waist and walked her across the street. Heather was leaning against the building, laughing and spitting gibberish with her eyes closed. One of the guys who had helped her was standing nearby, smiling widely. He looked at me and said something in Dutch. I shook my head in disgust and he laughed.
I asked Heather if she could walk. She opened her eyes and said, “I thaw you lefff meeeee!” I shook my head again, the disdain disappearing, and laughed at her. “No, I’m still here. Let's walk back to the hostel, okay?” Heather eyes slowly slid shut then they popped wide open then slowly slid shut and popped wide open again. “I’m going to take that as a yes.” I put my arm under hers and wrapped it around her waist just as I had with Danielle. This was going to be a challenge.
We began walking down the sidewalk toward Leidsestraat. Well, I walked and they shuffled and dragged, occasionally losing their balance, nearly making me fall over. We managed to cross the street without being killed by a tram or a car, threatened only by whistles and hollers from other drunk and stoned pedestrians. The walk to Leidsegracht seemed to take forever. I had to stop twice to readjust my arms under them. Heather, fortunately, began to regain her step which made it easier to deal with Danielle’s uncoordinated lurches. Once we crossed the bridge and turned toward the International Budget Hostel I felt confident we were going to make it. My arms, legs, and back were exhausted, though.
Once we got to the hostel, I helped Danielle sit down on the sidewalk and lean against the building. Heather was able to stand on her own so I stretched out my back and my calves. “Man, that was some fucking work.” Heather said, “I knowwww. Walking, yeah, it, um, yeah, harrrd.” I laughed. “Yeah, well, you did most of the work, Heather, so I’m sure you’re wiped out.” She looked puzzled. Well, stoned and puzzled. “Youuuu ... I help youuuu?” I kept a straight face and said, “Yeah, I wouldn’t have made it without you.” Heather hugged herself and said in a self-satisfied voice, “I gooooooood.” She walked over to me and threw her arms around my neck to hug me. Once again, I was holding her up. Her head was against my chest as she said, “Youuuuu welcummmm, Matt.” Matt, Michael, whatever. I sighed and waited for her to let go. She kept holding onto me and, after nearly half a minute, I thought she had fallen asleep. I looked at Danielle and her head was between her legs. I wasn’t sure if she was passed out or if she was going to hurl again. Either way, it looked like one of the most painful sitting positions I could imagine.
I finally wiggled out of the sleeping hug and said, “Well, I should get going. I can help Danielle inside then you take her the rest of the way, okay?” Heather’s head shot up, smacking me on the chin and making me bite my tongue. Fuck! I was distracted from the pain and barely noticed that she was planting a good one on me. I broke the embrace and, as I did, I put both my hands on her cheeks and said, “We have to get your friend inside.” Her eyes were hazy and dreamy. She said “okay,” and I positioned myself to lift Danielle by putting my arms underneath both her armpits. I used my legs and lifted her up. She staggered a bit and then leaned against me.
It seemed to take hours for her muscles to work. She was practically a slinky. As I walked to the door, Heather put her arm around me again and pulled down my head to kiss me. I couldn’t stop her without dropping Danielle, but I managed to pull my head back long enough to say, “Take your friend inside.” Heather shook her head vigorously. “No.” I looked up at the tree across the street and said to myself “Why me?” I looked back down and Heather kissed me again. This time it was a good kiss, but I still pulled away. I whispered, “Look, you’re really great and a lot fun, but I need to go and your friend really needs to lie down. She's not doing well. But, look, you're are going to have a great trip. You’ll remember it forever.” Well, except for the past hour or two.
Heather blinked her eyes and smiled before slurring, “Youuuu urrrr soooo sweeee.” I helped Heather take control of Danielle then held open the door to the hostel. As they stumbled inside, Heather said goodbye in a sing-song voice. I turned and filled my bat as I walked away. After I took a hit and exhaled, I thought, “Goddamn, I should have gotten paid for that shit.
