We walked into M_’s bedroom and I was introduced at the same time to both one of the wealthiest as well as two of the most ghetto people I would ever meet.
M_ was hanging out with two friends from East New York; oddly enough, both named Jose. I mentally named the taller moreno friend big Jose and the shorter, light skinned one little Jose. The Jose’s were sitting on M_’s bed drinking beer and smoking some of the worst weed I have ever seen in my life rolled up in White Owl cigars.
You begin by separating the outer leaf from the cigar, then taking out a small patch between both layers that is located around the nib. It resembles construction paper, is known as the “cancer paper” and is meant to be discarded. These guys were just splitting the fucking things right square down the middle with no regard for the infamous cancer paper or the outer leaf. With the knowledge that the quality of their herb was somewhere between oregano and dog shit, it was not something I wanted to partake in.
I remembered that I still had a bottle of Southern Comfort from the liquor store on me. I began to drink, not taking into account the sweet liqueur packed more punch than the beers we had been downing all night. A 13-year-old inexperienced drinker, I began to make periodic trips to the bathroom to vomit. It may have been 1993 but I was throwing up like it was 1999.
After several of these trips, I began to discretely vomit in the corner of M_’s bedroom. No one seemed to notice; it was dark, the music was loud and everyone was well enough out of it to give me the privacy necessary to relieve my alcohol poisoned stomach. Zeke and I were getting ready to leave. “Hey, does it smell like vomit in here?…” asked little Jose. I was the first out of the door and into the Late April night.
“You mean the attorney general? The one involved in that siege down in Texas?”
“That’s the one.”
“What lushes that family is.”
Really though, who could blame them?