Hal Ackerman - Stein,stoned

“If you knew what other people at school were doing.”

“This is not about other people.”

“But if you knew.”

“If I knew I’d be terrified.”

“You’d be glad all I was doing was smoking weed.”

“I’m not just glad I’m thrilled.”

She made that face that said how much longer into the century do you plan for this to go on?

“As long as we’re being honest, Angie, do you smoke regularly?”

“As long as we’re being honest, do you?”

“Do I?”

She was giggling at him now. “Mom showed me some of the pictures of you in your hippie days.” She grabbed her backpack from the pile of books and clothing and CD boxes on her bed, and after rummaging about in it, found the black-and-white photo she’d been hunting for. “How could you think a beard and a pony tail looked cool?” She draped her arms over his shoulders while they commiserated over the picture.

“Thanks for the Kodak moment. But it doesn’t answer my question.”

“Which is?

“Do you smoke it regularly?”

“It makes me paranoid and hungry. I don’t like it.”

“I wish you had a stronger reason.”

“You mean like ‘Just say no’?”

“If you don’t like it and you don’t smoke it, why do you have it?”

“I told you. I’m holding it for someone.”

“And you promise that is the absolute truth?”

She looked at him balefully.

“Who is it? Who are you holding it for?”

“Right. Like I’m going to tell you.”

“I’d like to know.”

“Then this conversation has come to an end.”

“Do you understand that possession is still a crime in this state?”

“I’ll never let them take you alive, Daddy.”

Walking Watson helped Stein clear his head. Watson was stronger in the afternoons. He could make it down the steps unassisted. His sausage stump of a tail had been a barometer of his personality all his life, pointing straight up as though broadcasting good news to Mars. But last year he had run out into the street and been knocked unconscious by the axle of the mail truck. Though he had recovered most of his functions, he had aged from a fifteen year-old pup to an old dog whose tail was now locked in the permanent down position like it was dousing for water. Stein had always considered Watson to be a four-legged repository of his own spirit, and seeing him so depleted weighed heavily upon him.

Nicholette’s visit had left Stein unsettled. He thought of himself as the retired gunslinger in the Western movies who goes out to the barn late at nights while his wife and kids are asleep and unwraps the old Colt. 45 from the creche where he has carefully swathed it in bunting and fur, feeling its heft and weight in his hand, remembering its dangerous, seductive power, but also the promises he made to people who depended on his being alive, and then returning it to its hiding place, along with another tiny little piece of himself.

When Stein mentally replayed the stream of condescending replies he had made to Nicholette he did not feel like a western hero. He felt like an idiot. He wished that someone from the Ministry of Pompous Assholes had come and shoved a pie in his face- a service he had performed during his youth to many others who deserved it.

“You ought to clean up after your pet.”

The morally superior voice of a neighbor, a deputy sheriff in the Environment posse, brought Stein back into now. Watson had squirted out a squalid little dump onto a patch of new grass. “What are you feeding him?” she added.

“He’s old. Cut him some slack.”

“I wasn’t blaming him.”

Naturally, Stein had neglected to bring the little baggies, the latest industry to thrive on America’s obsession with early toilet training. “I have them inside,” he muttered. He scooted Watson back into the house and came back out with a baggie, fully intending to perform his civic duty. But when he saw the woman still standing there, marking the spot, he could not give her the satisfaction of having puppeteered him. Before getting to the sidewalk he diverted from his path and knocked on Penelope Kim’s door. She lived on the other side of the horseshoe from Stein. Their front doors faced each other across a center courtyard dominated by a tall banyan tree.

“Go away,” she pouted from inside. “I’m writing.”

“I thought today was a thinking day.”

She came to the door wearing slim running shorts and a tank top that clung to her like tracing paper. “I hate when you do this to me, Stein.”

“Do what?”

“Make me beg.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nicholette Bradley has been gone for eleven minutes and you haven’t told me a word.”

“How do you know her name?”

“God. Stein. Do you not exist in the modern world? Have you not seen the last fifty covers of Cosmo and Vogue?”

Vogue. Stein pulled Nicholette’s card out of his shirt pocket. Now the picture made sense.

“Oh my God. Is that what she smells like?” Penelope plucked the card out of Stein’s hand and filled her chest with a long Zen breath, one nostril at a time. Stein realized that he had been breathing in that perfume too and was still partially intoxicated.

“She wants to sleep with you, doesn’t she?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“You underestimate your power.”

Music emanated from Angie’s bedroom across the courtyard. Stein felt drawn to obligation. “I should get back.”

“Are you still menstruating about her weed? You should send her to Paris, Stein. Let her live on her own for a while. Tend bar. Be an artist’s model. It would be good for her. Good for both of you.”

“That’s so interesting! Her mother keeps suggesting precisely that.”

“Her mother has your balls in a bolo.”

“Why don’t you give Klein a teenage daughter? So I can read it as an instructional manual.”

“You say that as a joke.”

“Tell me what he does when his daughter forgets her father’s fiftieth birthday.”

“Stein, is it your birthday? Is that why you’re depressed?”

“I’m not depressed.”

“Oh my God! Of course you’re a Sag. How could I not have known that?”

Penelope wrangled him inside and sat him down on one of her silky, cushiony arrangements. Her entire apartment was white. White walls, white curtains, white lampshades, white silk room dividers, white lilies in a white porcelain vase on a white obelisk. She knelt behind him and told him to close his eyes.

“I have to clean up Watson’s-”

“Shh.”

Her fingertips on his temples felt like butterfly wings that sent sparks of electricity through him. He wondered if being attracted to a bisexual meant that he was partially gay. “Being old is cool,” Penelope murmured. Her fingertips manipulated his scalp through the short grey hair. “My high-school teacher told me that it takes a man until he’s fifty to realize that his penis is not a weapon but a baton.”

“Your high-school teacher told you that?”

She was past that and already on to the next thing. “Stein, you just gave me the perfect idea for Klein. The killers use his daughter as bait knowing that he can’t help trying to rescue her. She’s his kryptonite. That’s how they get him.”

“What do you mean, get him?”

“You know, kill him.”

“The character you’re modeling on me dies?”

“It’s the perfect existential ending, Stein. He’s so sixties. Which are so over.”

There was a thump and a loud crash from across the courtyard.

“Angie!”

Stein catapulted off Penelope’s cushions and out her door. Across the courtyard, Stein’s door was wide open. He bounded across the bed of ivy that grew around the circumference of the banyan tree and vaulted up the steps of his landing. “ANGIE!” He bellowed up to the open second story window directly overhead. He grabbed the kryptonite bar lock from his bicycle that rested against the stairs and entered his living room on full alert.