Eternal repetition

I pick a couple of buds from the plastic bag. I break them apart, pulling out any stems.

I mash the buds into my silver grinder, which is shaped like a stack of silver dollars. The buds are sticky, and often get caught in the metal teeth of the contraption.

I pre-fold a Zig Zag white rolling paper, and then place the fragrant mulch inside the waiting sheath. I still roll the exact same way (REDACTED) taught me all those years ago in our shared upstairs apartment.

It was on the job training; She was a classic old-school burn-out, as were all of her friends. Long-haired dudes, denim jackets, Motley Crue t-shirts, the works. But they were cool people. It wasn’t long before I fell into their routine.

It was simple; every night around 9PM, (REDACTED) would start making calls to her battery of weed dealers around the college town. She’d call until one of them would say, they did have an eighth of grass they could sell her. I don’t think she ever even bought a quarter. It was always an eighth. Every night.

So she’d procure the pot, and whoever was around would gather in a circle on the living room floor. (REDACTED) would pull out her special Motley Crue rolling tray (where she found the thing I’ll never knew. But she had pretty much everything ever produced with MC emblazoned somewhere on its’ surface. That and Camel cigarettes. She was queen of the shit found in the Camel cigarette catalog). She would start talking shit and rolling joints. And so it would go, every night, for what seemed like forever.

I knew I’d been fully accepted into the circle the night she tossed the bag and the rolling papers in my lap.

“Tonight, you learn how to roll.”

And she sat there with me, patiently going over each step of rolling a joint. But then came the real test.

“OK, no one smokes until he rolls a joint.”

Oh, shit. The pressure. A room full of well-done burn outs, all waiting on my rookie hands to craft something for them to smoke.

It definitely took me longer than it should have, but when I was done, there was a crooked but smoke-ready joint of the finest schwag weed money could buy. 

There was no applause, just the appreciative nods from around the circle as each person took a long, heavy pull on my handiwork.

I miss college.