Tour

It was a one-room stone house, with a-small dusty dirt-yard, cement floor-sparse, some furnishings; like a-bed in the corner, and a wood-table in the center of the room; where we sat-around on dilapidated chairs. We were to smoke some hash, my first-time, and we did: the Arab making a mini-cigar: of the stuff, which he-lit and passed-around. I was not affected. The Mr California character however had quite a ride: mounting his imaginary motorcycle, half-crouch in the room, even a leather-jacket for lies-sake, knees bent, arms outstretched; hands on the handlebars, right-wrist rolling back and forth, and from some internal utterance; the behemoth of a Harley, roaring down the road, shifting gears. I looked at the Arab and he looked at me. We shared a whimsical while. Actually, I wondered if I was suppose to act like, for some instance; to fake or not to fake, but faded fast. I am me. It had no affect. Embarrassment began seeping across the concrete floor, and he slowed the bike down, shut-it-off and prop-standed it.

Mr. California let on he was no stranger to dope, and could be added, much experience; a biker almost. I had known the real thing. He thinks this is how: he is suppose to act when stoned. I myself had no experience, but could figure at least; that this was not it. I felt nothing and acted as nothing. I asked the Arab: "Have you got a toilet?" It's just and expression - meaning where is the bathroom? He was offended. "Of course I have a toilet", he said, "It is outside". It was an outhouse in the yard. I squatted in the oblong, tall, deteriorating structure; with a hole in the floor.

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