Free A Slight Change of Plan by Dee Ernst Page B

She had pulled a packet of rolling papers out of her purse as well. “Now, again—album cover?”
    “Cheryl. I don’t have any albums anymore. I have CDs and an iPod. Nobody has albums anymore.”
    Her face fell. “Then how the hell do people clean their pot?”
    “I have no idea. You’re serious? You want to roll a joint?”
    She pushed everything across the counter. “I just had new tips put on; I can’t do a thing with these damn nails. You roll one.”
    “Cheryl, I’m a lawyer.”
    She wrinkled her nose. “Not anymore. Listen, you and I used to smoke every afternoon, all through high school, sitting up in that old tree house. Remember? We could use a little bit of the naughty. Go ahead and roll. It’s like riding a bike. You never forget how.”
    Well, she was right about that. I found my wok and used it to separate the seeds, and rolled three very respectable-looking joints. The only lighter I had in the house was one of those long, skinny things I used to light the grill, so we lit a candle and used that. Cheryl took a long, deep drag, then spewed out a lungful of smoke and coughed for a whole minute. I stared at her until she stopped. Her eyes were watering; her face was red. And she was grinning from ear to ear.
    “Oh, Kate, why did we stop doing this?”
    “Because it’s illegal. I’m an officer of the court, Cheryl, and this is against the law.”
    “Well, it shouldn’t be.” She took another hit, a tiny puff, and grinned again. “I can’t figure out why this wasn’t made legal years ago. You can’t tell me all those senators and congressmen have never smoked. So many of them are our age and older, and they never inhaled? That’s a crock. And they could tax it, make a bundle, and lower everybody else’s taxes. The whole recession would be over! I need to write to the President about this.”
    I took the joint from her and tried a small, tentative hit. Just enough to feel it in the back of my throat. I exhaled gently.
    I closed my eyes and took another hit.
    Wow.
    “Cheryl, this is the best idea you’ve had in a long time. I’ll help you with that letter.”
    We carried the wine bottle, our glasses, and the joint out to the deck and sat in quiet contentment for a few more minutes. I didn’t have an ashtray, but I used the saucer from one of my small clay pots to stub out the roach. The birdswere singing, the sun was filtering through the trees, and I felt totally at one with the glory of Mother Nature.
    “You know,” Cheryl said, “you could throw a few seeds into one of these clay pots out here and grow yourself a nice little crop.”
    “That’s a brilliant idea. It will blend right into the tomato plants, and no one will ever know.”
    “I’ve got a few seedlings in my rose garden. I’m just hoping that Tyler doesn’t pull them up and ask his mommy what the funny plant is.”
    Cheryl’s daughter, Heather, was twenty-six. “Would Heather disapprove, do you think?”
    Cheryl sighed and took a long drink of her wine. “She joined one of those antidrug things in high school and never stopped believing. She doesn’t even like my drinking wine in front of her. Insufferable prude, that girl.” She shook her head sadly. “I love her, but she is a real pill. Remember Rutt’s?”
    I frowned. “Rutt’s? Rutt’s Hut? Home of the world’s best deep-fried hot dog?” I was getting confused. “What does that have to do with Heather?”
    “Nothing. I’m not talking about her anymore.” She sighed. “Those hot dogs were the best things I’d ever eaten. Remember how we’d make a whole road trip out of going down there? I bet one of those babies would taste great right now.”
    Cheryl got the munchies faster than anyone I had ever smoked with, and since I was in college during the seventies, believe me, that was a lot of people.
    “Well, I’m not driving down there today,” I told her.
    She sipped her wine contentedly. “No, I suppose not. Besides, I can’t eat like that