voiced. The place, the music, the memories all made the suggestion acceptable, and he went on, Woody thought, with the smoothness of the devil offering to buy souls.
"I don't do this stuff anymore," Curly said, taking a baggie and a pack of rolling papers from his pocket. "But I thought for old time's sake . . . and you can get it so easy in L.A."
"What about the nation's war on drugs?" said Sharla dryly.
Curly winked. "Hostilities can resume in the morning." He began to roll joints with unpracticed fingers. The first one fell apart, and he started again. "Been a long time."
"You brought that in," Alan said with a touch of awe, "on the plane?"
"On my person. Doesn't set off the alarm if it's not metal."
"We really shouldn't do this," said Diane. "Some of us are teachers. We get busted, we could lose our jobs."
"What's life without risk?" said Sharla , a sad little smile tightening her lips. "Just like the old days."
And it was. There was the same potential for harm. In 1969, if they had been found using marijuana, they would have been arrested, and then have had to answer to their parents, the college, and the civil authorities. It was a three-edged sword that maturity had reduced to two.
But there was the same excitement too. Life had never seemed as sharp as when they had smoked grass. There had been nothing like the gut-churning, erection-causing thrill of it, that intoxicating paranoia that gave way to a belligerent euphoria. The act alone was enough to make them high, the flaunting of rules, silent inhalations, secret blows against the empire, the way the smoke filled up the cars with their rolled-up windows, the darkened rooms of rebellious years.
"We need some different music," Frank said. "A little psychedelia . Jimi again? Or the Airplane?"
"The Doors," said Woody. "The first album." Frank found it, took it out of the sleeve. "Just let the first side repeat," Woody said.
"Break on Through" was the first song. The well-known riff began with a measure of drums, a measure of bass, a measure of guitar, and then the cold, cutting, commanding voice of Jim Morrison. The song played on to the end while everyone listened, and it seemed the only movement in the room was Curly rolling joints.
As the Doors began "Soul Kitchen," Diane said, "This is the one with 'Light My Fire,' isn't it?"
Others nodded, and Woody knew what they were all remembering, how it was Tracy's favorite song, and how, when Ray Manzarek's organ riff kicked in, she stopped whatever she was doing and danced, her movements cool and controlled, but her gray eyes revealing the frenzy the song unleashed in her soul. The first time they made love, here in the apartment, "Light My Fire" was playing.
"What is that stuff anyway?" Eddie asked Curly.
"Pure Panamanian, so I'm told." Curly kept rolling, stacking the twisted rolls like a tiny pile of logs. "Very good shit.”
“How many are you making?" Eddie said.
"Nine. One for each of us . . .” He paused, licked a final joint twice as large as the others, and said, more quietly, "and one in memoriam. For our friends."
"Like pouring brandy on Poe's grave," said Alan without a trace of a smile.
Curly handed a joint to each person, then picked up the ninth and held it aloft, like a priest holds the host on the paten. "Let's pass the first one. Like the old days. Pass it and remember our friends. Say their names if you want. Let's remember them."
He stood up and gave the joint to Woody. "You made it possible, Woody. You should start."
Woody took the joint, looked at it as if at an artifact of a time far more distant than the sixties, then licked his lips so the paper would not stick, delicately put the joint in his mouth, and leaned into the burning match Curly offered.
He took a deep drag, nearly retching at the bitter taste, the acrid smoke, but held it, held it in strong, reed man's lungs until he felt them burn, felt euphoric heat bubbling upward to his head, felt light and heavy and hot and
"I don't do this stuff anymore," Curly said, taking a baggie and a pack of rolling papers from his pocket. "But I thought for old time's sake . . . and you can get it so easy in L.A."
"What about the nation's war on drugs?" said Sharla dryly.
Curly winked. "Hostilities can resume in the morning." He began to roll joints with unpracticed fingers. The first one fell apart, and he started again. "Been a long time."
"You brought that in," Alan said with a touch of awe, "on the plane?"
"On my person. Doesn't set off the alarm if it's not metal."
"We really shouldn't do this," said Diane. "Some of us are teachers. We get busted, we could lose our jobs."
"What's life without risk?" said Sharla , a sad little smile tightening her lips. "Just like the old days."
And it was. There was the same potential for harm. In 1969, if they had been found using marijuana, they would have been arrested, and then have had to answer to their parents, the college, and the civil authorities. It was a three-edged sword that maturity had reduced to two.
But there was the same excitement too. Life had never seemed as sharp as when they had smoked grass. There had been nothing like the gut-churning, erection-causing thrill of it, that intoxicating paranoia that gave way to a belligerent euphoria. The act alone was enough to make them high, the flaunting of rules, silent inhalations, secret blows against the empire, the way the smoke filled up the cars with their rolled-up windows, the darkened rooms of rebellious years.
"We need some different music," Frank said. "A little psychedelia . Jimi again? Or the Airplane?"
"The Doors," said Woody. "The first album." Frank found it, took it out of the sleeve. "Just let the first side repeat," Woody said.
"Break on Through" was the first song. The well-known riff began with a measure of drums, a measure of bass, a measure of guitar, and then the cold, cutting, commanding voice of Jim Morrison. The song played on to the end while everyone listened, and it seemed the only movement in the room was Curly rolling joints.
As the Doors began "Soul Kitchen," Diane said, "This is the one with 'Light My Fire,' isn't it?"
Others nodded, and Woody knew what they were all remembering, how it was Tracy's favorite song, and how, when Ray Manzarek's organ riff kicked in, she stopped whatever she was doing and danced, her movements cool and controlled, but her gray eyes revealing the frenzy the song unleashed in her soul. The first time they made love, here in the apartment, "Light My Fire" was playing.
"What is that stuff anyway?" Eddie asked Curly.
"Pure Panamanian, so I'm told." Curly kept rolling, stacking the twisted rolls like a tiny pile of logs. "Very good shit.”
“How many are you making?" Eddie said.
"Nine. One for each of us . . .” He paused, licked a final joint twice as large as the others, and said, more quietly, "and one in memoriam. For our friends."
"Like pouring brandy on Poe's grave," said Alan without a trace of a smile.
Curly handed a joint to each person, then picked up the ninth and held it aloft, like a priest holds the host on the paten. "Let's pass the first one. Like the old days. Pass it and remember our friends. Say their names if you want. Let's remember them."
He stood up and gave the joint to Woody. "You made it possible, Woody. You should start."
Woody took the joint, looked at it as if at an artifact of a time far more distant than the sixties, then licked his lips so the paper would not stick, delicately put the joint in his mouth, and leaned into the burning match Curly offered.
He took a deep drag, nearly retching at the bitter taste, the acrid smoke, but held it, held it in strong, reed man's lungs until he felt them burn, felt euphoric heat bubbling upward to his head, felt light and heavy and hot and
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