Free The Ice Age by Kirsten Reed Page A

was such a hot idea back then, either. It just happened, as things do. Or it just occurred to me to let it happen.’
    He paused. I passed him the joint. We were sitting on the bed, side by side, propped up by pillows. He resumed: ‘I was having a dud of a night in this seedy bar, with my father, who was playing cards all night. And there was this lady, having a worse night than me, getting hit on by all these festy old assholes, knowing she’d have to close the deal with one of them. I’d just had a birthday—’
    â€˜How old?’
    â€˜Sixteen. She asked me, and at the time it felt like we were helping each other out.’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜And I was just a curious kid.’
    He handed the joint back my way. ‘But I can’t imagine a more unromantic encounter. She may as well have been riding one of those amusement park carousel horses.’
    â€˜Was she pretty?’
    â€˜She was pretty old, as well. But, you know, that was OK.’
    It was nearly the end of the joint, and our fingers touched in the handover. That was always a lovely sensation, stoned.
    We fell asleep, clothes on, atop the covers. Well, he did. I lay there for a while listening to his breathing, wondering how he had ever found it in his heart to part us for all those tortured weeks.
    The next day found us smack in the middle of the shadowless desert. We’d stopped at a remote fast food takeaway called Yogo’s, with tacky little tables bolted to the ground outside at the base of a fifty foot Y, also bolted. This place sold postcards of local wildlife. Actually, I think they sold postcards of random wildlife. Because I don’t think they have all those animals out there in the desert. Unless there was a zoo nearby. Pandas? I found one with a picture of an antelope with huge brown don’t-hurtme eyes.
    I wrote:
    hey Stephanie,
    Sure is good to be back on the road. You’ll be glad to hear I’m not grumpy anymore. Feel like myself again. This card reminds me of you.
    xx
    Freedloader
    We were on our way to see another of Gunther’s friends. But taking it a bit slower this time. This guy Maurice lives in the middle of someone else’s farm. He’s renting a delightful little shack out here, all full of knick-knacks and whimsical clutter. What a motor-mouthed whirlwind he is. It’s a wonder how he exists out here with barely anyone to talk to. Maybe he saves it up.
    We’ve been here a day and a half, and he sure is doing his best to ensure my visit is educational. I got a tour of all the surrounding plantlife, which included farm crops, and weeds, among other more exotic varieties.
    He plays violin, quite beautifully. And sings baritone. After dinner he brought his violin onto the front porch and regaled us with his own lilting, masterful compositions, echoing out over all the deaf nothingness.
    In the morning he explained to me why it was so beneficial to drink one’s first urine of the day. Apparently it contains the most nutrients of any other urine you might pass throughout the day. Good for just about anything that ails you. He actually managed to be quite convincing.
    After a few days I was sure Maurice was a wise man. I asked him if he thought Gunther and I loved each other.
    â€˜Has he been keeping his distance?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I said.
    â€˜Sumptuous little critter like you…Well, then, yes I would say it is likely.’
    This was somewhat pondersome, but I took it to mean I was in with a chance. I don’t think I’ve been called a critter before. I definitely haven’t been called sumptuous.

    Maurice tends a small, scattered crop of opium poppies (these were part of the tour). He ‘milked’ them, and scaped this onto a cigarette paper; basically buttered it. Gunther and I headed off with some of these, and rolled them into joints that night in our hotel. What a beautiful place to be that room was. Wrapped in all our slowly