Free Clay's Way by Blair Mastbaum

these ugly-looking hairs that have just begun to grow on my inner thighs.  I take my wet underwear off and walk into the shorts as fast as I can, catching my pubic hair on the zipper.  I pull the T-shirt on.   
                    Clay laughs and smiles at me.  He looks really fucked-up.  “That’s a trip, man.  You look like Steve.” 
                    “You think?”  I straighten out the T-shirt on my shoulders. 
                    Steve looks at me and sits up straight.  “I’m pretty cute.”   He says this in a goofy way, then turns around to change the record. 
                    Clay lies back, looks at the ceiling, and rubs his chest. 
                    I watch Steve put the needle down.    The record scratches. 
                    I lie back.
                    “This has been Steve’s room since the fourth grade.”  Clay looks around at all the posters.
                    “I never had the same room for more than two years,” I say. “My mom likes moving.”
                    “Oh, Sammy, you poor little gypsy.”
                    “Shut up.”
    Steve hands me his huge bong.  You   wanna   hit?”
    “Sure.”  I lean over the huge green see-through tube and suck in part of a big hit and am instantly and totally stoned.  I’m almost scared because now I can’t stop thinking that I’m sitting in a room with two dudes I don’t know--and one of them I’m in love with, and if he finds out, he could be really freaked.  I   look   around the room to avoid having to make eye contact with Clay or Steve.  “This room has a lot of history in it.”
    Steve takes the bong from me, and tweaks up his lighter flame.  “There’s no such thing as history, dude.  It’s always now.”  He hunches over the bong and sucks in another huge hit.
    “No, it’s not… it’s right… now.  I just left you behind.”  Clay grabs the bong from Steve, takes a huge gulp of smoke, and lies back.  “Nature is unknowable… Surfing is the only time I’m whole… the only time I’m…at peace.”  He turns around and looks at me, waiting for a response.
    The only thing I can think of to say is this haiku I wrote: “Unknowable waves, wake a lonely dog to bark, remind him it’s winter.”
    Clay lifts his head.  “You’ve got it, man.”  He looks over at Steve, who’s totally passed out.  He moves the bong under Steve’s desk and lies flat on his back on the floor with his head on the mattress just inches from Steve’s feet. He closes his eyes.
                    I’m   gonna   be in trouble because my parents don’t know where I am.  I wish I lived here.  I lift my head to look at Clay’s smooth stomach and the line of hair above his shorts.             
    The next song starts playing.  It seems like it was made for little kids or stoners.  I crawl over and get the album cover.  It’s super trippy.  All the Beatles dudes are dressed up as different fuzzy animals.  I reach up and turn the light out.
                    Clay’s passed out with his head on Steve’s futon.
                    I guess I’m sleeping in here too .  Cool. 
    The Beatle dudes chant, “Smoke pot,   smoke   pot.  Everybody smoke pot, smoke pot.”  I fall asleep, slightly spinning from the beer and pot.
                 
    I wake up.  It’s still dark.  I don’t know where I am.  I lift my head.  I can’t believe I’m here.  The record is over and I can hear the needle scraping softly at the end of the record.  This is the coolest thing I’ve ever done.  I look at Clay.  He’s sleeping.  How could I have been sleeping here for so long and not enjoying it?  What a waste.  I look at the clock.  It’s 3:43.  A couple hours have passed, I think.  I whisper,