Beatitude 13

One Step Beyond

CHAPTER 13

Northmont University. June 23, 1984.

At Halliburton Hall, in room 242, it’s business as usual. Stoners gather in a circle while Terry holds court; a bong passed around like a peace pipe. For discretions sake, someone jammed a towel under the door. An unnecessary precaution. The whole dorm, most the campus, pretty much everyone knows whats happening in our room every day, every night. But no one cares. Not even the campus cops.

After a few pushes, the towel/door moves enough for me to squeeze through. Unfortunately, my struggle alerts Terry and his crew. No one bothers to help, they just blankly stare at me.

I momentarily consider apologizing for the disturbance. Don’t mind me fellas, I just want to stuff some essentials in a duffle bag, grab a clean towel and duck out without a lot of hassle. Carry on.

“Where you been?” Terry grumbles.

It’s not what he says that makes me tighten up, it’s his dark, glazed, mesmerizing eyes. They’re scary demonic.

A choking stoner looks up from sucking the bong and exclaims, “I” — spuf —“know!” Smoke pouring from his mouth and nose, he sputters, “He was” —cof, spuof— “on Central last night” — hack, hack— “groping some girlie.”

Terry gives me goofy face. “Oh.”

I quickly gather everything needed for a shower and an overnight stay. “Gotta go, guys.” Eyes shut tight, I sigh. “I badly need a shower.”

Terry rubs his stubbled head and smirks. “I bet you do.”

My hand is on the doorknob now. And Terry is momentarily distracted as one of his stoner crew awkwardly pulls a record from its sleeve.

“Careful, asshat,” he barks.

I might have escaped if I hadn’t forgotten about the towel.

“Hold on, Cornbread,” Terry says, rummaging through a bag.

I slowly turn around. “I really have to go, man.”

Terry tosses me a joint.

“Like I said” —I manage to catch it without dropping my gear — “I don’t have time.”

As I’m about to toss the joint back to him, Terry shows me the flat of his hand.

“That’s for later,” he explains. “For you and your friend.”

Speakers crackle when the needle hits vinyl. Soon after, the rhythmic chug of a two-tone classic fills the room.

The stoner crew mindlessly bob their heads.

“Thanks, Terry,” I shout.

Terry can’t hear me. He squints, points to his ear.

My thumb goes up.

His thumb goes up.

The crew, still head bobbing, smile at me, full teeth, as I leave. Thumbs up all around.

Are these stoners my friends now?

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BEATITUDE © Mark Scott Ricketts

Apologies to the late Jack Kerouac for use of his “Belief and Technique for Modern Prose" tips.