maw where Vino’s favorite grassy knoll had been.
We went to stand at the edge of this big mouth in the earth. I saw pieces of broken-up wooden boxes strewn around in the dirt below.
I didn’t like it. Didn’t like the artificial sweetener factory, didn’t like that Vino’s favorite grassy knoll had been dug up for reasons I wasn’t sure about—but probably had to do with the sweetener factory.
I didn’t like much of anything that day.
I took the Wyoming wallet out of my back pocket, sat at the edge of the hole in the ground, dangled my legs over, and, as Vino flopped down and started panting, I took my small stash of weed out of the wallet and rolled a joint. This was excellent weed. Had a tense, earthy smell, almost exactly like the big dirt hole I was staring at.
I lit the joint then coughed. Alexander Vinokourov’s head swiveled toward me, making sure I wasn’t dying. I’m never sure if his concern for my well being is entirely altruistic. If I die, he’ll have to go back to scavenging from garbage cans and escaping thugs trying to trap him and turn him into a fighting dog.
I took another hit and coughed again, but this time Vino merely flicked his ear, listening for sounds of serious distress before bothering to turn his entire head.
My own head was taking a beating from the inside out, the weed making me feel like I’d had an involuntary hemispherectomy, the two sides of my brain operating independently of each other which, I was pretty sure, would lead to something unusual and very possibly unpleasant.
Then, just as the letters of the word unpleasant drifted through my mind, something reached up from the pit in the earth and grabbed my ankle.
I screamed.
Alexander Vinokourov was next to me in an instant and we both looked down to see a horrible mud-covered woman with her hands around my ankle.
My heart hammered. Vino was trembling. Adrenalin coursed through me, but it was paralyzing rather than giving me superhuman strength. I stared at this creature with her fingers digging into the flesh of my ankle. I tried to shake my leg free before this freak pulled my ankle out of its socket.
I screamed for help but there wasn’t anyone to hear me.
Then, suddenly, the woman made a sound, like a cat coughing up a large hairball, and let go of my ankle.
I turned around and ran, slowing down only when I was about a hundred yards away. I looked back, expecting to find the muddy woman coming after me. She was not.
I stood there, my body flooded with fear chemicals, my mind burning with curiosity. Then I heard an unmistakable cry for help. The voice was reedy, small, pathetic.
“Please. Help,” she repeated.
I guess I was more stoned than I realized. I walked back over to the edge of that maw in the earth and peered down. The woman had dirt caked in her hair and was wearing what may have once been a dress but now looked like the Shroud of Turin.
Her eyes met mine. She looked very sad.
“Who are you?” I asked.
She didn’t answer right away and she was staring at something, maybe Vino, maybe something past me.
“May I have some, please?” she asked.
“Have some what?”
“Some tea,” she said, motioning toward the sky.
I looked up at the sky too. It was just past dusk, almost all dark up there, a lemon slice of moon starting to show itself.
“Tea?” I said looking back down at her.
“Tea,” the woman repeated, pointing, it seemed, at my hand.
I looked at my hand too. The joint. I was holding the half-smoked joint. I had some dim memory of pot being called tea . Like in the 1950s.
“You want a hit of this?”
The muddy woman nodded.
Was this really happening? I relit the joint and passed it to her, reaching down just far enough so she could take it but couldn’t pull on any of my body parts.
She smiled. She had dirt between her teeth.
She took an enormous hit. She didn’t cough, but her blue eyes bulged. Eventually, she tried passing it back up to me but I declined. She might
We went to stand at the edge of this big mouth in the earth. I saw pieces of broken-up wooden boxes strewn around in the dirt below.
I didn’t like it. Didn’t like the artificial sweetener factory, didn’t like that Vino’s favorite grassy knoll had been dug up for reasons I wasn’t sure about—but probably had to do with the sweetener factory.
I didn’t like much of anything that day.
I took the Wyoming wallet out of my back pocket, sat at the edge of the hole in the ground, dangled my legs over, and, as Vino flopped down and started panting, I took my small stash of weed out of the wallet and rolled a joint. This was excellent weed. Had a tense, earthy smell, almost exactly like the big dirt hole I was staring at.
I lit the joint then coughed. Alexander Vinokourov’s head swiveled toward me, making sure I wasn’t dying. I’m never sure if his concern for my well being is entirely altruistic. If I die, he’ll have to go back to scavenging from garbage cans and escaping thugs trying to trap him and turn him into a fighting dog.
I took another hit and coughed again, but this time Vino merely flicked his ear, listening for sounds of serious distress before bothering to turn his entire head.
My own head was taking a beating from the inside out, the weed making me feel like I’d had an involuntary hemispherectomy, the two sides of my brain operating independently of each other which, I was pretty sure, would lead to something unusual and very possibly unpleasant.
Then, just as the letters of the word unpleasant drifted through my mind, something reached up from the pit in the earth and grabbed my ankle.
I screamed.
Alexander Vinokourov was next to me in an instant and we both looked down to see a horrible mud-covered woman with her hands around my ankle.
My heart hammered. Vino was trembling. Adrenalin coursed through me, but it was paralyzing rather than giving me superhuman strength. I stared at this creature with her fingers digging into the flesh of my ankle. I tried to shake my leg free before this freak pulled my ankle out of its socket.
I screamed for help but there wasn’t anyone to hear me.
Then, suddenly, the woman made a sound, like a cat coughing up a large hairball, and let go of my ankle.
I turned around and ran, slowing down only when I was about a hundred yards away. I looked back, expecting to find the muddy woman coming after me. She was not.
I stood there, my body flooded with fear chemicals, my mind burning with curiosity. Then I heard an unmistakable cry for help. The voice was reedy, small, pathetic.
“Please. Help,” she repeated.
I guess I was more stoned than I realized. I walked back over to the edge of that maw in the earth and peered down. The woman had dirt caked in her hair and was wearing what may have once been a dress but now looked like the Shroud of Turin.
Her eyes met mine. She looked very sad.
“Who are you?” I asked.
She didn’t answer right away and she was staring at something, maybe Vino, maybe something past me.
“May I have some, please?” she asked.
“Have some what?”
“Some tea,” she said, motioning toward the sky.
I looked up at the sky too. It was just past dusk, almost all dark up there, a lemon slice of moon starting to show itself.
“Tea?” I said looking back down at her.
“Tea,” the woman repeated, pointing, it seemed, at my hand.
I looked at my hand too. The joint. I was holding the half-smoked joint. I had some dim memory of pot being called tea . Like in the 1950s.
“You want a hit of this?”
The muddy woman nodded.
Was this really happening? I relit the joint and passed it to her, reaching down just far enough so she could take it but couldn’t pull on any of my body parts.
She smiled. She had dirt between her teeth.
She took an enormous hit. She didn’t cough, but her blue eyes bulged. Eventually, she tried passing it back up to me but I declined. She might
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