Read Online High Life by Matthew Stokoe - Free Book Online Page B

himself to say the R-word. Unlikely, so I flipped a single DF 118 and went back and fell on the bed. I was wearing stained, stretched-out briefs that let my cock swing around. Royston avoided looking at my crotch.
    “You don’t look happy, Jack.”
    “I got a few problems.”
    “Oh, problems … Don’t we all? But, Jack, you know? Problems are just things to overcome. Even the tough ones go away if you give them enough time. Like, I had some water damage at my other property? And the living room carpet was completely ruined. I could have let it get to me—I mean, it was really nice carpet. I could have agonized over it and wondered why something like that had to happen to me. But I chose not to. I made the decision. Instead of letting it achieve major proportions, I acted straight away, went right out and replaced it. End of problem. Say, where’s Karen?”
    “Dead. Somebody cut her open, pulled out her guts, and blew a load into the hole.”
    For a moment his mouth worked silently, like he had to chew my words out of the air to get past them. Then his voice started again on the end of a shocked, indrawn breath.
    “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to say things like that? They might come true.”
    He was sitting on the couch, he bounced up and down on the cushion.
    “The springs are going in this.”
    “Replace it, then.”
    “Oh, it’s not that bad. I mean, it’s not out of place.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, you live at a certain level.”
    “Everyone lives at a certain level.”
    “You can’t expect a brand-new couch.”
    “I’m not asking you to give it to me. This is a furnished apartment. I pay rent, the furnishings should be at least halfway decent.”
    “That’s what I’m saying. They are decent … For your level. I’m not being shitty, Jack. It’s just the way of things. Come on, dude, this isn’t important. Let’s do a number. I got this South African stuff. Total head. If I’m lying I’m flying.”
    Royston thought smoking was the height of hipness and was prone to ODing on slang when the subject came up. He pulled out a bag of grass and some papers. Sharing a joint had become a habit on rent days. It made him feel better about asking for the money, like we were really friends and the rent was just incidental.
    I didn’t like grass—too much love and too many flowers in its history. Give me a member of the benzo family any day—something made in a clinic, not a fucking herbal accident. Something with a zero-paranoia quotient. But I figured if he was stoned he might be more flexible on the issue of money. Plus I knew the asshole would keep whining until I agreed to get fucked up with him.
    “Get on with it, then.”
    Royston dropped the bag of weed twice in his eagerness to get one rolled.
    We smoked and coughed and smoked. He didn’t know to take the seeds out, so the joint exploded periodically and showered the carpet with burning ash. Each time it happened he got down on his knees, clucking like a chicken, and rubbed frantically at the singed spot.
    By the time the joint was finished we were both pretty much confused. Royston had a couple of hacking fits and kept taking his glasses off to wipe his eyes. I got up and went to the kitchenette for another beer. My face felt like it was sizzling and things darted about at the edge of vision. But they were hard to catch and when I turned head-on they disappeared.
    Out the back window the girl I’d seen before was on her balcony again. She wore a few more clothes this time and was bent forward painting her nails. The THC riding my bloodstream made it easy to project all the sadness of the city onto her. With the glory of the setting sun thrown orange against the walls around her, working so hard at something like painting your nails seemed such a desperate thing to do. My thoughts chained out along dope corridors and I was sure if I went over there and put my arm around her she’d break down crying and everything would