Aug 18, 2006 16:02
Darrel looked around the room and didn't want to get up. As his chest rose and fell more and more rapidly, he decided to smoke. Maybe that would calm him down.
He crammed his hands down his pockets to look for the package of Bamboos he knew he had. Blindly, his fingers navigated the space, contorting in such a way so as to cover the entire contents of his pockets: rubber bands, Starburst, coins, the dime, cell phone, a toothpick--which pricked him and caused him to wave his hand--and the papers’ package. While pulling it out, he felt that there was nothing left inside. Fuck.
His eyes jetted from side to side, scanning the room for any type of alternative. Finally, they settled on his shelf of textbooks. Obviously this was kind of a “jerry rigged” idea, but there was no other option. Darrel flipped the book open to page 573-574 of a British Literature text book, ripped it up and rolled. The burn was fast, but it got him high nonetheless.
On that page, torn and moist, enveloping a dash of hash, was Kubla Kahn.