Between a Rock and a River

I laid awake as I had for the last several hours. A trail of crumbs led to a small mound of wrappers beside me—I had definitely woken up to worse decisions. Above me, the filthy ceiling fan, a blurred orb.

Beneath me, the bare mattress absorbed a cold sweat. Inside my stomach, a new perverse type of excitement bubbled with the brick of sugar. Again, I had stomached much more catastrophic combinations.

The fan sent a chill down my spine when I rolled over. The mattress smelled musty, so I flipped back to my original position. Stealing was what I was struggling with. Never before had I had a reason to cross that line, but my mind was made up. I was gonna steal the black duffel bag. The front door directly below me opened with a moan. Then, a moment later, slammed closed with a resonant thud. Blood sloshed behind my ears as I lifted my head to the windowsill and saw what I’d been waiting to see; the little Nissan truck with two occupants slowly backing down the driveway. The room where I layed, had never had much in it, but was completely empty now. Everything I owned in the world now fit into just one backpack. Well, that’s not true. Almost everything I owned.

I still had my most prized possession inside the garage attached to the house, which happened to be the very same place where sat the black duffel bag. I trotted down the stairs and the house appeared to be empty. This only meant Lucien was still down in his basement lair. He rarely showed his face above ground until past noon. This was due to twofold. One, he had a job washing dishes at a restaurant. Two, he had a quite extensive ketamine habit. Lucien did not require the menial restaurant job out of financial necessity—in fact, he could afford all the finest horse tranquilizers that money could buy. Rather, he was required to remain in employment as the result of a court ruling. Several months prior, before I knew Lucien or any of the other roommates, an alphabet soup agency had apparently kicked in the door of this very house and seized five figures of cash stashed in a Whole Foods shopping bag (certainly with an image of the Flatiorns plastered on it). All this Lucien had told me himself. He also told me that this was no reason to fret and assured me that it was just the “price of the game”. With that said, his story is not mine to tell and is only relevant as him being the owner of the black duffel bag.

I crossed the house into the garage. After I slapped the button, the overhead light clicked on and one of the two bay doors began to roll upward. My eyes flashed to the far wall where the black duffel bag had sat the entire month I had cohabitated with it. Still in the same spot, I wanted to grab it right then and be done with it. In the same moment, something hijacked my eye outside the now fully open garage door.

A black Cadillac Escalade with brand-new glossy paint parked across the street. The oversized vehicle, a black sheep in the flock of Priuses and Subarus that roamed the surrounding Colorado suburb. As I watched, a Mexican gentleman hopped from the driver’s seat. Now, I would never want to be perceived as presumptuous or ignorant, so I’ll explain just how I was quite sure he was in fact of Mexican heritage. This man wore Chuck Taylor high-tops, khakis, a bandana, and a freshly bic’d bald head. He looked like a living caricature. One-button-fastened on his flannel, mustache with its-own-zip-code, walking stereotype. If this man’s outfit was Halloween costume, it would end have ended any aspiring politician’s career (at the time of writing this in 2018). If this man were whistling La Cucaracha, somehow it would make him seem less Mexican. I’m sure you get my point.

Ethnicity aside, this man was a very conspicuous character in the crunchy granola, completely Caucasian Colorado suburb. It took every ounce of effort I had not to show my surprise as he crossed the road directly toward me. I forced myself instead to focus my attention on my most prized possession sitting before me. I used my T-shirt to clean the lime green pockmarked gas tank of my 1972 Kawasaki Bighorn motorcycle. The man showed me no indication that he saw me, although he must have. Out of my sight quick enough, I could still hear him as he knocked on the front door of the house I had just exited. I held my breath to eavesdrop better while I busied my hands priming the engine. I heard the front door’s telltale moan and then,

“Aye, what up, homes?” from the man (as he greeted who could only be Lucien).

The door closed with a slightly less resonant thud, and I couldn’t hear anything more. I thought it was strange as I straddled the vintage motorcycle. Rolling silently down the driveway toward the street, I stopped to inspect the Escalade. It had California license plates. I knew nothing of the specifics of Lucien’s business, but it wasn’t much of a stretch to guess the man had something to do with it. I had no way of understanding the serious implications the Mexican man represented, although it didn’t directly have anything to do with the meager contents of that black duffel bag - not that bag of cannabis at least. I gave the nearly fifty-year-old motorcycle starter one good kick, and it thundered to life. Oh, what a feeling. Feathering the throttle, I glided through the crunchy-granola suburb. The neighborhood, as homogenous in its construction as its residents, was a giant square with one entrance and one exit. Most of the houses were mirror-image identical. This included the house I lived—albeit by for only less than one month.

The neighborhood’s single entrance led directly into a shopping plaza. The plaza was the sacred ground of white-collar consumerism, a perfectly balanced ecosystem of corporations beloved by the suburban faithful. Whole Foods, Target, and Starbucks formed the Holy Trinity, and surrounding them were all the loyal apostles: Panera, TJ Maxx, Chipotle, a generic bake shop, Lululemon, PetSmart, REI, a Verizon store, and a dry cleaner that somehow always had a “Grand Opening” sign—but never seemed to be open. If there had been a Cheesecake Factory, the circle would’ve been complete. Three minutes and thirty seconds after I left the house, I walked into the Judas of the Christianity analogy—Buffalo Wild Wings.

The roughly two hundred televisions of every possible size variation were all playing SportsCenter. Now while this may seem inane, it’s critical to understand that the average sports fan—and especially everyone who frequents Buffalo Wild Wings—requires constant inundation with SportsCenter so they can regurgitate the show’s statistics and opinions as their own tightly held convictions. This is especially critical for the Buffalo Wild Wings crowd, who parrot the show’s pundits with more and more conviction equal to their level of intoxication.

I sat myself at a high-top in the middle of the mostly empty restaurant. A couple minutes later, a waitress dressed as a referee approached me. Once again, this could on first appraisal seem like silly and juvenile (it is), but it actually makes sense—at least aesthetically. Hear me out. The referee outfits make sense visually because the average sports fan and Buffalo Wild Wings regular always chooses to dress like their big sports heroes, wrapped in their favorite player’s jersey. Monkey see, monkey do. Which is only weird and pathetic if you think about it too much—which, I tend to do. These observations are just my attempts at humor. The only thing that truly bothers me are the people who take the tribalism—based on arbitrary colors and mascots—too far. And of course, these people can be found in high concentrations at any Buffalo Wild Wings, united under the fluorescent glow of Sportcenter—even just before noon on Tuesday. Deep down, I’m just jealous that people can derive genuine joy from watching others play a game. But I guess I should get back to my own much, much more healthy and totally not pathetic interests.

“Dale’s Pale Ale, please. Yes, the big glass sounds great. Thank you.”

I heard myself say these words without thinking, although there was certainly some premeditation. I had told Tommy to meet me there, and it wasn’t because of the two thousand flavors of chicken wings. Like so many things in my life, this was simultaneously meticulously planned and just happening. The ref wordlessly placed the extra-tall beer in front of me. I pulled out my phone and tapped out a text to Tommy: I’m at B-Dubs.

Dale’s Pale Ale is the flagship brew of Oskar Blues Brewery, a local spot less than fifteen minutes south of where I sat in Longmont, Colorado. Described as a not-quite India Pale Ale, the golden liquid is less bitter than a traditional IPA—still strong, but smooth. I’d once heard someone compare an IPA’s flavor to “blowing a shoeshine boy,” which rang true enough to remember it forever. Dale’s was my go-to, and they’d recently started putting it in cans, which made my go-to now a frequent to-go as well.

Tommy walked in almost an hour later. He looked like he always did: dirty canvas work pants, clean white T-shirt, frayed skate shoes. We met eyes and shared a little shitty smile as he took a seat.

“Hey man, what’s up?”

My words were already rounder, even though I had responsibly switched to regular-sized pints for the two rounds proceeding the first big glass.

“Want one?”

I asked out of the side of my mouth. Tommy’s mouth tightened, then relaxed.

“Sure, why not.”

I flashed two fingers for the ref, and she nodded. Time passed much more easily than it had all morning. The alcohol alleviated my anxiety, as it always did. Of course, there was a diminishing return to this effect—but that was future-me’s problem.

The sun was high overhead when Tommy and I emerged into the shopping plaza. Straight ahead of us stood the iconic Flatirons. The top of the distinct rock formation seemed perfectly placed above the Target, centered on the building’s red bullseye. It was beautiful—but in an off, dystopian sort of way. The three outcroppings of The Flatiorns Mountain stand at seven thousand feet above Boulder and are the symbol of the community. If the mountain’s image wasn’t so commercially overused, I might say it had some spiritual power. Its likeness can be seen everywhere—plastered on coffee shop logos to mega-church steeples, rehab centers to breweries, and of course every reusable shopping bag in a fifty-mile radius. I pulled a light blue pouch of Bugler tobacco from my pocket and rolled a cigarette—a process that was second nature at this point.

“Where’s the Beast?”

I asked while lighting it. The Beast was my affectionate name for Tommy’s nineteen ninety-something Jeep that he had customized himself. Original red paint on the top, a sprayed-on coat of black rubberized paint on the bottom. The front and rear bumpers had been upgraded to 2x4s, and the front passenger seat removed entirely and replaced with a Marshall guitar amplifier wired into the sound system. Tommy always kept a lyricless reggae CD in constant rotation, with butthole-puckering bass that shook your fillings loose. Tommy lifted his head to the left and held out the keys to me.

“Keys are in the ignition,”

I said and gestured in the direction of my prized possession.

“Good luck,” he offered.

“Yeah… I mean, hell yeah. I’ll text you when I’m leaving.”

“There’s no service up there, remember?”

“Oh yeah... Well, I’ll see you when I get there, then.”

Tommy just nodded and headed toward my motorcycle. I was relieved when it started, but the pit in my stomach doubled as I watched him exit the shopping plaza. I took one last long pull on the cigarette and flicked it. Unlocking and climbing into the Beast felt sort of like reuniting with an old friend. I involuntarily smiled, even though I was still nauseous with anticipation. Turning the key, it roared to life and the Marshall amp pumped out a rhythmic beat. Rolling out of the parking lot, I proceeded parallel to the Target, the Flatirons framed behind it like some natural cathedral of irony.

I exited the shopping plaza and re-entered the suburban neighborhood through its only throat-like entrance. Killing the radio, I could hear my heart beating just as loud as the bass had been. Leaning forward, I craned my neck in an attempt to see the house a fraction of a second earlier.

Fuck.

Something was wrong. While I expected to see Lucien’s brown Honda Pilot and possibly the Escalade as well, there was now a third vehicle—a silver Toyota Tacoma pickup with a cap over the bed—backed up to the garage. What the fuck? Lucien hadn’t had a single houseguest in the last month. Today he had two. I correctly assumed the unknown visitors had nothing to do with the black duffel bag, but their serendipitous arrival would still forever alter the trajectory of my life. I drove past the house and circled the neighborhood, which was really just one big square. After exiting, I parked back in the shopping plaza, this time with a clear view of the only entrance and exit. Slumping in my seat, I fished the Bugler pouch from my pocket.

“It’s a fucking wook”

I exclaimed to no one. Wook is a term heavily used—though not exclusively—by Tommy and me. It refers to a specific subspecies of the modern dirty hippie. Easily identified by their appearance, the first indicator is dreadlocks. The tangled hair growth is not limited to their heads and can be found in their facial hair, armpits, and, in severe cases, the pubic region. While most wooks have pale white skin, there are some notable exceptions. Additional indicators include crystal necklaces (believed by the specimen to harness various “energies”), sun-faded festival wristbands that have not been removed since the Obama administration, and stains of indeterminate origin on nearly every visible textile. Their natural habitat is the Rocky Mountains, particularly in the high-altitude communes of Nederland, Colorado—widely recognized as the Mecca of wook migration. There, they congregate seasonally, often following the bass-heavy mating calls of music festivals such as Sonic Bloom, Arise, or Electric Forest. Their diet consists primarily of hummus, cigarettes, and whatever can be traded for nitrous oxide balloons. The smell of a wook is a complex pheromone cocktail—some ratio of patchouli to body odor—though the mixture varies by specimen and altitude. You can sometimes detect one before you see it, the way you might sense a skunk or a gas leak. While the species is generally harmless, approach with caution. Wooks will often carry pit bull puppies or half-feral mutts—possibly for warmth, possibly for barter. No one really knows. Upon first encounter, they will almost always ask if you can “spare a smoke” or “know anyone with a rig.” I would highly encourage any traveler to Colorado to study this creature before venturing onto a mountain highway alone. A prepared mind may not save you, but it will at least help you recognize when it’s too late.

To my surprise, the silver Tacoma had left the neighborhood driven by a wook. This particular wook was a mature elder, somewhere north of thirty years old—several lifetimes in wook years. He had long dreads tied behind his head with a black bandana and no visible tie-dye, which indicated an attempt at camouflage. This was another uncanny twist in an already weird day, but a positive occurrence at least. One down, two more to go. I rolled yet another cigarette. A pile of butts was forming on the ground outside the Beast’s driver-side window. Time crept on with no sign of the Escalade or the Pilot. Several more butts joined the pile, and the sun began to set. The last rays of light reached over the jagged points of the Flatirons. My mouth tasted like a carload of ass and my buzz was totally gone.

Fuck this.

I started to consider the possibility that Lucien might not leave the house tonight, which meant I had ultimately made myself homeless for nothing. These thoughts seared the front of my skull. I felt sick as reality got wobbly. Then just as quickly as it started, it stopped. I just couldn’t care anymore—not at that moment. Suddenly, all that was inside my mind was two thousand flavors of chicken wings. I left the Beast where it sat and entered the Buffalo Wild Wings for the second time that day. Now, at full capacity with jersey-clad monkies, I had no option but to sit at the bar. I ordered the larger-sized pale ale again and some middle-of-the-road spicy chicken wings. The bartender was not dressed as a referee, which I found rather upsetting. Deep down, I kind of knew my frustration wasn’t about the inconsistency of Buffalo Wild Wings’s uniform policy. My beer half gone, I ordered another. Terrible timing. What a waste of a day—the day I chose to do this, and everything goes to hell. The bartender set the second pint in front of me and I chugged the rest of the first. So much of life was just timing and chance. It was by chance I’d even met Lucian; one tiny variation in the roll of the dice and I’d never have known about him—or about the fucking black duffel bag.

By the time I was halfway through the second large glass I knew I was drinking too fast, but knowing and stopping were separate animals. Awareness was a spectator sport; correction required discipline—discipline I had lost sometime ago, although I couldn’t say exactly where. The beer was cold, the wings were late, and I had nothing left to fix but the pace of my own undoing. I promised myself I’d only order another when the food came, and that it would be smaller. Everything was relative anyway. The duffel bag was nothing to Lucian and life-changing to me. I wanted it—no, I needed it—a lifeline thrown into the sea of troubles I’d found myself in. The wings arrived hot and steaming, sauce running down the sides of the basket. The sweet heat hit my nose and I wondered how much worse the spicier options could be. Everything was relative. The bite of the beer and the burn of the sauce pushed each other forward, and I drank even faster. I ordered another only after finishing the last, forgetting to change to the smaller size. I never could pump the brakes once drinking or thinking built speed like this. The two things always worked in tandem—pure coincidence, I told myself. A coincidence, just like Lucian’s houseguest. Random correspondence, chance stacking the cards. By the fourth beer I knew I was crossing the border into belligerence. I didn’t care. Belligerence was a gift. Fuck it. All my inhibitions lifted; everything that had seemed heavy before now felt like smoke— which reminded me I felt like a smoke. Fuck it. I’d take the black duffel bag tonight—whoever was home be damned. Lucian was probably in the basement, deep in a K-hole, his body parked somewhere between sleep and surgery. He wouldn’t miss a measly pound of weed. Not for a few days at least.

“Fuck it”

I said again, out loud maybe for the first time, earning a side-eye from the Peyton-Manning-jerseyed fanboy on the next stool. I rolled a cigarette as I left the Buffalo Wild Wings, spilling tobacco across the moonlit pavement. The roll came out loose; shreds fell through the mouthpiece into my mouth—another warning light blinking red that I ignored.

I woke The Beast and revved the engine, flame from the lighter flickering across the windshield, smoke curling into my eyes. The turn out of the plaza went wide, the tires screaming their brief protest before catching. I blasted through the neighborhood’s single entrance and exit, headlights cutting across dark windows. I didn’t strain to see the house this time. I rolled to a stop in front, engine idling, the smoke inside the cab turning silver under the streetlight. For a heartbeat the world froze. The smoke folded over itself in slow motion, perfect and weightless. Silence stretched until my own breath filled it—loud, ragged. For one second, everything stood still—for the last time. I didn’t know it then, but from that point on, time would only move faster and faster. I burst from the belly of The Beast and sprinted across the lawn, disappearing along the edge of the house. I crouched beneath the first window; no light behind it. I rose, just high enough to look back toward the driveway—There were no vehicles at all, and the house was completely dark. I exhaled for the first time all day. Empty. Silent. The relief came quick and strange, rolling into laughter that echoed across the lawn—laughter that didn’t sound like mine. A madman in the night. Focused again, I checked the bathroom window—still unlocked, just as planned. I hadn’t lived there long enough for a key, and I’d used that window before. The front door was probably unlocked too, but that didn’t matter now.

A minute later, I was inside. The air was stale, familiar. I moved through the dark by memory and hit the garage door button. The light came on, humming, and my stomach fell through the floor. The black duffel bag was gone. In its place: trash. Piles of black garbage bags slumped where the prize had been.

“Fuck my life.”

I said aloud. Of course it was gone. Someone—one of Lucian’s randoms—had taken it. My money was on the Wook. I crossed the garage in two strides to the far wall. Three, six, nine black bags. My heart sank, the burn of tears behind my eyes—then a flash flood of rage.

“Bullshit!”

I kicked the nearest bag. My foot hit something soft; it slid across the floor, lighter than I’d expected. I froze. Curiosity cut through the anger. The next bag weighed maybe (exactly) ten pounds. I untied the flaps—an instant punch of skunky, chemical sweetness hit my nose. The same smell that had hung in this garage since I moved in. The same smell that had led me to the duffel bag in the first place. I reached in and felt plastic. Pulled it out into the humming light. My brain caught up a beat later. Gold. Golden Goat that is. A full, vacuum-sealed pound—dense, fragrant, and beautiful. I tore through another. Silver. Silver Haze of course, trichomes sparkling like frost. Then the realization hit like a blow: every one of those black bags was full. I lunged, hugged another close, the air thick with weed and disbelief.

Holy shit—it was all weed.

For a moment I just stood there, surrounded by it, heart hammering. The sound of the garage light buzzing overhead. The smell so thick it was dizzying. And then the weight of it all hit me. I’d stumbled into something unreal—a truly life changing score.

Now, I’d love to tell you I paused and thought about the consequences, weighed the morality, considered the risk. But that would be a goddamn lie. I had a black garbage bag in each hand and was through the garage door, heading toward the Beast faster than you could shake a Thai-stick at. I tossed the bags into the trunk and turned back for another run when I saw them. This time I really did shit a little—my sphincter had already been pushed to its limit today. Two figures stood on the sidewalk between the house and the street. Joggers. A man and a woman. Both stopped, both staring straight at me. For a split second I froze, my mind white noise. Then, somehow, I found my voice.

“Howdy!”

I said, way too loud. No response. The Beast idled in the driveway, puffing exhaust and very suspicious in its own right. The smell of weed had to be rolling out of the garage like an invisible fog horn. The joggers lingered. I observed their arched eyebrows and concerned faces as I forced my legs forward. They weren’t leaving. How long had they been there?

“Just moving out!”

I shouted again. I was impressed with myself for this and felt my confidence coming back. Hell it was kind of true too, if you squinted at it sideways. The woman gave a hesitant wave—the kind of wave people give dogs they aren’t sure are friendly. Who the fuck were these people? I’d never seen them before and I’d never see them again. On my second trip toward them, I flashed a big toothy smile, the kind that hopefully doesn’t look as quilty as it feels. In my head, though, I was cursing them out: bitch-ass, busybody cunts. By the third trip, they’d finally started walking away—but slow, like they were waiting for me to sprout handcuffs. Both of them kept glancing back over their shoulders. Screw them. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like anybody would ever come searching for witnesses to the theft of pounds of marijuana. I went back into the garage for the final haul. Two of the last three garbage bags came up easy. And there, beneath them, half-buried and waiting, was the black duffel bag. I stared at it for a long moment. What a goddamn rollercoaster. My nerves were shot. I laughed again—dry, cracked probably on the edge of hysterical. In some twisted gesture of compassion, or maybe just superstition, I decided to leave the duffel bag behind. Leave Lucian something. I even left one garbage bag for good measure. Just the price of the game right? I hit the button to close the garage door, grabbed the last two bags, and stepped over the sensor just as the door began to hum shut. That was it. What timing. What a bizarre twist of fate.