I would see him at the old Croydon train station.  He was always drinking cheap beer out of 16 ounce cans.  I would always reflect on the old days when I was perfectly happy with a PBR pounder.  When you’re young, you do things like that without even thinking about.


He offers me a can of beer and I take it.  I crack it open and take a deep swig.  I manage to refrain from grimacing and I ask him how he’s been doing.  It’s just courtesy as the evidence presented before me is, in fact, self-evident.


“I got some really great weed.” He informs me,  “Are you still toking?”


“I still take the occasional hit.” I respond.


“That’s too bad.  This is really good stuff.  Do you want any?”

I’m pressed for time but I want to be polite.  I take a quick toke and hand it back to him.  I try to toss down the beer quickly.


He starts talking of his financial difficulties so I throw a Hamilton his way.  I was well aware that I was feeding an addiction but guilt is a powerful motivator.


I finish the beer and bid him adieu.  I toss the beer in the trash can.


“Ain’t you gonna stay and burn one?.  You think you’re too good to smoke a joint with me.”


“It’s not like that.  I just have to be somewhere.  I’m already running late.”


He continues criticizing me.  “Later on, man.” I bid him good night again and begin walking down the stairs back to the street.


“Marijuana loves you.” he yells out to me.


Obviously, Mary Jane and Daemon Alcools don’t love him all that much.  I elect to not belabor the obvious.  Some things go without say and may as well remain that way.




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