Skunk Weed

Jimmy bought some skunk weed the other day and came home with an old DVD of Pineapple Express. He said, ‘Dude you gotta try this shit,’ and I said, ‘I’m not because it’s shit.’ After a few drags Jimmy said, ‘Maybe it’s shit after all. It’s not kicking in, but do try it,’ and I said, ‘I’m not because it’s shit.’

Soon Jimmy started touching my laptop inappropriately and said, ‘Feel it, brother. It’s a sensual experience,’ and I said, ‘I’m not because it’s shit.’ A few more drags in, and Jimmy started talking with an Indo-African American accent. ‘Dawg, I’mma lose it all,’ he said and wept. ‘What are you going to lose Jimmy?’ I asked, slightly concerned. ‘I’mma lose the truth bruh,’ he said, and I used the clichéd idiom, ‘this too will pass,’ to comfort him, but it didn’t work. ‘Nigga, please! You don’t know what I’mma lose now!’ He bawled.

My mother heard the commotion from the dining room and entered our little drug den. ‘What’s that smell,’ she asked, slightly sternly, and Jimmy immediately fell on his knees and confessed. ‘Ma’am, I smoked some skunk weed with him and now I’mma lose it!’ He cried. ‘What’s it?’ my mother asked him, and he said, ‘It. Ma’am. It.’ And my mother, terrified, cried, ‘Please don’t hurt me! Why do even bring this fool into my house and smoke pot? Now I’m scared of you both,’ I said, ‘Mom I didn’t smoke it. He did,’ but my mother asked us both to get out and come back later, and I literally had to drag Jimmy and push him out of the door, while he whispered, ‘Forgive me, Ma’am. Forgive me, Father. Forgive me, Brother. Forgive me, Sister.’

‘How about we get something to eat Jimmy?’ I asked, and he said, ‘I’mma lose it bruh,’ and I wondered if I’d taken a drag of that skunk weed myself. I took him to a cheap street restaurant, and we ordered Dosas, and he ate like five mega-sized ones. I asked, ‘You feeling better now Jimmy?’ And he shouted, ‘I need to take a shit! I need to take a big shit!’ And the other patrons looked at us with disdain. I pointed in the direction of the restroom, and he ambled after another man going in the same direction. Soon they entered the same room, and though the man pushed Jimmy out, he pushed back and locked the door with both inside.

I rushed to the restroom, only to find Jimmy barging out, hastily zipping up his trousers. ‘Run! Terrorist! Run!’ He screamed, and soon we started running because the man Jimmy locked himself with rushed after us with Jimmy’s shit all over his T-Shirt and pants.

I threw money on the counter, and we ran on roads and muddy paths, we ran on cracked pavements and climbed the gates of houses, only to find dogs chasing us, and we ran past pink houses and white mansions, and seedy, ramshackle huts with no mattresses but still having flat screen TVs, and I wondered if I’d smoked that skunk weed too. We ran past ditches and shallow ponds and broken cars and old Yamaha bikes. We ran and ran until I couldn’t anymore, but Jimmy kept at it.

‘Wait! Stop Jimmy!’ I shouted, and he froze in the center of a highway. ‘No not there you moron! Go to the sidewalk! You’ll get run over!’ I yelled, but he just stood there, catatonic. I finally caught up with him and literally dragged him to the sidewalk while he said, ‘Forgive me, Ma’am. Forgive me, Man. Forgive me, Father. Forgive me, Brother. Forgive me, Sister,’ and I wondered if I’d taken a drag or two of that skunk weed myself.

‘You okay Jimmy?’ I asked him, and he said, ‘I’mma lose it bruh.’

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Originally published on The Literati Mafia

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8 Comments

    1. I will remember to tell him that once he’s out of the institution and stops talking to lightbulbs! Thanks Tara. Your comment brought a smile to my face.

    1. Thank you so much Bruce for such a kind comment. I’m doing much better. I forgot to reply on your blog and so I thought I’d do it here. Writing a novel is excruciating, but who knows? Maybe one day.

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