Page 23 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“Johnny, it’s Maggie McCormick,” I yelled back.

The shooting stopped. A few seconds later the dead bolt on the inside snapped back hard, and the door opened. Johnny stood there, shirtless, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, a pair of ratty jeans sagging down around his hips, exposing about six inches of red tartan boxers.

“Christ, girl,” he said. “You look like shit. Come on in.”

I stepped in. The entire unit was bedroom, living room, and kitchen all crammed into a single dark, claustrophobic space. A glass bong sat on the coffee table. The inside was crusted with brown-green grunge and looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months—if ever. The whole place reeked of marijuana and ripe teenage-boy stink.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said.

“No bother. I was just saving the planet from alien invaders,” he said, dead-bolting the door and pointing at the pixelated creatures frozen on the television set. He picked up the controller, and the screen went to black. “Either you’ve got some real serious hay fever, or you been bawling your eyes out.”

“My boyfriend dumped me.”

“That sucks. You want a Pop-Tart? I got strawberry and chocolate.”

“Thanks, but you got anything stronger?” I pointed at the bong. “Maybe something we can put in there instead of in the toaster?”

He dropped his cigarette into an empty beer can. “Sorry, babe. All I’ve got left is the primo shit.”

“Fine. I’ll take it. How much?”

“Girl, after what you’ve been through, I’m happy to give it to you on the house. The problem is, you can’t handle what I’ve got. This shit is wheelchair weed. A couple of hits, and you won’t be able to walk.”

“I don’t care. I can handle it. Please.”

“No, man. I can’t be responsible for—” He stopped. “Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“Maybe we can shotgun one,” he said. “But just one.”

I gave him a blank stare.

“What are you—like in middle school? Shotgunning is a way to get double the pleasure from a single bag of weed. I’ll fire up the bong, inhale, and then I’ll pass that hit over to you.”

“How?”

He opened a drawer in the coffee table and pulled out an empty toilet paper roll. “With this remarkable high-tech device recommended by stoners everywhere. Allow me to demonstrate.”

The bong was loaded and ready to go. He lit it, inhaled deeply, held it in his lungs for about ten seconds, put the toilet paper roll to his mouth, and then gestured for me to put my mouth around the other end.

As soon as I was in position, he exhaled, and I sucked hard on the cardboard tube. He wasn’t kidding. This was not the marijuana I was used to. I felt it immediately. Or maybe I just wanted to feel it immediately. It didn’t matter. “Oh my God,” I moaned.

“Pretty good, huh? That’s the THC fucking with your brain’s happy campus. But don’t worry. You’re not getting the full blast. I am. You’re only getting secondhand smoke, so you won’t get totally trashed.”

He took another hit and exhaled through the tube. I inhaled deeply and got more than I bargained for. I gagged, started coughing, and finally spit out the piece of cardboard that I’d sucked in.

“This is nasty,” I said, my fingers on the soft, soggy end of the toilet paper roll. “How many people have had their grody wet lips wrapped around this thing?”

He shrugged. “Three, four, I don’t know.”

“Do you have anything cleaner?”

“Jesus, you’re high-maintenance.” He tossed the cardboard roll onto the floor. “Your only other choice is direct contact,” he said, tapping his mouth. “Your call, sweetheart.”

He took another deep hit on the bong, leaned in, pulled me close, and stopped just short of my lips.

I didn’t hesitate. I put my lips to his and drew in the smoke. Euphoria.

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