Tzvi's Trees: Stories About Weed
Tzvi’s Trees: Stories About Weed - are original short stories inspired by the culture, people, music, scene, and existence of marijuana in the lives of Human kind. Much like all of Peckar’s writing, Tzvi’s Trees teeter on a fine balance between Absolute Fiction and Personal Memoir, and yet Mr. Peckar himself will admit that to him they are one of the same and cannot exist without each other.
#15 Hazy, Lazy N Crazy
#15 Hazy, Lazy, n’ Crazy
by Tzvi Peckar the Third
There was no way off the futon for these three. The studio apartment billowed in smoke. The hallway reeked of marijuana—It was only noon o’clock—There was no way the three of them would go outside today. Maybe if they smoked another bowl. “Don’t pack it so tight this time,” insists the longhaired, newborn millennial hippy with a few dreads and a raggedy spider trailed beard. “Chill man. I’ll get it good,” replied the peacock rainbow haired twenty year old urbanized street hippy in a Hindi skirt with a long sleeve hole infested t-shirt stamped on the back with a faded black & white illustration of a pot leaf haired Jesus on a dabber cross with a doobie sticking out of the savior’s side. “Where’d you get that shirt?” the baldhead dude asks while tracing the lines around the doobie in the messiah’s belly. “I just got it,” the Peacock answers with a shrug, “Come on guy. Yer kinda fucking up my grind”—“Testy,” the bald dude says as he slips back into the futon, covering his head with his black hoody, and sulking. Who invited her he first thought. But he wasn’t even sure if this was his apartment or not. He was just so stoned. The Hippy always forgot about the Bald One. The Hippy always preferred hanging with the Peacock.
Peacock twists the grinder in her hand. The Hippy watches through the hazy atmosphere of the apartment. They never cleared the bong. Smoke still twists itself out of the glass tube. The bong smoke smells stale. A dirt to the burn. Peacock grinds that shit. Back and forth, back and forth. Left then right. She cranks the metal top open. “All resin in there man. Clean that shit. Gets jammed up.” and she pops it back on and back and forth, left then right. “Yeah I gotta clean that,” the Hippy agrees. The Bald One mopes offended from the shrug off. “I just thought it was a cool shirt,” he says under his breath. “Crawl back in the womb dude,” she says knocking his knee with hers. “Yeah whatever,” the Bald One pouts crossing his arms. “We’re gonna give him the first hit, kay?” she says to the Hippy as she stomps the shredded weed out onto the folded printer paper. “Yeah he needs another,” the Hippy agrees again. “I can hear you guys,” the Bald One is morphing into an annoying little brat for no reason ‘cept being totally in love with the Peacock who could care less if he was on a ledge pledging all his love to her with a gun at his dick. “Shoot it. That would be crazy,” she would say. And she’d imagine this fetus would probably shoot his own dick off for her. And he would. “You really gotta mellow out dude. You want to hit this or what?” she asks the Bald One as she bangs the debris from the bong stem into the ashtray and gently packs the next bowl. “You gonna clear it first?” he asks back—Wow what a tight wad—“Yeah man. Whatever,” and she clears the bong from the stale smoke and sucks down the pain, exhaling it right into the fetus’ face. “That shit smells vile,” he says waving the smoke away. The Hippy laughs, “She’s one tough cookie eh?”—“Yeah for make-believe,” replies the Bald One’s nihilistic subconscious.
The Bald One sits up. Cracks his neck. Takes the bong. Peacock is willing to light it for him. He takes the lighter from her, “I can do it. I’m not a child.”—Leaning over to the Hippy, Peacock simply says, “No, he’s a fucking crazy fetus”—“I can still hear you”—“Hit it already!” Peacock and the Hippy say in unison—And so the Bald One grimaces at them and hits the bong. They watch as he takes the whole tube with one long inhale. His eyes fill with clouds. His nostrils leak a stream of smoke. His face is red. His lungs hold it deep inside. They wait for him to exhale. Will he ever let it loose. He might pass out. What is he trying to prove? Nothing. He’s just stupid and lets it all out followed by a cough that lasts a good couple of minutes. Peacock is not impressed. The Bald One sinks back into the futon. Peacock points out that there’s a little something at the corner of his lip. He wipes away the dribble from cough attack. She laughs at him. A cackle sort of laugh. Like a chicken in heat. Why pick on me? Why you gotta be like that? I’m just hanging out. Why you gotta be all bitch flirty? The Bald One whimpered and cried to himself behind his mystic of anger that could only be described as the pout of perfection.
The Hippy’s bored of the futon and suggests, “Maybe we should make a gravity bong?”—“Hell yeah,” Peacock’s in and whacks the Bald One in the ribs. “Too stoned?”—“Ha. Ha,” he fake laughs in return and she punches him in the inner thigh. The Hippy gets up to fetch a gallon water tub. “My knees cracked,” he says and Peacock just looks at him like, “So?”
The Bald One has slouched deeper into the futon. He’s watching Peacock out of the corner of his eye. He is giving his best go at a look of seduction. He is a retarded tiger. She doesn’t notice him. She isn’t going to notice. Is this child really prepping his soft brain to make a move on this chick? Peacock sticks the metal poker into the bowl. Twists the poker in and tears out the linty, resin weed debris. “You want to hook up?” asks the Bald One. “No,” she says without even the slightest real acknowledgment of the question. “Why not?” begs the Fetus— “Cause you’re lazy,” she says shooing his leg away from her. He feels rejected. She gets up. Whoa, kinda stoned. She adjusts her peacock like feathers of hair that flare out of her scrunchy and announces, “Gravity bong boner. Come,” and then she trips over the table, laughs, and heads to the bathroom where the rushing of bathwater can be heard.
Peacock peaks in. The Hippy is melting a metal bowl into the plastic cap for the gallon jug. “Could you cut that?” he asks her elbowing towards the jug. “Scissors?”—“I don’t know. Find some?”—“Lame dude”—but he just melts the cap away while the water gushes and the Bald One pops up behind her spooking the bird. “What the fuck man? Creepy”—“That gonna be the gravity bong?” asks shit shine. “Yeah duh. Find me some scissors,” she commands the testicle wimp of a stoner dude who was lame enough to ask if he could hook up, but he doesn’t move. “Please?” Peacock whines with her vagina eyes trying to talk in a language the Bald One might understand—“Yeah okay.”
Peacock sits it down on the john. Her knees spread wide, the hippy hindi skirt drapes between her thighs, fanning out from her bare feet on the tiled floor. “What’s with that guy?” she asks the Hippy. “What’s with anyone really?”—“Turn the water off dude,” she says as she cranks the faucet closed, “I just got accepted into early enrollment.” The Hippy looks up from the finished cap-bowl. “Marines?” he asks. She whaps his half dreadlocked head, “College man.”—“Useless knowledge,” the Hippy quotes Bob Dylan. “You smoke too much weed dude. Why you quotin’ that shit?”—“I got scissors,” says the man-child with eager beaver pecker balls. Peacock just takes the shears and picks up the gallon jug. Out of the corner of her eye she looks over at the Bald One, jabs the open scissor into the lower belly of the plastic jug, twists, smiles and exclaims, “Oooh. Hot huh?”—then she giggles and turns to the Hippy, “Look at him.” The Hippy looks up from re-twisting the metal bowl into the cap. The Bald One’s gone bashful as he has covered his groin with his hands. She actually spooked him. Really? Was she that threatening dude? The Hippy and the Peacock are holding back their laughter. “Go get the weed,” she finally instructs the Bald One. And when he leaves, they laugh.
All three of them are on their knees. They are preparing to take the Eucharist of bored stoners with nothing more to do than smoke more weed in various shapes, forms, functions, and what-evers. “Thank you green gods of the plant planets,” prays the Hippy, “May you send us straight to marijuana heaven on the day we pass out dead from the ganja. Amen”—“Amen,” say the Bald One and the Peacock with the greatest of spiritual conviction. You might puke hearing it it’s so…gross. At least the Bald One has a little bit of a soul to share. “Okay smoke that shit,” Peacock breaks the silence. The jug plummets into the tub water. Peacock ignites the lighter—Jimi’s “Wait Until Tomorrow,” rolls into the soundscape—She waves the flame over the grass as the Hippy gently raises the jug. A tornado of smoke spirals curl into the empty space of the jug. The vacuum is strong. All the smoke of the bowl is sucked inward. Nothing leaks until she removes the lighter and the Hippy fights the vacuum from releasing and popping the cap as smoke pushes its way out through the wire screen in the metal bowl—“Go!”—and the Hippy twists the cap off and dive bombs his lips around the mouth of the jug. Peacock puts a hand on his head and pushes him faster. He sucks it in. All too much. He reflexes back. Smoke escapes everywhere. How much did he get in? And he’s on his back. Flat on the tiles. His eyes are going to pop if doesn’t keep them shut. He exhales half of the jug’s lung smoke into the room. There is no visibility. The Hippy is cold stoned. His body jerks. Silence. He gasps and immediately begins to cough. And cough. Coughing. Coughing. Gag. Cough. Puke a little. Gag. Spit. Cough. Gotta cough it out. Cough. Clear the throat. Cough. Try to gag. Drool. Wipe the chin. “Fuck man. That hits hard,” and he curls himself into a ball in the corner by the door. “Hit it Peacock,” he suggests. “Fuck yeah,” and she turns, hands the Bald One the lighter, and swipes the cap from the edge of the bath. “Hand me that bud,” she asks the Bald One. He breaks it up a bit and taps it into the bowl. “Alright that’s good. But dude, don’t put the flame on the weed,” she tells him. “Yeah I know,” he says. “Do you? Do you know?” she questions him. “Yes. Now come on!” he’s frustrated. “Awe. Still want to kiss me huh?”—“Come on. Just do it,” he says. She smiles and goes for it pushing the jug down as he waves the flame just above the bowl—Fugazi’s “Cassavettes” plays for her as she takes the entire jug like a pro. The Bald One is impressed. The Peacock gently straightens her back into a meditative state as she calmly holds the entire jug of puff in her lungs. Streams of smoke rise from her nostrils and she eases the rest out of her partially open lips. The Bald One is in love. So he just stares. The Hippy can’t move. All he can see is her rainbow toe nails curled up in the bathroom rug of white yarn. And she reclines against the wall. The Bald One is left to set up his own Gravity hit. He does so without notice. The others are done. The Peacock and the Hippy are happy. And the Bald One hits the jug and exhales. “Nice,” says the Peacock who spreads her magnificent tail and allowing her hidden wings tear out from her Jesus print t-shirt. The fabric sheds. She is enormous. Her Hindi skirt hides her monstrous rainbow scaled dragon feet. She fills the room. The psychedelic feathers wave in the smoke and when the Bald One reaches out to kiss her dark purple feathered belly she shrinks, and flies away through a crack in the bathroom window. And the Bald One asks the Hippy, “Was that girl for real?” And the Hippy just replies, “No doubt.” The two roommates who have been too stoned for too long had even forgotten that they knew each other and that the Peacock was just another illusion for them to day-dream away. “We need to go out more,” says the Bald One. “After one more bowl,” replies the Hippy with his face still pressed against the cool tile floor—“Yeah ok. One more bowl.”
This story has been brought to you in part by Jetty Extracts and The Shelter Project.
One for You, One for Cancer.
Tzvi Peckar’s Cannabis Oil of choice.