Tzvi's Trees: Stories About Weed




"I'm looking forward to the book form of these great stories! I imagine them to be fashioned from hemp paper and with the slight aroma of California blue dream wafting from the pages. I'm only one story in and already I long for the texture of these great stories! Can't wait to read more!"

- Andrea Drummer

#20 Four Twenties


#20 Four-Twenties

by Tzvi Peckar the Third



Kelly had to call Jake. Jake had to call Candy. And Candy called Jill. Janet heard about it from Joanie, who found out from Brady. Brady had been eating Jill out when he heard Candy say over the mobile speaker, “Dude like countdown to 4/20. We’re going to Frisco, you in?” Shortly after Jill had finished Brady off, he returned the favor by skating his way through the Santa Rosa residential track homes to his girlfriend Toni’s house to break up with her. Toni wasn’t home. Her older sister Janet answered the door. Brady always liked Janet, “You wanna go to Frisco for 4/20?” he asked her, invited her, bummed a ride from her, hopefully fuck her by 4:20 on 4/20 instead of Jill again. “How old are you?” Janet asked him. “Eighteen,” he said, “I got my med card. I’m good. Want to get high?”—“I’m twenty,” she said, “Duh, I want to get high.”



Washington Square Park was filled by 10am. Who knew stoners could wake and bake so early? These potheads had come from Brooklyn, Upstate, Alabama, the Carolinas; accompanied by bridge and tunnel with Rolling Rocks in their hands and blunts rolled. Carmen had hoofed it from Union Square—12 Blocks—past the dread head black busted pixie on the corner of 8th and University who on a loop cackles her little lost hen pitch, “Extra dollar, extra quarter—Hello!” Carmen was meeting up with Louie and Stan. They were slow to buying during the rush and now they were panicked. “I’m doing ounces at $420 today,” she says looking over Louie’s shoulder at the collection of crystal crack head transplants from Detroit, Michigan who are unilaterally sniping for half/quarter cigarettes that have been dropped to the earth after the cancer collector got lectured by some castrated hippy in yoga gear sporting their medicinal marijuana patch on their forearm. 4/20 was going off this year with colors of drugs and spectaculars. The gays are collecting as well. Gay Ganja Guys with signs. “Dude that’s way too high. We got like $300 for an ounce,” Louie tries getting Carmen’s undivided attention. “Four Twenty,” she says flashing her eyes back at him only to look left and wave over one of her pals. “What up creepster?” and she hugs into a big African American Rasta woven in Jamaican gear, “You always beautiful girl,” he says and nods to Louie. Carmen asks, “Where’s RZA?”—“Home stoned baby girl,” and a kiss on the cheek and smoking and toking strut away into the mass that has filled NYC’s Downtown Arches in the heart of NYU.



They had all met in the heart of the Alabaman Strawberry Field, “It’s a short season, but perfect fer four twenty—You got the acid?” the mullet head asked the long haired confederate-ly bikinied blonde; she bleached it, used to be pink, before that blue, some time in high school she had that shit jet-black and ICP clown faced look, but she was ginger down there—What of it? “Yeah I got et,” she said as she slid the dime bag out from her freckled right breast cup; four squares totally blank and soaked in pure acid from St. Louis. He lit the pre-Four Twenty, Four Twenty blunt and they gave each other their tab. She sucked his dirty index. He had been working in the cow shed in the am. Pop gave him the day off to get his dick wet in that sweet neighbor’s cousin—This girl right here. “We gonna cum at four twenty?” he asked. She cocked her head, “Not without weed between me legs, and a big black blunt in my lips.”



It’s on the 4th floor, dude—Apartment 20—obviously. Don’t push. Chill man. This elevator is slow as fuck. I get it. What am I supposed to do? Yeah, I see them. There’s gonna be like four groups of twenty. I told you. Yes. Dude, you stoned? Yeah. Well I’m stoned, but I’m not retarded—You. You’re retarded—(sigh)—I know your third cousin, forth removed is retarded. Yes. I know it’s your sister’s favorite story. You have an incestuous family. What’s new? You’re from California.—Oh. Excuse me.—Long Beach. Does that really make it any better? Not redneck or hippy. Okay, just crazy. Rich? Very funny. You’re not that rich. Your cousin was? Look, two more. Total potheads—Yeah, so? I’m a functional pothead. There’s a difference. No. Well yeah every day. All day. Yes. About $60 a week or less. Now I’m vaping. No not today. Today’s 4/20. I’ll smoke weed today again. Well I never stopped smoking weed—That would be crazy. Look skaters. One, two. Seven. Twelve. Shit that’s a lot o’ skaters. Shit-vator’s here. We all gonna die in here before we get to 420-ville? How many of us are in here. One, Two, Three. Fuck you I lost count. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen—Ding—4th floor! Move it.


First Continued—

Janet forced Brady to go to the spot and pick up for them. He got a couple top-shelf pre-rolls, a quarter of mid-range Indica for the J, and for himself a quarter of top-shelf Indica and cashed in some points for a quarter of bottom shelf Sativa shake to and two house-rolls. They were both zooted by the time Brady’s girlfriend, Janet’s younger sister, came home and found them necking. She couldn’t take her eyes off Janet’s hand tugging on Brady like she was milking a cow. Brady ignored Toni’s childish girlfriend complaints, whines, accusations, and crimes. Janet tugged a little less. She waited for her sister to just leave already, “Leave!” Janet yelled at Toni the tiny tiger was thrust into high-school heartbreak and hurt feelings, whorled onto her bed, a vortex of her innocent mind, untainted by the cheat, the dagger of confusion, and so young the thought should villainously and arouse her, as she fingered herself, biting her lip, bleeding into the tears that soaked her pillow. She was on her knees. She was praying for the pain to go free. Confused and wondering why she’d be turned on by the burn of the porn show she saw and wanting to get high.


Second Continued—

Stan’s pissed that Louie let it come to this, “Dude I told you we needed to buy it earlier.” There are massive clouds of smoke billowing all around the park. “We didn’t have enough money. You should have smoked less this week,” Louie tries to argue. “Who the fuck smokes less the week before 4/20. That’s just whack man. You smoke more,” Stan whines. “Then you should get a better job,” Louie bitches. “You’re a boner man. You don’t even work,” Stan slaps. “I’m on scholarship bro. I gotta keep up the grades. I ain’t got time to study, smoke pot, and work,” Louie rationalizes as Carmen lowers her 70s’ auburn, silver sunglasses, lighting a cone and passing it to Stan. “So Lou, you buying it?”—“Yeah”—“I think that’s a fabulous idea,” she says and digs into her yarn weaved bag for the weed. Louie pulls out his wad of cash. He wants to count it. Not sure exactly how much he has. He withdrew $240. Stan got another $200. Did he give me his already? Yeah he did. Is that too much, Louie? Louie is nervous. This is way too public. But it’s okay right? You can buy and sell weed in public today, right? And the crowd does a wave as they chant, “Four, Twenty! Four, Twenty! Four, Twenty!”


Third Continued—

“I want to watch your dick get hard when we’re peaking,” Connie the Confederate said to her boyfriend. Mullet man nodded his head. He couldn’t help smiling. He loved his girlfriend. They met in tenth grade; she passed him a note in homeroom that read, “I’ll hold your Mullet when you booze puke tonight. Then I’ll suck your dick”—Now they’re alone together in the strawberry field with psychedelia melting into their tongues pores. She scrapes both tabs off along her teeth and she swallows. “Wanna get high?” he asks the only love in the only town he’s ever known. “Sure,” she replies. Pulls the tobacco rolled weed bone from his overall pocket, sparks it with the Zippo and a—Puff. Puff. Puff—The smoke rises and curls up along his embroidered plow and rifle trucker’s hat. “You’re beautiful,” she says to him and takes the blunt; hits that shit.


Fourth Continued—

Whole place smells like weed. Dude that Pete Rock? Old skool tunes. Apartment 20 we go! We shouldn’t have gotten on first man. We won’t get in. No really. I swear man we should’ve let them all on before us. They only have 4 sets of 20 in the sesh. Hold up. Everyone’s stopping. Dudes are going in. There better be some stoney chicks too man. I don’t want a 4-20 sausage fest. Couple more then we in mutha fucka. Oh that door’s rad. Looks like real pot. Open, weed door. Oh she is fucking hot as shit. I’m Kevin. Sandra’s a nice name. This way? What’s the “D” tattoo on your chest about? Ha—We’ll see. That’s fucking hot bro. That pot bikini is hot. She don’t care. She likes to be called hot. Fuckin’ smiled at me. In there? Okay—Holy fuck, those chicks are twins. I mean, quadruplets, super hot quadruplets? They spell WEED. Dude, they spell fucking weed. Fucking. Weed. My dick is so hard I am going to pass out.


First Hit—

Kelly and Jake came over to Janet’s. Brady rolled a blunt and packed a bong. Janet offered Kelly and Jake the first hit. They all got high. They started to fantasize about the coming 4/20. “Best Holiday, hands down,” Jake said. “Best High-Holiday, ever,” Janet replied. “You Jewish?” asked Brady. “No dude,” Janet said punching him in the shoulder. Kelly takes another newly packed bong rip. Brady sparks a second blunt. Toni is in her room. She can smell the weed filling their parents house. “They do know Mom and Dad are coming home after work right?” she says to herself while realizing that if she doesn’t get high with them then they get busted and not her. “Fuck I want to get high,” she cries into her pillow.

Brady starts hooking up with Janet again. Kelly and Jake have no choice but to follow their lead. Toni still wants to get high. She has crept out her bedroom door—down the stairs. Everyone is making out. Brady has his hand up Janet’s shirt. Gross, Toni thinks. Kelly is actually blowing Jake by now. Hot, Toni thinks and swipes the half smoked blunt and heads to the yard. She lights up, gets fucking high, and returns to her freshly scented bedroom that does not reek of weed and takes a shower. Mom and Dad come home. Janet is 100% forbidden to go to the 4-20 celebration. Brady and the crew’s parents will be informed by text about the happenings with their children and they too will be banned from attending any sort of 4-20 function tomorrow or forever. Toni however, will be free to hang with her friends outside of her siblings prison…and secretly make a jaunt to the massive 4-20 festival and get super high with her good friends who wouldn’t fuck her over just to get down with her older sister.


Second Hit—

Stan and Louie have scored their weed, but missed the hit of 4:20 on 4/20. “Fuck!” Stan cocks. “Hey chill man, it’s four twenty,” says some random stoner walking by without offering them a toke from his doobie. “You think Carmen ripped us off?” Louie asks Stan. “Yeah, duh?” Stan says turning his back on Louie moments before the Goddess of Green descended from the clouds of the netherworlds and into the palm of Louie the humbled. “I have sent you a gift of smoke through the vortex of my combater with your insect mind from the spore of the droplets that feather the earth into the soil blossomed with a sweet nectar that is my essence and your epiphany of…” Without a conclusive thought she vanished and Louie packed a chilin’ and offered it to Stan and Stan smoked it, 4oo and 2o seconds after 4:20 on 4/20.


Third Hit—

The Confederate Bikini came off long ago. They were both completely covered in strawberry dye. Two white devils fucking the fields into a fire that clears the path for another crop. And he blew smoke inside of her. And she exhaled through her pours as she gasped the air filled with THC around her, as she chewed on the black tobacco stalk of weed in her mouth, and she came, and he blew more smoke into her as she sang with a twang on the fork of his uncrop-topped dang at 4:20.


Fourth Hit—

I can’t. It’s so hot. But all these dudes? And why can’t we smoke too? What ever I’m stoned. I like the way the second E girl shotguns her sister. She uses a little tongue. Twenty times. It’s hot. Seven, Eight. These girls are going to be so fucking toasted after shot-gunnin’ that shit. Oh my god they’re touching each other. What the fuck. Kissing and smoking. What the fuck. I planned on getting high, but hell, Happy Four Twenty!


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.