LatinosUSA

It was late December, and the dulcet
tones of Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic”
played softly on the massive stereo
speakers as a gaggle of hippies sprawled
across the living room. They sat in chairs,
reposed atop the three giant sofas and
clustered along the floor in little groups.
Huge, fragrant candles flickered off of
blacklight posters and shone in the dilated
pupils of those present.

The air was a thick, blue haze, pungent
with the aroma of good Colombian pot.
The youthful men and women were smoking
intently. As many as a dozen joints were
floating round the room. Someone lit up
a square, and this drew cries of derision
from the other hipsters.

“Don’t you know that shit’s bad for you?” they
asked, indignant. Beth, extra-long Virginia
Slims in hand, snorted at them. “You have to
be kidding,” she retorted. “You guys inhale
pot and actually hold it in your lungs!” she
pointed out. “How can that be good for you?”
she wanted to know. She stretched her limbs,
drawing her close-fitting red T-shirt tight
across her torso. Many of the stoned men
silently stared.

It’s organic, someone on the other side of the
room shouted. “So is tobacco!” replied Beth.
“Besides, you have more Paraquat in that pot
than in all the jungles of Viet Nam.” The man
who’d spoken had no answer to that. “So,”
said Beth loudly, “Who’s got some fire?” She
waved her unlit cigarette defiantly in the
air. Some faceless stoner stepped forward, lit
her square with the end of his blunt.

Beth took a deep, satisfying drag, added her
smoke to the cloud already in the air. “There,”
she said contentedly, “that’s better.” A
gaunt, sallow-looking girl, in a peasant blouse
and a long brown ponytail, drew near and
offered Beth a handful of various types of
capsules, pills, and tablets. “Thanks, Cindy,”
said Beth with a bright, sarcastic light in her
eyes, “but are you sure these are organic?”

“Do you know what’s in cigarette smoke, Beth?”
asked Cindy in a sing-song voice. “I dunno,”
replied Beth indifferently, blowing a perfect
ring of smoke. “Benzene, hydrogen cyanide, lead,
arsenic, formaldehyde, polonium 210…” recited her
friend, candlelight striking the peace symbol
round her neck and creating a golden aura that
enveloped the young woman.

Beth held up her hand to stem the tide. “Okay,
okay, from now on I’ll just smoke dope,” she
promised. “Then I can pee on the lawn and kill
all the weeds.” At this vow, everyone seemed
relieved.

Bob, the Sociology Professor, spoke up next, asking
who was in the mood for a “little nooky.” This was
Professor Bob’s home, and naturally, he had reserved
the master bedroom for any ardent student lovers,
whom he normally found plentiful, once everyone
became chemically altered. He felt that that time
had arrived. He rubbed his hands eagerly together.

Olivia, clad in skin-tight, white bellbottoms and with
a blue, woven headband around her forehead, drew
Beth aside and asked, “Do you think I should sleep with
Professor Bob? He’s been pressuring me all semester.”
“I did it once,” revealed Beth. “Was it worthwhile?” Olivia
asked. “I guess so,” replied Beth, “if only for the curiosity
factor.” The other girl looked at her questioningly. Beth
added, “A ‘little nooky’ is right. He’s got the smallest
dick of any adult man I’ve ever seen. And besides, it’ll
only take a minute….” Olivia, blowing out a breath,
shook her head and receded.

Next, Rob turned up. He was a bit older–by about ten
years–than any of the others and was not a student.
However, he was as randy as Professor Bob, and had
befriended him in their mutual pursuit to bed as many
co-eds as was humanly possible. Besides, Rob was
irreverent and usually good for a few laughs.

Gathering a little crowd round him, Rob turned up a
small cassette player, and after the house music was
subdued, snapped it on. Out of the box came moans
and gasping and other expressions of apparent
rapture. “What is this?” asked Beth, furrowing her
brow.

“It’s Jeanne. I wired my bedroom the other night before
she got there. Ain’t that great!” he grinned widely. Beth
and the other women just stared at him, horrified and
disgusted. Professor Bob chuckled, though, as did
those other males who were still sentient. Beth and
the rest of the women drifted away.

The party continued unabated till four a.m. Most of
the partiers were sleeping it off, inert lumps upon the
furniture and strewn across the floor, or had
disappeared back into the cold December air. Beth sat
smoking–true to her promise–a reefer. Suddenly Rob
emerged from a back bedroom, took a seat beside
Beth, and said excitedly that Elaine, one of Beth’s
friends, was pulling a train.

Beth rolled her eyes, said sardonically, “Yeah, you
should really get in on that, Rob. I mean, it’s so
meaningful.” Rob said nothing. “What, did you already
do it?” she inquired. Rob, red-faced, replied that he had
tried but couldn’t perform. Of course, that was due to
his gobbling a handful of speed and… he said, his lips
made looser by the copious consumption of beer as well.

He lit a cigarette, sat staring gloomily at the carpet. His
reputation, such as it was, was at stake. They both knew.
“That’s okay, Rob,” Beth said happily. “Here, let me give
you some good news.” Rob looked up hopefully. She
went on, “Do you know what chemicals are in cigarette
smoke…?”

Previously published in “Children, Churches and Daddies.”