The campfire blazed and, like the campers, it was far from extinguished. Sure, they were tired. Sure, all had had way too much to drink, but most had slept well until early evening and were still recovering from last night’s festivities. Yep, the five were partiers. Just listen to them tell a story. It usually starts out, “Remember...blank blank blank, we were all so wasted.”
Chris, the self-proclaimed leader of the group was hard at work using the minimal lighting to roll a doobie, while Gordy and Teddy talked nonchalantly about TV characters as if they were real people.
“Who do you think got more ass, Sam Malone on cheers, or Captain Kirk on Star Trek?” Gordy asked, as if this was a legitimate debate.
Teddy weighed his options carefully putting his hands out checking to see which one of the beers he was double fisting was emptier. “I think--I’d have to go with Sam Malone on that one,” he said. “I saw this one episode, where he went on something like thirty-seven dates, and I think he scored on all of them.”
Chris jumped in, “No way man. Did Sam Malone ever sleep with blue haired gorgeous space alien with three tits?”
Stephanie and Ann both looked up, annoyed that their conversation about hairstyles had been interrupted.
“You’re disgusting,” Ann commented toward Chris, sneering in his general direction.
Not that he cared. Soon the joint would be history. None of them cared, that was kind of their motto, “I don’t give a fuck.” They would say it often and always, making sure they accented the middle of fuck, drawing out the vowel, like Smoke Dog from that movie. They didn’t care; they wanted you to know that with extreme animosity, yet soon they would soon be all laughing merrily like Santa Claus the night before Christmas.
“No way--” Teddy was saying, “Society’s fucked up on the regular--rappers are like our superheroes--they have money, power, kids worship them, they have cool aliases--it’s like an X-rated X-men set to music.”
The group agreed, except Gordy who always had to be different.
“All powerful men have had pseudonyms. Most normal people lead dual identities. Superheroes are just a metaphor. It’s a historical fact, Hitler would send certain letters signing only Wolf,” Gordy said smugly.
“Rappers are more like Assassins; in that they exist only in the negative,” Gordy stated.
The girls gave him weird looks.
“They also both have three names,” he concluded.
“All assassins have three name names: John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, Mark David Chapman, and all rappers three names, they have their real name, their rap name, and their alter-ego.”
Chris looked away in disgust; he never appreciated Gordy’s thinking.
The time was nearing four and all of them wanted to be up fairly early so as not to waste another day sleeping. Chris looked like a wide-eyed scientist carefully examining his new discovery. It was in fact not the first one he had rolled tonight.
Teddy interrupted his inspection, “Give it up,” he said, grabbing at Chris’s hand, “it’s my weed.”
Chris threw an elbow into Teddy’s wrist. “Not so fast, you just can’t smoke it right away.”
“What else am I going to do with it” Teddy said laughing, “use it to stir my beer?” Then he stopped, because he realized that he was laughing alone.
“Naw, man you got to give it time to dry,” Chris said in his most stoned-out voice trying to be like his older brother.
“Yeah,” Stephanie seconded taking a seat next to Chris. She was clearly already wasted, but none of the boys there were going to argue about her doing more drugs. Teddy looked back over to Gordy for support but was given a look like, “You’re on your own, man.” Chris was the oldest around the fire, and due to his older brother’s meticulous teachings had also had far more experience in the field than anyone else there.
“Besides,” Chris added, “it’s not even 4:20 yet.”
Teddy looked at his digital sports watch, which glowed fluorescent blue if you touched the two buttons on the side together. The time read 3:55.
Ann spoke up. “So, what does that mean anyway?”
“What do you mean, what does it mean?” Chris snorted. “It’s only like the international smoking time for potheads,” as he high-fived Teddy who, up till now, had been his campfire enemy.
“Yea, but where does it come from?” she inquired innocently.
There was that moment of deafening silence that is except for the crackling of burning wood.
4:20. Where does it come from? Origin unknown?
Stephanie was the first to speak “I think it has something to do with police codes,” she said timidly. “Like, you know, 1-8-7 on an undercover cop, means like kill him. I think. Like 4-2-0 means, like smoke up.” Although it sounded ridiculous it put the fellow smokers at ease. “Yeah” everyone agreed it was obviously the police code for people or person in the progress of getting high. Call for backup.
Chris began to run his lighter along the edges of the joint drying it and making it crisper to smoke.
Teddy interrupted again, “I think I heard it was actually the # of chemicals that are in a joint.”
“Really,” Stephanie said reacting disgusted.
“No, not really,” Chris said on the defensive again, wanting both girls to smoke, “I think it has something to do with this group that use to hang out with “The Dead” at college, or something like that. After classes every day they would meet at 4:20 by some statue, then go smoke up. So that just became the code around nonsmokers that they were going to get high after school.” No one seemed to buy that one, and Chris began to get mad because, if it was one thing he knew about more than these other fucking vanilla babies it was dope.
Stephanie added in a ditsy way, “I think it was either Cheech or Chong’s locker combination.”
The group shared a laugh.
Gordy, who had been silent up till now, laughed even harder almost shooting beer out his nose. “Those are all moderately cool theories,” Gordy said smiling widely showing a cocky superiority to everyone else.
"You should hear my story."
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