Oliver Benjamin
you got any toke?”
Niles stretched his arms wide and said, “What do you think?”
“I mean, you got any for sale?”
The deliveryman shook his head solemnly. “To a Rastaman,
ganja is a sacrament.” He pulled a joint from a hollowed-out
dreadlock and handed it to Colin. “Selling it would be simony. Let me
bless you with a free one, brother.”
Colin accepted it graciously, lit it, inhaled, choked, and coughed.
“Smooth,” he said, passing back the joint. “Simony?”
“Simon Magus. He was a magician in the bible who traded
blessings for cash. Doing that now’s called simony. Aren’t you Irish
Catholic?”
“Close. I’m Irish alcoholic.”
Roy stepped in, having finished his gardening. Though
momentarily refreshed he now groaned, “For crying out loud, Niles.
You can’t smoke weed in here. This place isn’t above the law.”
“Of course not,” Colin agreed, “It’s below it. Hand me that filthy
herb, Niles.” He extended his palm and twiddled his fleshy fingers.
The Rastafarian turned to Roy. “You got nothing to worry about,
brother. Nobody comes here. You might as well have this shop on the
moon.”
“Oh yeah?” Roy said defensively, “Well how about our new friend
over there?” He indicated the bag lady, sprawled out over the
floorboards, then turned to look out the bay window. “And look!
Here comes some people now.”
But it was only Yak, his business partner. They watched through
the window as he drew nearer, bearing a heavy load like Sheba and
her rat. He carried a bedraggled boy, soaked to the skin and
shivering.
“What the…?” Roy said.
He stepped back to let Yak put the soggy boy down with a plop.
The kid’s jeans and novelty T-shirt were wet and sandy. He dug out a
packet of cigarettes from his pocket and tried to squeeze out the
water. Colin offered him one of his own. Bennie brought out a cigar
and a glass of whiskey, but instead of offering them to the miserable
visitor, poured a few drops into the mouth of the carved wooden
mask on the wall, and stuck the cigar in that.
“Jeez Bennie, do you have to light that stinky thing?” Leona
complained.
“What do you want, San Simon to eat it? He ain’t got no teeth.
9
 |
 |
 |
 |