But I am.
I got home from the gym to find Max mowing the lawn next door — his grandparents’ — and a wedgelike heap of wood mulch, which I had ordered from the county a few weeks back, completely engulfing the inner slab of my driveway. Max, who is always friendly, waved and shut off his mower to listen again when I remarked “Looks like I got my work cut out for me here.” He glanced over at the heap, flapped his hand vaguely around his face and said “I thought I was whiffing something.”
“How long you think ‘d take us to smoke all this shit?” I said.
Now, you see, if he wasn’t totally down with an idea like that, he wouldn’t have whooped and doubled over like I’d just shot him in the belly button with a can of Freon.
I don’t even smoke stuff myself; never did, pipes can’t take it. But I went to a small liberal arts school in the Northeast, and I got the sense that Max wasn’t on the same page with the rest of his red-voting, gun-toting clan.
Of course, he now probably imagines I own a bong as big as the Ritz. Well, a young man should have a fantasy.