Jesus, Mary and Jane

The room sits in a smoky haze, people strewn about on the molding carpet that reeks of human urine and spilled food. The couch upon which he sits, their supplier – their God, is falling apart in pieces, stained with blotches of soda pop and semen. The television flickers about the darkened room, highlighting on the smoke floating through the contaminated air. On the cracked coffee table before him sits a packet of rolling papers and a baggie of weed, awaiting his magical touch. He pinches up some of the green, studying it like an architect studies bones, before sprinkling it onto the rolling paper. Carefully, strategically, he places the roach down; his fingers pick up the contraption, starting in the middle and rolling outward with his thumbs. When he is finished, the excess flap wrapped tightly and licked fully, stuck to the paper beneath it, he plucks a fire engine red Bic from a dazed girls fingers.

As the flame flickers to life, the room suddenly awakens – eager stoners crawling on their hands and knees to gather around his feet, gazing up at him with goofy grins about their faces, eyes lifeless dull shades of their original colors. His long, greasy brown hair falls in front of his face as he inhales deeply, the hollows of his cheeks sinking in even further. The joint gets passed around eagerly, until finally it reaches him again. This time his toke is longer, deeper.

From somewhere upstairs an old grandfather clock chimes, signaling midnight. The people look around, frightened, giggling at noise. When they glance back towards him, all they find is the joint burning slowly, Merry Christmas scrawled on a note atop it. Geoffrey, the owner of the crumbling home, picks it up slowly, a small smile on his chapped lips. He glances towards the ceiling, a little bit of life still left in his eyes.

“Happy birthday, man.”