Hind sight is always 20/20, as they say. Sitting in that chair, bending my mind to find a way into that room without suspicion, brought that cliche comment, into my thoughts. I think about the fourteen hundred dollars I had in my hand a few days ago. The curled wad of cash, so thick, it wouldn’t even fit into my jean pocket. I think about how it could have paid for a week in a safe little hotel, plus food, but no. Those damn mushrooms we did, taking all the sense in my brain, turning it into a restless pile of meandering nonsense. An overwhelming trip, with a heavy undertone of hyper static. Mushrooms leave you with minimal decision making skills. Each thought overlapping the other, leaving you agitated and hurried. One thing to the next. Ever changing and transient. Never mind the fact, that, that day in particular, She and I had shared an entire quarter of mushrooms between each other, in one fowl tasting gulp. A quarter, seven grams. Ingested in a matter of five minutes between the both of us. That makes for one conscious smothering high, but I guess I can’t blame it all on the mushrooms.
One thing was to blame for a situation such as this, money. It’s always money. Every dirty, under handed little thing, can owe itself to money. The reason I’m sitting here on this cheap, awkward, wood press chair. The reason She, is submissively inhaling the devil in the next room. Why, Leb is breathing deep, rage filled sighs across from me. Money. Everything costs something, in one way or another. Which takes this story back a week or so. To when Tyler called a friend, asking if we could crash at his place for the night.
Mr. Suburban. Mr. Suburban lives in a rural community outside of the city. He wears Billabong t-shirts and looks like a well to do college student with goals and aspirations. Mr.Suburban has a laid back beachy haircut, and probably snowboards in the winter season. He’s a very cordial and well-mannered man, so much so, I’m surprised Tyler even has friends like this. Mr.Suburban has a practical, family marketed car, and his house is clean and neatly furnished. He kindly mixes all our drinks, and not once approaches me, or She with inappropriate sexual gestures. Even goes so far as to lend us pyjamas for our informal sleepover. Offers us breakfast in the morning when we wake up hungover and delirious. When he leaves, he tells us to take our time and feel free to shower. Tells us he has two homes, this being the house he rarely uses, only to party, and not to worry about staying here most of the day, if we’d like too. He writes his phone number on the inside of my pack of cigarettes before he walks out the door, and I’m relieved.
Too bad I’ll screw it all up, when I rob his house a few days from now…