Part 9 (1/2)
MOONER AND I stood in the hall in front of my apartment. Mooner had a small duffel bag with him that I a.s.sumed contained a change of clothes and a full range of drugs.
”Okay,” I said, ”here's the thing. You're welcome to stay here, but you can't do drugs.”
”Dude,” Mooner said.
”Are there any drugs in the bag?”
”Hey, what do I look like?”
”You look like a stoner.”
”Well, yeah, but that's because you know me.”
”Empty the bag on the floor.”
Mooner dumped the contents of the bag on the floor. I put Mooner's clothes back in the bag, and I confiscated everything else. Pipes and papers and an a.s.sortment of controlled substances. I let us into my apartment, flushed the contents of the plasticene bags, and tossed the hardware in the trash.
”No drugs as long as you live here,” I said.
”Hey, that's cool,” Mooner said. ”The Mooner doesn't actually need drugs. The Mooner is a recreational user.”
Uh-huh.
I gave Mooner a pillow and a quilt, and I went to bed. At 4:00 A.M. I woke up to the television blaring in the living room. I shuffled out in my T-s.h.i.+rt and flannel boxers and squinted at Mooner.
”What's going on? Don't you sleep?”
”I usually sleep like a rock. I don't know the deal here. I think it's all like, too much. I'm feeling b.u.mmed, man. You know what I'm saying? Edgy.”
”Yeah. Sounds to me like you need a joint.”
”It's medicinal, dude. In California you can get pot by prescription.”
”Forget it.” I went back to my bedroom, closed and locked the door, and put the pillow over my head.
THE NEXT TIME I straggled out it was seven, Mooner was asleep on the floor, and Sat.u.r.day morning cartoons were on. I got the coffee machine started, gave Rex some fresh water and food, and dropped a slice of bread into my brand-new toaster. The smell of coffee brewing got Mooner to his feet.
”Yo,” he said, ”what's for breakfast?”
”Toast and coffee.”
”Your grandmother would have made me pancakes.”
”My grandmother isn't here.”
”You're just trying to make it hard on me, man. Probably you've been scarfing down doughnuts and all I'm allowed to eat is toast. I'm talking about my rights, here.” He wasn't exactly yelling, but he wasn't talking softly, either. ”I'm a human being and I've got rights.”
”What rights are you talking about? The right to have pancakes? The right to have doughnuts?”
”I don't remember.”
Oh boy.
He flopped down on the couch. ”This apartment is depressing. It makes me, like, nervous. How can you stand to live here?”
”Do you want coffee, or what?”
”Yes! I want coffee and I want it now.” His voice ratcheted up a notch. Definitely yelling now. ”You can't expect me to wait forever for coffee!”
I slammed a mug down on the kitchen counter, slopped some coffee in it, and shoved it at Mooner. Then I dialed Morelli.
”I need drugs,” I said to Morelli. ”You have to get me some drugs.”
”You mean like antibiotic?”
”No. Like marijuana. I flushed all Mooner's drugs down the toilet last night, and now I hate him. He's completely PMS.”
”I thought the plan was to dry him out.”
”It isn't worth it. I like him better when he's high.”
”Hang in there,” Morelli said. And he hung up.
”This is like bogus coffee, dude,” Mooner said. ”I need a latte.”
”Fine! Let's go get a d.a.m.n latte.” I grabbed my bag and keys and shoved Mooner out the door.
”Hey, I need shoes, man,” Mooner said.
I performed an exaggerated eye roll and sighed really loudly while Mooner grumped back into the apartment to get his shoes. Great. I wasn't even strung out and now I was PMSing, too.
SITTING IN A coffeehouse leisurely sipping a latte wasn't on my morning schedule, so I opted for the McDonald's drive-through, where the breakfast menu listed french vanilla lattes and and pancakes. They weren't Grandma-caliber pancakes, but they weren't bad, either, and they were easier to come by. pancakes. They weren't Grandma-caliber pancakes, but they weren't bad, either, and they were easier to come by.
The sky was overcast, threatening rain. No surprise there. Rain is de rigueur for Jersey in April. Steady, gray drizzle that encourages statewide bad hair and couch potato mentality. In school they used to teach us April showers bring May flowers. April showers also bring twelve-car pileups on the Jersey Turnpike and swollen, snot-clogged sinuses. The upside to this is that we frequently have reason to shop for new cars in Jersey, and we're recognized worldwide for our distinctive nasal version of the English language.
”So how's your head?” I asked Mooner on the way home.
”Filled with latte. My head is mellow, dude.”
”No, I mean how are the twelve st.i.tches you have in your head?”