“Hey dude,” Bill said as I answered the phone.
“Hey man, wassap?”
“Can I come over?”
I took a look at my old style, analogue clock and decided, “Around 4:20, that’s when I smoke up.”
I got kind of… absorbed, in an Adam Sandler movie, so I was surprised when the doorbell rang. I looked over at the clock. 4:20. Perfect.
“Bill, my main man! Come on in, I was just about to load a bong.
I knew Bill thought I was a slob, and the state of my apartment didn’t disprove that theory. I led him into the living room and motioned to the armchair as I sank into my own favorite, an old bean bag chair I’d found at a garage sale twenty years ago, when I was nine.
I grabbed my bong. Now, there are bongs, and there are bongs. My bong was, if I do say so, impressive. It was a foot high, made with psychedelic colored plastic with an opening almost too big for my mouth to cover. I packed it as full as a I could, and grabbed my Zippo. I lit up and pulled as much smoke as I could into the bong, then into my lungs. I passed to Bill.
Now, this was some quality shit, not quite as strong as Moon Rocks, but a kicker Indica of about 30% THC. I probably should have warned Bill, who smoked way less often than I did; but I knew he wasn’t driving. He tried to take a drag as big as I did, but coughed halfway through. Still, I could see him react to the head rush and the weed all at once.
I took the bong back, took hit and refilled it. I took my drag and passed to Bill. Bill was a little more careful this time. This went back and forth about eight times. By the end of it, Bill was completely wasted, just sitting back in his chair grinning.
I watched him, and then took a look at the old clock before refilling the bong.
Bill’s eyes opened as I passed the bong again.
“I’m not sure man, that’s strong stuff.”
“Don’t be a normie, have a hit.”
After this one, Bill was totally blissed out. “Wow, man” he slurred.
“Good shit, eh?”
“Yeah. But I thought you only smoked at 4:20?”
“I do. Look at the clock, dude.”
He managed to turn and look at the clock, struggling to focus his eyes.
“See,” I said, “4:20.”
He struggled to think. I could tell something was confusing him. Then, his eyes opened wide in a eureka moment.
“Dude,” he said, “Your clock’s stopped.”