It’s early – ten a.m. – driving in Heather’s station wagon, idly circling the lakes, half heartedly thinking about stopping at the pier, but then trying to follow a train, catching up to it here and there as it thunders overhead above the one way streets, the tape deck blasting Iggy and Van Morrison. Ellen’s been paranoid all morning, suspicious after the sight of a police car way back when, but Heather’s next to her in the front seat, still rolling slim, spare joints on the lined page of the notebook in her lap. Hey, Heather Ellen says, holding a burning number surreptitiously under the wheel. Write this down.
Huh, sure. Heather says, smoothing a clear place on the paper, dope debris and seeds cascading to the floor. Wait…hold on a minute. Where’s that pen? After much pocket and purse rifling it’s found on the seat between Heather’s legs. O.K., O.K., go ahead.
Watch it, Heather, you’re getting weed all over the place.
What’s the difference
Heather says, doodling spirals on the paper. It’s my car. Nobody cares.
Well, the cops care.
Ellen slows at the intersection then comes to a conspicuously complete stop at the stop sign. Besides, that stuff costs money. Just because we’ve got a bunch at the moment doesn’t mean you can throw it around. Slowly she turns left and heads up the hill. If you think for…
All right, All right Ellen we get it…
Jane interrupts, leaning up between the seats from the back. What did you want her to write down, anyway?
Oh, yeah, wait a minute. I’ve got to… The car turns and accelerates down Conservatory. Ready?
Heather nods, pen poised.
Ellen squints, taking a meditative hit on the still lit joint. Here we go:
Then she farts.