After all, he was the one in college--not them. He just wanted to buy the weed at cost, but if they wouldn't cut him in on their deal there was nothing he could do about it. Still, they should have left him something.
He finished the ice-cream while standing at the window and watching the occasional cars and vans round the corner. He realized he must still be stoned since he just ate the whole pint; well, not quite: someone else had already hit it pretty heavily. Sean wasn’t shy about taking anything from the fridge--mainly the beer, sodas and ice-cream--whenever he wanted to. Of course, in spite of promises to pay Mike back, Sean never did. Mike grew irritated that Sean wasn't there so he could bitch at him for being so inconsiderate.
Hey, he thought, they could've stashed the weed in the kitchen cabinets. It could be inches from his face! So he looked: among the tea and rice boxes on the shelf above the stove; in the tall shelves to the right of it where they kept the canned goods; below, down by the pots and pans; and finally, in the space under the sink. Nada. Nothing.
Christ, where were those buds?
He called Sean's cellular. They were still waiting, probably at least another hour. “Hang on,” Sean said. “We'll get some beers on the way home and start partying as soon as we get there.”
“Where you at?” Mike asked. “It doesn't sound like you're at a garage.” He heard a juke box pumping rap beats in the background.
“We're not, dude. We're drinking beers and eating pizza at the Pizza Hut next door. See ya when the car's ready,” and he laughed and hung up.
That bastard! Mike thought. Always having a good time and leaving him out. Deep down he knew that he took life more seriously than Sean did--wanted more from it, and therefore, couldn't treat it with the same recklessness.
Still, Sean owed him. Who paid for the newspaper subscription they enjoyed seven days a week? Mike did. And who had the phone bill in his name, invariably losing out on the money-changing and hem-hawing that went on at the end of every month? He did. Plus, Mike was always loaning Sean his car, or driving him somewhere because Sean was too lazy to fix his own car and couldn’t keep it running anyway because he spent all his money on drugs. Sean was always, therefore, broke and high, which is probably why he mooched cigarettes shamelessly from Mike. Mike got mad just thinking about it. For everything he’d done, not to be cut-in on Marcy's deal just plain pissed him off. It seemed pretty evident to him that Sean was taking advantage of him. So what, he told himself. Don't get attached.
On the way back to his room, Mike paused at Sean's door, staring at the dirty beige carpet beneath his feet, thinking about how he wouldn't like someone going through his room. He stood a full minute, debating, hand on the doorknob; but then, ever so slowly, opened it and stared into the bedroom. Reluctance still nagged him, but once he took that first step inside, Mike felt like he had burst out of a dark jungle into a clearing, and he crouched, animal-like, nostrils flaring. Smell the marijuana.
Concentrating …trying to imagine a fruity green aroma emanating from some place in the room. Nothing. Okay, what the fuck. Think. Where would you hide a half-pound of fat Texas nugs? Aha! The ol' laundry basket trick. He'd used that one himself before. In Sean’s closet he pulled all the laundry from the hamper, his heart racing. Half-pound, half-pound, come on half-pound! Man, was he going to get stoned. He felt a lump toward the bottom, pulled it up … It was only a bundled sweatshirt.
Hmmm. The top shelf. Mike got a chair, stood on it, began opening the various games: Monopoly. Life. Risk. Parcheesi. Checkers. Then the puzzles: London Bridge, Mickey Mouse, a forest scene. Each one opened and examined. Nothing, although the dust triggered his sinus, making him sneeze repeatedly and violently. Next shelf, the sweaters; then all the shirt and pants pockets, too. Nothing. How about inside all the shoes and boots on the closet floor? Nope. Okay, not in the closet--no big deal, Mike thought. Keep looking. The weed's probably in his dresser drawers. Five drawers, underwear on top and old jeans on the bottom: He went through them quickly, skimming his hand underneath the contents of each one. In the bottom drawer, underneath a stack of faded jeans, a paperback: “Memoirs of an English Maid.” Jesus, he muttered, opening the book to a random page:
Oh master, no,” I begged him desperately as he undressed in front of me and his huge member throbbed only a few scant feet from my shocked eyes. Since I was a virgin I had of course never seen a man, I assure you, yet I was defenseless. I writhed in the iron cuffs biting at my wrists and ankles, and strained to close my legs against the chains that had them pulled so far apart. The shame, sir, the shame! Lord Dimmsley snorted drunkenly and let out a long, evil laugh that spoke of many years of wine and debauchery. He lurched toward my exposed womanhood, for I lay naked upon the table, my embarrassment spreading in a red glow across my Christian face and breasts. And then I screamed …
Mike shut the book. Wow, he thought. He had no idea--a porno novel. Kinky little bastard, that Sean. Mike was rearranging the drawer to its original condition when he also discovered a Hustler magazine. He let out a low whistle. Dang, that Sean was a busy guy. Still, no nugs. He looked at the bookshelf against the wall. A quick search--he swung his hand behind the paperbacks, but no luck. Just a bunch of dust and a sharp prick from a stray pin. Sonofabitch! he cursed, pinching his fingertip and watching a fat splot of blood well up.
Anger ignited him when he washed his hands in the bathroom, rising quickly until his face was flushed with it. He was upset at himself for the situation he was in. Mike hadn't meant to take the search so far that it filled his mind and thoughts and drove him to compromise his principles like this. Neither did he want to think of himself as someone who was so addicted that he would search his roommate’s possessions for buds. But if he looked at the facts, here he was, violating Sean’s privacy.
And yet, as he dried his hands, Mike knew he wasn’t going to walk away from the search. Not now. No, a brush fire running hot and wild was spreading rapidly inside him, and he knew only one way to put it out.
Hey, he was in the bathroom. Maybe Sean stashed the dope right under his nose. He dropped to his knees and looked under the sink--behind the toilet paper, combs, brushes, bottles of half-used shampoo. Nada. Okay, the stuff could be in the living room. He went out and looked behind the sofa against the wall. Nope. All right. The coffee table in front of the couch. He opened the two doors, pulled out all the videos. No cigar buddy, no cigar. The closet? Check behind the vacuum cleaner. No again. The pockets on the coats and jackets; but again, nothing. “SHIT!” he screamed, clenching his fists, feeling his blood-pressure skyrocket.
The more he was thwarted the more resolute he became. He looked in the roll-top desk against the wall, practically ripping the six drawers out of their sockets. What in the holy hell did a guy have to do to get high around here? he wondered. Paper clips, maps, notes, checkbooks, pencils, bills--all tumbled onto the floor. Everything, in fact, but the marijuana. It took Mike the better part of half-an-hour to painstakingly put all the knick-knacks back in original order, drawer by drawer, before he could sit down at the kitchen table and take a shot of vodka to calm his nerves down. He tried--he really tried--sitting there, shaking, spinning in a centrifuge of pure white rage. But he couldn’t get the damn thing to slow down, not for the life of him.
He picked up the bottle, took a nice, big slug and returned to Sean's bedroom, frustrated yet recharged for the search--a man with a mission: find the dope. Hey, he reasoned, it wasn't his fault he was going through his buddy's things. His “buddy” should have left him a nug to begin with, then Mike wouldn't be in this position. Anyway, Sean would do the same thing to him, the conniving bastard. Why, he ripped Mike off every day!
Aha! Underneath the cushion on the easy chair. He pulled it up, saw two rubbers in their aqua-colored foils. Oh yeah, right, he thought, you are such a stud, Sean. More than a few months had passed since either of them
