I was bored
I shifted in the broken down orange tweed armchair
A little dust foofing out from under it as I did
This house was a mess
But it was Camp Street after all
Have to keep up the appearances
It was once A pretty nice house
Probably the proud home of a Fisher Body employee
But that was a long time ago
The neighborhood
And this house
Long since having left to go to seed
There was a king size mattress and box spring on the floor of the formal dining room
It looked as trashy as that sounds
The dusty broken chandelier still holding court in center ceiling
I could see that from where I was sitting
In the old front sitting room
Filled with broken down furniture of questionable heritage
There was an old mirror on the wall
It was pretty big
Maybe two by three foot with an old chipped white painted frame
I'd seen people doing cocaine on it just last night
I wondered how often that had been used for just that
Seeing the state of everyone else in the house
It was clear that nobody used it for looking at themselves anymore
How much cocaine do you suppose is stuck in the corners of that frame?
I couldn't get that question out of my head
So I abruptly got up and took the mirror down
"What the fuck are you doing?"
That was Kyle
He was an asshole
"I'm going to scrape it clean"
I told him that
And ignored whatever came out of his mouth next
It might as well have been the sound the teacher on Charlie Brown makes
I set the mirror down on a coffee tale in front of my orange chair
Then spied the perfect tool for this job on the kitchen counter
A razor blade
Getting comfy I started by running the razor blade along the edge
Knocking anything loose free
Then again
But this time angled a little bit under the frame
I repeated that about four times
Ending up with a dusting of stuff from the edges
I scraped the blade along the mirror carefully
Piling everything up in the middle of the mirror
I'd gathered an audience by this time
About four other people were watching me intently
Discussing amongst themselves what the substance might be
I eyeballed the little pile I'd made
And mused aloud
"I wish we had a joint we could roll this up into"
Sure enough someone produced a dime bag and some Zig Zags
I got up and let them sit down to do the assembly
I couldn't roll joints for shit
Soon enough it was ready
The joint roller dude put it in his mouth and lit it up
Taking a deep drag
Then passing it to me
I took a long pull on it too
Then passed it on
I hope it was something good on there
Might even be heroin
Who knows?
We all waited for something special to happen
Passing the joint around until it was just a pitiful roach
We put that in the red ashtray
Designated as the Roach Nest
We'll roll all those together some other time
A nice mellow high was in my brain
But nothing special
Just the normal lazy happy feeling I always got
I didn't want to say it out loud
But then someone else did it for me
"Bro, I think those were just paint chips"
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