Story Notes:Written circa 2002. Title and plot inspiration from "Because I Got High" by Afroman.
Rowen — or wait. Was it Touma? Or maybe Towen? Rouma? Hashiba was his last name, that he knew, but he couldn’t remember his first name. These were the thoughts of the azure-haired boy as he sat up in bed, looked around and muttered, “God bless it.”
His room was a mess. Beer bottles and candy wrappers and empty Trojan boxes were all over the floor. But what really bothered him was his name, or lack thereof. He thought until he felt a headache come on, then decided to just call himself Harry and spare his mental prowess. He groaned and got out of bed. He did not want to have to clean up the horrendous mess.
The living room of his apartment was even worse. Curtains shredded, all the furniture upside down, somebody’s underwear hanging from the overhead lights, trash all over the floor . . . if Rowen (as we shall call him because we know his name but he doesn’t) hadn’t just rolled out of bed he would have had some very unpleasant heart palpitations. But as it was, he didn’t.
He sighed and decided to clean his room first off. Maybe he could just shove everything under his bed or stack it against the walls. Who gave a hell anyway? Ain’t nobody else was gonna see it.
Rowen flopped down in a chair, noticing some nice little white cigarettes someone had been kind enough to leave him. He reached over and picked one up, giving it a long whiff. Ah, yeah. Just right. So he pulled his lighter out of his pocket (he always had a lighter in his jeans pocket, and he always slept in his clothes) and lit it up, taking a long drag and holding it in. He sighed heavily and smiled. Oh, yeah.
Suddenly, his apartment didn’t look so messy. He kicked back and puffed away like a small steam engine. Somewhere in the back of his fuzzy mind he heard someone complaining in a nagging voice about getting a broom and at least sweeping the weed up off the floor, but he ignored it and decided it would be nice to grow a lawn in his living room instead. Maybe plant some pecunias by the television.
Two doobies later and Rowen was quite pleased with himself. However, he had the feeling he was forgetting to do something . . .
He looked around his devastated, war-zone-nuclear-waste-explosion of a home and stared for ten full minutes. Then it hit him. He had to feed the jackalopes out back.
Back to college.
Whoopty shit. Rowen couldn’t have been more excited. He was like a giddy schoolboy when Cye knocked on his door at ten till eight and found his ass still in bed. Cye despaired, swore a little, and promptly threw the covers off of him and dragged his still sleeping body from the bed. Rowen set his claws into the mattress which finally ended up on the floor after Cye had to play Tug-O-Rowen for longer than was needed.
Then Cye shoved some shoes on Rowen’s feet, stuck a toothbrush in his mouth (which stayed there until lunchtime), and booted him out of his apartment and into the car. Cye and Rowen carpooled together, and as Rowen began to come to, he pulled his lighter and a joint out of his pocket and started cooking it. It was rather fun trying to keep a foaming toothbrush in your mouth and smoke weed at the same time. It was making a mess, though. He had toothpaste drool running down his chin. But at least it tasted good.
Cye looked over and nearly drove off the road. “BLOODY-FUCKIN-ELL!”
Rowen thought Cye was upset because he didn’t have a joint too, so he offered him a puff. Now why did Cye have to go and smack him like that? He must have PMS, Rowen thought.
Seated in his desk, Rowen stared at the sheet of paper, then rubbed it gently. Ooh. Nice paper. Really smooth. He could wear that for clothes, and then he’d be smooth, too. What were all these words on the paper? Probably instructions for proper wearing. So you could look really smooth.
The teacher looked over at him and inquired, “Rowen?”
He looked up and shook his head. “Harry.”
The teacher quirked an eyebrow. “What.”
“ I . . . I think I’m Harry.”
Detention sure was a neat place when you were stoned.
It was Saturday. Time to go to work. Rowen decided to walk to S&M Fascionz (he thought it stood for Sam and Murphy). Not a good idea. But Cye had refused to let him into his car ever again, and the store was six miles away. He walked in the rain, feeling okay considering how miserable his current situation was. He sang a tune. A medley.
“. . . Cuz I got one hand in my pocket, an’ da otha one is lightin’ my hash pipe . . . bweer! Nuh nuh nana nuh nuh nana . . . I don’t know da words, so I’m makin’ ‘em up. Yadda yadda yadda yadda I really suck . . . ya got yer big deez nuuuuuuuts. I got my hash pipe.” He paused, proud of himself, and continued to sing.
To the Hop, anyone?
“Pot, pot, pot, pot! Let’s go smoke some pot oh baby, let’s go smoke some pot! Cooooome ooooon, let’s go smoke some pot!”
“Pot pot, I need pot, I NEED SOME POT! I’m gettin’ pissed cuz I ain’t got nothin’ in my stash! I gotta find me a place where I can buy some hash — I need some potttttt!”
“Puff da stoned-ass pottttt heaaad livvved down my streeeeet. He give me almost any thing dat you could buy wit’ weeeeed!”
“Holy-freakin’-saints-alive-I’m-gonna-kill-someboooody. If I don’t get some fuckin’ weed I’m gonna beat ‘em bloooody. So if ya got some dope on ya, I’ll gladly pay da mooooney! Just name ya price and save ya life and feel goddamn luuucky! I reallyreallyreallyreally wanna get high. I reallyreallyreallyreally wanna get high . . .”
Not the Tootsi Rolls, Harry.
“Da world looks fuckin’ good ta me, cuz marijuana’s all I see! Whatever it is I think I see, becomes a marijuana tree!”
Even Tom Petty isn’t spared.
“Laaaast smoke wit’ Mary Jane, one last time ta kill my braa-ee-aiin. I feel happy, I feel gay. Didn’t know I’d swing dat waaa-ee-aayyy . . .”
Lo and behold, his prayers (or songs, rather) were answered. A couple of Cuban black market drug smugglers were flying down the highway from the cops with a Hefty bag full of raw weed. They tossed it out the window where it landed in Rowen’s arms. He gazed at the bag, then at the passing van.
“YER LATE! YA CAN FERGET A TIP!”
He got out of the rain by sitting under a bus stop awning. He searched for a paper, found the receipt for the manure he put in his living room to help the grass grow, and wrapped up some of his special grass in it. Then he lit it and was smoking like a chimney.
His manager had told him last week that he would be commended for working odd hours and was moved into the sales department. So much for that. Rowen had all he needed wrapped up in the big plastic bag sitting in his lap.
A bum slumped down next to him and said, “You selling, kid?”
Rowen made ten grand selling marijuana to the bums. Life was good.
With the extra cash, Rowen went out and bought a Camaro (a nice, pot-green colored one) so now he could drive himself back and forth to the alleys where he worked as a dealer. He didn’t tell the others, hell no. They’d kill his ass.
So Rowen was making his daily run, driving down the road and smoking a joint when all of the sudden he saw the flashing blues in his rear view mirror. Horror seized his heart, and panic seized his mind over his precious pot collection. They were signaling for him to pull over.
And Rowen decided to put the pedal to the metal.
His blue-haired ass was flying down the freeway in that Camaro like a cheap green, bullet-shaped banshee-bat right out of Hell with his nads still flaming.
Then the cops shot out his back tires and he had to ditch the car and hoof it.
Then they shot him.
They didn’t kill him, nah. It was just a flesh wound in the ass. In any case, it was for going five miles over the speed limit, and Rowen was put in the hospital where Ryo, Sage, Cye and Kento came to visit him.
They walked into his room all hot, bothered and worried. Cye fussed him out about running from the authorities, Sage said nothing, Ryo patted his shoulder and said he was just glad that he was turned around when they shot him, and Kento just wanted to see the scar.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ryo asked for the umpteenth time.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Rowen replied. “Ya guys have any weed?”
Every face in the room vaulted (except for Rowen’s), and Sage said, “Rowen. You imbecile. You worthless peon. That’s what put you in the hospital.”
Rowen blinked and stared. “ No. Da cops put me in da hospital. An’ my name is Harry.”
“Harry Hashiba?” they all gaped in unison.
“Nope. Just Harry Hash.”
They stared in silence for a long, long time. Then Sage abruptly turned on his heel and walked out of the room saying, “Son of a bitch has smoked himself stupid.”
One week later.
Rowen was still hobbling around with a sore ass when he got a call from his car insurance agent saying his payment was due. Since what little money Rowen had he spent on weed (and he was still driving around with shot-out back tires), he promised the agent he would have the payment by the end of the week . . .
. . . and then went out gambling with a roll of weed between his lips and a smile on his face. For he was wearing his lucky underwear. He had to hammer them out with a mallet to get them to where he could slip them on. Now every step he took he made a crunching sound.
It went badly. Let’s just say if luck were a lady that night then she would rather use his open mouth as an ash tray. Either that or Rowen must be the gayest mother set on the planet.
He lost every single bet he made, and even the ones he didn’t make.
The next day, Rowen awoke to the sound of large machinery. He went to the window to see a tow truck hauling away his Camaro with a big, red REPO sign in the back window. Rowen walked nonchalantly away with an oath of, “God bless it.”
Rowen and the rest of the Ronins got invited to a party. Apparently Rowen had done business with the host for free (what type of business *cough*givinghead*cough* I shall not say) and was indebted with delight. And so they all piled into Cye’s car (Rowen rode in the trunk) and drove to the place, had a few drinks and some good times and whatnot.
Rowen wasn’t enjoying himself since he hadn’t had weed in days, but the host was kind enough to offer him a toke or two off of his bong. So Rowen got happy. That wasn’t the only thing he got that night.
Ryo had fallen asleep on the couch, and Rowen — poor lad, stoned like a sinner in Jerusalem — suddenly thought he would make a really good fuck. So he picked Ryo up and staggered to one of the back rooms where he could have his way with him.
Ryo woke up to the sensation of having his clothes removed and diplomatically reassessed Rowen’s perspectives with his fist, storming off blushing.
Anyone who was anyone knew that Ryo was Cye’s bitch.
So Rowen sat dejectedly on the bed and stared at the door, wishing for anybody to walk through it. A good thing no one did. His hair wasn’t the only thing blue that night.
In any case, he had a hard-on the size of a Russian submarine and decided that if no one would do anything about it, then he would just have to take care of it himself.
So he whacked, choked, beat, strangled and induced asphyxia to his wonder weasel far into the night. You think someone would call an animal cruelty coalition or something. The poor thing only had one eye to begin with.
Rowen sat on the nice grass in his living room, watching the movers as they took every single piece of furniture out of his apartment. He stared with a smoking roll in his hand and thought, they’d better not dig up my grass. I spent weeks planting it.
It wasn’t long after the movers came that his warlord of a landlord finally reclaimed the apartment and booted him out into the streets. So now Rowen was sitting at the curb on top of his suitcase, puffing his last joint and not fully realizing that he was now a derelict vagrant wanderer. He was missing the living room lawn he had planted. Why, he had even set up a sprinkler system for it, and now it was gone. That was the only thing mildly upsetting him.
A few hours later when night fell and the weed started wearing thin on him, Rowen suddenly realized that the past two months had been nothing but a big, juicy sack of shit. And he owed it all to Mary Jane.
Heartbroken, Rowen threw his head skyward and started howling out the lyrics to Dust in the Wind.
A boy named Harry suddenly launched himself out of his sleep and sat up, looking around. A dude to his left said, “Yo. You been out fer hours. The party’s still goin’ on, tho’. I thought you OD’d.”
Harry shook his head. “ No. I . . . I had this really weird dream that I had blue hair. And my name was Rowen.” He shook his head. “Woo. Glad it was just a dream.”
“Want summa my hash stash?”