Was this normal weed-selling protocol? Claudia had no idea. She hadn’t smoked in twenty years, and had never bought her own. In college she had no money for drugs, no money for anything. She smoked her first joint with a guy in her dorm, a rich boy from Concord, Mass, who was stoned for every minute of their freshman year. They had a rambling conversation about writers she hated （Jack Kerouac, Hunter S. Thompson） and music that bored her senseless （Pink Floyd, the Grateful Dead）。 While they talked, he lay on the floor and did sit-ups, his Tshirt riding up to show his ridged midsection. This interested her more than the conversation or the weed, which made her hungry and sleepy. His name was Scott McKotch, and he was never her boyfriend. He was just a guy in her dorm.
Smoking in middle age was a different business entirely. Hungry and sleepy were exactly what she wanted. In middle age, smoking a joint at bedtime made life possible. This was her thinking at the time.
TIMMY WAS WAITING FOR AN ANSWER.
“Work has been stressful lately,” Claudia said.
Three days after Christmas, a suspicious package had been found in a patient restroom. The building was evacuated and swept for explosives. None were found, but the clinic closed for a full day of Threat Response Training, mandatory for all staff. For six hours, a former Green Beret led them through drills: active shooter drills, bomb drills. They were taught the Silent Call Procedure, in case the shooter was hiding in the building. （Press 1 for police, 2 for fire, 3 for ambulance.） Claudia hadn’t slept through the night since.
Of course, she didn’t explain this to Timmy.
“I mean, it’s always stressful.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I just need to sleep.”
“Ah.” Timmy reached behind his chair and produced a third jar, smaller than the others. “This is Cocoon. A little pricey, but trust me.” He fished out a bud, crushed it between his fingers, and packed it into the water pipe. Then he hoisted himself out of the recliner and sat beside her on the couch. He smelled, not unpleasantly, of marijuana and deodorant soap.
When he lit the pipe, she understood that she was to put her mouth on it, and she did—hesitantly, because the act seemed too intimate and the pipe was vaguely disgusting, the smoke warm and smelly and very moist.
She felt it immediately, a kind of unspooling, a slow dilation of the senses. “Wow,” she said.
“Seriously?” Timmy looked impressed. “One hit, I don’t even feel it. When you smoke as much as I do, it takes longer.”
“How much is that?”
Timmy said, “All day, every day.”
She took a second hit and handed back the pipe.
“I’ll give you an eighth to start. See how you like it.” Timmy ambled back to his recliner and placed the scale on the floor between his feet. Then he leaned forward in his chair, in the posture recommended to prevent fainting, and meted out her weed.
Their transaction completed, he packed a bowl and told her a story. Whether he did this with all his customers, she had no idea. It was her favorite part of the shopping experience, the prize inside the cereal box.
LAST WINTER TIMMY HAD TAKEN A VACATION. NEVER AGAIN would he do this, never a fuckin-gain. The trip was his buddy Kevin’s idea. Kevin had a sister in Hawaii and could go visit anytime he felt like it, though in the ten years Timmy had known him, he had never once done this.
“I guess he never felt like it,” Timmy said, passing her the pipe.
In Hawaii they’d have a free place to stay. Timmy agreed, grudgingly, to pay for their plane tickets. Because greed offended him, he avoided flying as a matter of principle. The fuckin airlines weren’t getting his money, not when the CEO was paying himself ten million a year. For the Hawaii trip he’d made an exception, on one condition: when they landed in Honolulu, a bag of top-quality weed must be waiting for him. This point was nonnegotiable. Timmy would cover the cost of the weed, but someone else would have to make the buy. No problemo, said Kevin. His brother-in-law had a connect.