Drinking 151 rum straight from the bottle on top of a couple lines of cocaine spread out on the table, someone passed Welcome a joint. He took a whiff of the smoke before he took a hit and declared with absolute certainty and hilarity in his voice, “This is great! Opium dipped Thai stick! I haven’t seen this since the first Gulf war when my brother brought some straight from Afghanistan.” He took a long deep pull and held his breath.
Exhaling a huge billowing cloud of blue, he gasped, “Sun’s going down, it’s getting late. I gotta go. Who needs a ride?”
Kenny and Sarah-Ruth said, “We do,” at the same time.
“Jinks, jinks, you owe me a coke. Jinks, jinks, no jinks back,” Kenny said rapidly and laughed.
They piled into Welcome’s classic hardtop '65 Corvair Corsa, Kenny in front riding shotgun. He fished the two ends of his seat belt out and strapped it across his waist.
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Welcome chose to ignore the safety equipment.
At the first intersection, the light was turning against him, so Welcome floored it. They blew through.
Sarah-Ruth said, “It’s windy back here. Turn up the front window.”
“I will if you’ll rutabaga the back seat,” Welcome said as he obligingly wound the hand crank.
