“I see wolves,” he said. He; his name was P…Peter…Paul…Patrick…Doesn’t matter.
“What?” I said, as I continued rolling us a joint.
“Sometimes I see wolves.”
“I love wolves.”
“I see them on my bed.”
“Are they friendly?”
“So far,” he said.
I continued rolling. Strange character he was. He; Peter…Paul…Patrick…Doesn’t matter.
“They say I am excessively happy. I see things like wolves on my bed. Once every two weeks I get a shot. It brings me down.”
I roll quickly. I must’ve been done rolling.
“You really know how to roll. When did you learn?”
“Practice,” I said, as modestly as I could, and added, “Been smoking for a while…” Interesting he was. “Tell me more about these wolves.”
“They’re made of waves,” he said, “They float over my blanket and bed sheets.”
“How many do you see?”
“A bunch…sometimes just one. Sometimes they change colors.”
“Is that all you see?”
“Can you see anything now?”
“No, I got my shot yesterday.”
We smoked in silence for a while. For a short while I couldn’t stop staring at him. I knew he wasn’t bullshitting me. He was always nervous. That was the first time the two of us hung out together. Usually we’d be among other friends. He would take extremely long drags off the joint. He would suck the life out of it. I had noticed it before, but had decided not to say anything to him. He was more of a pipe smoker. Pipe smokers tend to suck the life out of things. He would look away quickly whenever he caught my eyes observing him. For a second, I felt as if he had begun to regret sharing his story with me. But, that’s just how he was.
“How long have you been on medication?”
“Couple of years,” he said as he coughed. His bloodshot eyes fascinated me. I hoped I’d be with him one day when his wavy wolves arrived. I wondered what color the walls were to his bloodshot eyes. I wondered whether the joint helped him get closer to his excessive happiness. I wanted to bombard him with questions. I wanted to know how his brain operated. I probably wouldn’t understand, but I wanted to know…but I didn’t ask.
We smoked in silence for a while. At one point, when he passed the joint back to me, I couldn’t help but smile at what he had done with it. Soon enough, our other friends arrived and our conversation, bent and crooked, was outed amongst many other moments passed within the crystal ashtray. None of us see each other any more. It was a brief summer. Interesting he was…He; Peter…Paul…Patrick…Doesn’t matter.