A cry like the rebel yell rose from the back, and it was more than just Marty and Monty singing along. Someone pushed a joint to my mouth. My lips press around it, a baby suckling a pacifier. I went to hand the joint to Helen. She curled her nose at it. I mouthed the words: “But it’s 4:20.” Perhaps for old-time sakes she accepted the joint and took a hit.
“I guess I’m on vacation,” she said as she exhaled.
We were still ten miles from Mad Hatters. I’d failed but no one seemed to care.
Rabble Rouser 