Stoners

the regular amateur psychology posting will return soon. until then, more stories

John Singer Sargent, In the Tyrol, 1904

Midday. The summer sun passes overhead, galloping unopposed across an empty blue sky. In the ravine it is cool. Trees stand along the cliffs, far above, throwing pleasant shadow, blocking the heat. The air is wet; to the right, a waterfall, maybe 15 feet tall, kicks up cool spray. The sound of crashing water, the smell of moss and mud and wet rocks. The waterfall is wide, spread like outstretched arms across the clifftop, and the pool at its base is inviting, big enough to swim laps around, deep enough to dive. The pool is cold. The tall rock walls of the ravine allow for little sunlight. To the left, cascading downward off into the woods are smaller falls, culminating at the bottom in a big, wide pond. There is no wind. Everywhere, the buzzing of cicadas can be heard.

Matt is stoned. His skinny body crouches like a frog on the stony edge of the pool. He’s high, but not in a vulgar, food and movies kind of way. The high is instead like a rubber band lightly pressing around his temples. Somehow, he feels more alert; the cicadas buzz loudly, the sky seems more intensely, shockingly blue and the water a deeper, darker green. He’s crouched on the warm rocky shore and his feet seem to pulse, the rough granite presses pleasantly into his toes. He stares into the pool, watches the ripples dance merrily around the edge. He thinks about diving in.

Joey is lighting up a cigarette. His big gut hangs over his neon blue swim trunks, and a smile creases his round cheeks. His eyes are closed slits through which nothing passes. He looks mischievous, one would think he was up to something, but his big, friendly face immediately gives everything away. His cigarette lit, he puts his lighter back into his pocket, takes a few puffs – Canadian Classics – and bringing the cigarette from his lips down to his side looks around the ravine, smiles contentedly, and sighs.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah.”

His girlfriend Laura is taking her turn at the bong. The bong has been sitting patiently on the warm rocks waiting to be used; sunlight passes through it, casting a dappled shadow. It’s filthy. Laura picks it up, pulls on it deeply, clears it, holds the smoke in her lungs. When she breathes out the smoke is fragrant, lemony. She coughs for a while.

Getting the bong down into the ravine is a delicate affair. Matt and Joey each took turns. One would make his way down the steep trail and find solid footing: the other would stand stock still, arms locked, the bong as far from the sharp stone of the cliff as he could hold it. Carefully, carefully, the bong bearer would pass it down to his companion, and then it was his turn to move. In this way the fragile glass leapfrogged down to the pool. It was a serious endeavor. Their faces were pinched in concentration, and when they got to the bottom, Joey was sweating.

But now the bong is here and all the effort is worthwhile. While Laura smokes, Matt leaves the main pool. Still crouched on all fours he clambers along the rocks, down the cascades to one of the little falls, maybe three feet high, and puts his hand in. The pressure even from this little fall is enormous, the water is like twisting, sinewy muscle, but as it falls it’s perfectly clear, he can see his hand right through it. Despite the cold he is emboldened, some spirit grabs ahold of him. Tentatively, slowly he moves his head forward, face down, his long hair ringing around his eyes. He feels the water touch the very tip of his head, the water begins to splash – and all at once he pushes his head under the fall. The thundering is enormous. Suddenly he can’t think, he can only hear the rumbling power of the falling water. His head is pushed down and he fights to keep from being pushed into the pool. His ears pound, the water is cold, cold, its like he’s underground, he can’t see, he can barely breath… He tears his head out at what feels like the last second, and his eyes, the same pale blue as the sky, are wide open in exhilarated delight.

Joey is on his back now in the main pool. Above him the tops of the trees, leaned over as though peering down at him, pines and poplars and birches. Some grow from the bottom of the ravine, but most are on top. Between the dark green pine needles is the endless blue sky, empty save for the white sun… His big barrel chest holds him above the water, swimming on his back takes no effort. The water laps at his stomach, his bearded face. The edges of the pool are a little shady but the sun reaches the middle where Joey is swimming. A current issues out from where the falls meet the ponds surface, pushing him away, but he swims against it. An idea: he flips over, front crawls towards the stone shore with ease – he is an excellent swimmer – and climbs up to where he’s left his towel and shoes in a pile. Grabbing a cigarette, lighting it, he carefully wades back into the water. He holds his hand high above his head with the lit cigarette, he flips onto his back slowly, slowly, keeping the cigarette away from the water, and finally, having stabilized on his back, triumphantly places the cigarette between his lips. He begins to swim and puff away, first fat clouds, then big Os, the clouds of smoke lit by the little bit of sunlight striking the pools center. “Hey, look!” he shouts, and his girlfriend watches and laughs.

Now Matt comes back up to the main pool soaking wet, his eyes wide, bright, alert, like a deer all sinew and skin, a big grin plastered on his face. Joey swims to shore, grabs Laura’s hand – she smiles shyly – pulls her towards the cliff face. Matt rushes past him. He shows them where to climb, where the stone juts out, the handholds worn first by water and now by man, he points to where they should put their feet, and a few minutes later they’re on top of the big waterfall. They stand near the edge, as close as they can get without going into the water for fear of the current. Only a foot deep but the strength is enormous, the river is swollen, powerful. The water flies with abandon over the edge. They aren’t very high up but when they look down they see only the dark, shady pool, the reflective green of its waters, seemingly bottomless, completely opaque. The sun beats down on them and the noise of the falls echoes along the ravine.

They are factory workers. They work at the tire factory, shift work. Michelin, all season. They are manufacturers, attaching the walls, loading rubber into machines. Joey inspects the rubber for quality. Long hours: sometimes ten, sometimes twelve, on your feet, the machines pounding away, the heat and the smell of the rubber. Six hours of work gives you one hour in the break room, but most workers don’t take a break – its better to stay, keep moving, then instead of being broken up the shift passes like one long dream. 20 an hour to start and then 30 after a few years, sometimes more if you’re smart, and if you work hard, two weeks on, four days off, you can make fantastic money, money you can actually live on. Matt could remember the summer after twelfth grade, standing around Joeys Volkswagen, hacking back darts in an empty parking lot. He hadn’t met Laura yet. “Fuck that,” said Joey, between puffs, “I’m not going to trade school.” He had coughed loudly and that was that. They started at Michelin together a few weeks later.

“Come on, who’s first?” asks Laura, a big smile on her face. Immediately her and her boyfriend both turn to Matt. He’s the one who brought them up to the top, its his idea. Fine by him: he wants to go first anyway. The rocks are wet and slippery. Matt shimmies to the edge, tentative, his bare front foot like a careful mouse scurrying forward. The mouse tries one, two, a third position, finds ample grip. Now Matt rocks back and forth, back and forth, afraid, careful, each forward motion going a little further than the last. When he leans back the light catches his slick wet body, skinny as a rail, every muscle visible and tense and pushing against the skin. Finally, a decided motion – he comes forward with speed, aggression, his front leg flexes, and he is launched into the open air.

For a moment all is silent. A pale blur, a streak of white and neon blue trunks tearing through the still ravine air, then the black surface of the pool breaks with a crash. The onlookers peer down, searching the water. It becomes still, dark again, reflective like a mirror, they feel the creeping fear in their stomachs… Suddenly the mirror is shattered. Matt emerges, with a kick flies up and out, triumphant, whipping his hair around to shake off the water.

Joey and Laura jump too and then the three swim towards the falling water. They dive, swim hard against the current… Soon they are behind the falls. It’s like a closed off room. The water thunders, they cannot hear each other speak. There is a shelf of rock under the water, and with a few tentative kicks Matt finds it. They stand. Behind them a wall of slick black rock, in front falling water. You can almost see out through the falls but it’s like looking through glazed glass, everything is blurred, impressionist, points of color like a dream. The air is mist, the rock is damp, they have to blink their eyes to keep out the water. The roaring pushes you in. It makes the space under the falls feel small, shaded, an alcove, like the inside of a temple, an underground grotto. Joey and Matt and Laura stand mouths agape. Eyes span the mosaic colors that pass through the water; hands touch soft, wet green moss that grows in every crevice, on every ledge. Joey sighs. Matt thinks, maybe I’ll bring my kids here someday if I end up sticking around; maybe I’ll be married and then they can swim under the falls with their friends, and climb the rocks, maybe they’ll stick their heads right under the falls. A shadow passes overhead and against the sheet of falling water is cast the outline of a bird… Matt dives down, pushes off the rock shelf; and underwater, in the dark, he thinks “man, I need another hit off the bong”.