Open Book

I journey to New Jersey just once a year: for my former boss’s yule time Nog Slog. He takes pride in bringing his entire staff, as well as his alumni, all the way to Jersey City for food, booze, and smoke.

Darren and I trudged through the remnants of the Friday blizzard until we hit P’s building. “Yoo-hoo!” he called, and threw a set of keys out the window. When we reached the fourth floor, he greeted us with a bottle and a bong. “Hit it before anyone else gets here,” P suggested, then pointed out which corners housed the joints.

We slid onto the couch and drank whiskey on the rocks. I stole bites of Darren’s pizza and we welcomes more devotees into the living room. My former coworkers gathered around P’s bed as we smoked down one of the hidden joints.

It feels like magazine kids just go to shit bars and do cocaine. I really, really miss being in books.

joint

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