“That’s pretty classic,” Sonia says, knowing there is no way she could do a bong hit if her life depended on it. A hit off a joint, sure. But she quit bong-hitting in college or shortly thereafter. In fact she can’t remember her last bong hit. “But let’s roll a joint instead. I’m sort of not up for bong hits.” Sonia looks toward the little boys. They’re wearing matching pajamas with cars all over them. They look clean.
Larissa sits across from Sonia, drinking a beer. It seems not to be her first of the evening. “I had my boys with Eric Wilder, you remember him?”
“Sure,” Sonia says. She had a huge crush on him, with his chipped tooth and penchant for carrying a sawed-off baseball bat around in his car.
“We never married. But we were together for five years. He’s dead, you know.”
“What?”
“He got really coked up at a party and they played Russian Roulette and he shot himself in the head.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry Larissa.”
“Thanks. It’s been a few years, so I’m, well, not over it but I’ve learned to accept it.”
The two women stare at each other. At last, Larissa says, “Russian Roulette is a stupid game.”
And Sonia finds herself nodding almost dreamily in agreement, yes, yes it is, while Larry sits there, working on a beautiful joint.
Larissa sighs. “He was sort of a shitty boyfriend. I just had a weakness for him. Are you married?”
“Yeah, I’m married.” Sonia stops and looks away. The kitchen area is tidy and reminds Sonia of a dollhouse. “He’s a good guy. But it can be hard anyway.”
“No shit,” says Larry. “That’s why everyone gets divorced.”
Sonia looks from Larry to Larissa. “Are you guys …”
“Hell no!” Larry says, “I’m gay as can be!”
“We’re just friends. We’re the only ones left from the old crowd. Dan is in Chicago. Eric is dead. You’re in New York,” says Larissa, crushing the beer can into the table with impressive force and accuracy, making it into a little accordion beer can. She stands and gets another. “Do you want one?”
“Not yet, thanks,” says Sonia. “So Larry, you’re ‘out.’ That’s great, right?”
“I’m out here tonight with you guys but it depends where I am, how out I can be,” he says. “I’ve gotten my ass beat more than once. In fact, I’ve gotten my ass beat twice very badly, once by a bunch of Notre Dame jocks and once by a bunch of redneck bikers.”
“That sucks,” Sonia says.
“I learned my lesson. I’m more careful now.” Larry lit the joint. “So are you some famous painter in New York? I think the last time I saw you that was your plan.”
“Yeah,” says Larissa, folding her hands over her fat breasts, “You were going to be famous, an important artist. I think you were living in Boston at the time and you were dressing like a slut and spouting feminist theory and art talk.”
“I was twenty. Don’t even pretend you weren’t an idiot when you were twenty, Larissa.” Sonia stands and gets another beer. “And what’s wrong with being ambitious? What were you doing back then, cocktail waitressing at that strip club? I forgive all of our twenty-year-old selves and I’m OK with having had some ambitions. I mean, I know I was an idiot, but that’s just life.”
“I made tons of money at that job. I bought this trailer with that money.” Larissa hits the joint and passes it to Sonia. Sonia holds it lovingly between her thumb and forefinger. She smells it, the sweet smell of weed. It’s been ages since she’s smelled it. She takes a tiny drag, holds it in as long as she can, blows out a thin stream of smoke.
“That was the most pussy hit I’ve even seen!” Larry says, laughing.
“I don’t really smoke that much anymore. And I am pregnant.”
“I bet weed is good for the baby. I bet it makes them little stoner geniuses, little Bob Marleys.” Larissa says, hitting it again.
Sonia feels a head rush, feels the beer in her smooshed bladder. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Larissa points to a door and Sonia, slightly off kilter, walks over to it. It’s like an airplane bathroom, but with a shower and miniature tub. It has some nice touches. A flowered bath mat, clean towels. She sits and pees and then she notices the wall in front of her. It’s covered with little circles of gum, like in Larry’s car, but here she can see discernible patterns. Smiley faces, stick figures, something that looks like a, a — dog? Now, Sonia’s a little high, but really just a little high and she’s barely had two beers but she questions her judgment nonetheless. She stares. She tries to understand. Some of the gum is in different colors. Finally, she gets up.
“Hey, is that, like, gum design in there?” She asks and everyone starts that slow, stoner laugh that warms Sonia. All the tension of their disparate lives goes away and she’s just back in South Bend, smoking weed with her buddies.
“Yeah,” Larry says as his giggles subside and then he actually pops some gum in his mouth. “Do you want a piece?”
“Sure,” says Sonia, putting a red stick of cinnamon gum in her mouth. “What the fuck is up with gum design?”
“It’s just something I started doing. Right, Larissa?”
“Yeah.” Larissa seems half asleep at this point. But Sonia feels energy, a tingling on her skin. Larry starts rolling another joint. Sonia looks over at the boys. They’re asleep, cuddled adorably against each other, the television still going strong. For some reason it warms Sonia. She’s just perfectly buzzed and she thinks of her sons, safe at home, sleeping in their beds.
“I just had the most amazing idea,” Sonia says. “This gum design, Larry.”
“What about it.” Larry’s eyes are red.
Sonia chews, the warm cinnamon coating her dry mouth and she sips her beer. Larry passes the joint to her and she takes another drag, a bigger one, and holds it in again, as long as she can. As she exhales, the world seems suddenly clear and right. “I think you could be famous. I mean, I know the art world in New York a little bit and I think that gum design, gum art, could make a huge splash. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like part folk art, part naïve art, part found object art …”
“You’re going to steal my idea,” Larry says. “I can feel it.”
“No way, Larry, I’m just a painter. I might not even be a painter anymore. Maybe the weed is making you paranoid. Really, I could be your agent or get you a manager or a gallery or something.” Sonia stands. Her back was hurting but also she just needs to stand. Larissa appears asleep.
“Really, Sonia, you’d do that for me?”
Larissa snored, her head bobbed up. “Guys, I gotta go to bed. I have to work tomorrow. Are you still going to be here, Sonia?”
“I don’t know.” Sonia says. “But Larry, I think I’ve figured it all out. At first I thought the gum was gross, just disgusting, all over your car. But now, I think I’ve discovered you, and you are the future of art.” He passes the joint to her. Three hits? She feels so perfect. “No, no I’m perfect. This is all perfect. I sort of left my family and I–I really don’t want to be pregnant. I thought I wanted to paint and not have more babies and— I’m really high right now. Anyway, but now that I’ve discovered you, you Larry—I feel OK.”
Sonia sits down. Larry, red-eyed, is rapt. Sonia goes on. “But here’s the deal. I think I missed my chance when I was painting my friends as Hindu gods. I’d use these pictures of Krishna and Shiva and so on and then I’d paint the faces of my friends, you know, in the place of Krishna’s face. And someone told me, you have to paint the faces of famous people, not your friends.” Sonia has never known something to be so true as what she is saying right now. She sits here, in Larissa’s trailer, and she leans on the table and puts her hands on Larry’s face. “And he was right! My friend. And I didn’t listen to him. And now I know. And you need to make your gum design in the shape of famous people. Not dogs or smiley faces. But, like, Madonna! Robert De Niro. Right? Do you get it?”