Member-only story
‘Crystal Stair’
A story soaked in bong water
The yelling again. I can hear it. A few “F” bombs. Some other curse words. It happens regularly. Mother to son. Like that Langston Hughes poem. Always happens when I am in my groove. The boy must have done something stupid again for her to yell like that.
Two flights down, in the sub basement of the house, I hear some version of it. I can’t tell what it is about but I will soon have to go up there and talk to him. Calm him down. Make him know he is special again. Our child. Our boy.
I was just getting warmed up on the bass guitar. Almost had that change by Jaco on “Birdland” down, note for note. But it’s time. Father time.
What did you do?
Nothing.
You must have done something.
I didn’t. She just hates me.
She doesn’t hate you, that’s your mother.
I am telling you she hates me.
What makes you think that?
Why do you think?
I don’t respond. I open the window. I sit down. I smile at my boy. Rub his face and smile at my boy.
I pull out the bong. Load it with the best legal reefer in the state of Colorado. I pack my bong, light it, and take a strong toke of it.
