The Book of Stones

Setting: A summer villa in south-central Mexico, on the terrace (then the roof, then inside to the kitchen, then to the terrace again). Bougainvillea vines growing on the trellis, and the weather is good: sunny with wisps of clouds floating past. Pleasant, but empty. A wooden bench and a small side-table in the corner; a smoldering bowl sits atop its surface, cherry slowly expiring. Two—men? boys?—sit on the bench.

Y: I’d be glad if it weren’t After Hours. That flick’s just aight and I saw it last year anyways.

X: The little cinema will be worth seeing though. Can you believe they’re able to pay for all this? I wonder the rent. Will you hand me a paper?

Y: Oh, I just keep them in my pocket.

Y fishes up wadded balls.

X: Whose turn is it?

Y: I think… I think you went last. I went the time before last, unless there was a time after that.

X: I think that was the last time. 

Beat.

X: Are you going to roll it around like playdough in your hands again?

Y: That’s how I always do it.

X: Huh.

Beat.

X: A little oily, though, ah?

Y [head tilted down, eyes angled up, brows raised, looking at X]: Do you have a problem with how I roll it?

X: Oh, no, no your turn, your roll. Just asking.

Long pause; Y continues rolling.

X [lightly]: Does it end up inhaled, do you think?

Y: Does what?

X: I don’t know, whatever’s on your hands. [Beat.] I’m just thinking out loud. [Beat.] Oil. Sweat.

Y: My hands are clean. You’re inhaling smoke. Into your lungs.

X: Oh sure, sure, clean—no issue.

Y picks flower off stem, pulling bits apart with his nails for lack of grinder.

X: How much we have left?

Y: Not much. I’m padding it out it out with loose Spirit.

X: You’re not gonna slobber over it, are you?

Y: You want it to canoe? It just evaporates you weirdo. [Licks the paper.]

X:  [Resigned silence.]

II.

Some people have arrived for a get-together on the patio, maybe 8-12, and they’re drinking wine from a jug. X & Y are still on the bench, rolling again; it appears to be Y’s turn, which means X has rolled another in the meantime. As the first act proceeds, and the party continues around X & Y, the set slowly changes: new crowds, newly drained glasses and fallen soldiers. The lighting slowly approaching a twilight hue.

X pulls out a pack of king-sized papers and hands one to Y; they talk while he balls it up in his hand and then carefully smooths it out again. A cardboard filter is rolled, and placed on the paper’s left end.

Y: Who uses papers this big? I’ve never understood. Is this how smashed people get? Are other people more sociable than us?

X: They’re uh, called king-sized papers. For us kings.

Beat.

X: Don't think of them as king-sized papers. Think of them as cut-to-size papers. They can be any size you want.

X makes snipping gesture with fingers, begins picking the last remains of bud off the stems and dropping them into a grinder.

X: You know how Pynch is always talking about picking the stems and seeds n’shit out. I remember in Inherent Vice, a lot.

Y: Right.

X: I always thought that was fake, you know? And then I see this stuff.

Y: Total shiiet-weed. Some brick boys we are.

X: Brick boys!

A long pause; now, near the end of the picking-and-sifting procedure—

X [trying to say it casually, as if idle conversation]: You’re ah, pickin’ meat from bone there.

[Y says nothing, drops the bud onto the paper, tucks paper and licks glue, seals.]

X: You lick after the tuck?

Y: After, always after.

X: Yeah. That’s what I think I should be doing.

Y: You do before?

X: Well, I think I might, I can’t remember, but I think I’m changing now.

Y tries to light the rolled joint in vain. The flint isn’t working.

Y: This lighter’s scheisse.

X: Lemme try. [X tries.] Sheeit.

Y takes the lighter back, shakes it next to his ear, listens while making a “thoughtful” face.

X [defeated]: I’ll ask someone. [Gets up, asks around the party/audience in vain]

Y: No one carries smokes anymore.

X is gone, chatting happily, while Y sits, a bit bored and melancholy. At last, X gets a light from Z, on the condition that Z joins them. X and Z walk over to the bench.

Z: I have matches, is that chill?

Y: Jesus christ.

X: Y, do you think matches burn hotter than lighters? Because sometimes I notice it’s easier to light a spliff, it burns more consistently.

Y: I have no idea.

Z: I got them at a bar. The matchbook has a sweet design, check it out.

Y [doesn’t look]: Ahuh. [Grabs matchbox from Z’s hand, pulls one out without glancing]

X: I wonder why they’re called matchbooks.

Z: Maybe because you… get… knowledge from smoking pot..?

Y: [Beat.] I don’t think so. Lights, brings to mouth.

A status choreography plays out.

Z takes his first hit, holds the spliff up to his face, looks closely at it, as if thoughtfully investigating.

Z: What’s the name of the strain?

Y: Guava kush.

Z: Oh solid. That’s a good one. [takes second hit]

Y: I’m fuckin, I just made that up.

Z: Oh, ha, yeah, I’m just high, don’t listen to me. Inhales. Holds. Waits. Blows out. 

X gives Y a look to cut it out. Z takes a third hit. Y looks back at X with brows raised. X shakes his head, sighs. They pass the joint around again. On the next pass-around Z again takes several hits.

Y: X says true friendship is puff-puff-puff-pass, but we barely know you buddy so it’s coming off rude.

Z: Oh, I— shit—

X: You’re good, ignore him. 

Z: How often you guys smoke?

Y: I smoke the way people drink coffee.

Z: For bravery?

Y: What?

Z: I think people drink coffee for bravery. To start the day. 

X: Huh.

Y: Weed for me’s a way to be a coward.

Z [pregnant pause, looks at X]: You?

X: I just like it.

Z: Do you smoke regularly? Is there a reason?

X: Uh…

Z: Like, are you like, addicted, do you think? What would happen if you went without?

Y: His worst quality is he’s a slobbery joint smoker. Otherwise he’s an angel so you better leave him alone.

X: I’m not a slobbery smoker.

Y: You’re kind of a slobbery smoker. I’m not complaining, but you usually pass it back wet.

X [ignoring Y, to Z]: What you don’t get is first of all, pot works differently with a tolerance. Sometimes it just feels like putting grease on a bicycle chain.

Y: When’d you know?

X: When’d I know…? [Thinks.] You know, I think it was when I had a lighter actually run out on me. Like, I didn’t use it twice and then lose it after six months. All the gas ran out. 

Z quickly inhales, blows out. Repeats. He passes after two puffs, this time. The spliff continues circulating.

Z: Do you really have to hold in?

Y: Nope.

X: I’ve heard three seconds is about the length. Any more is overkill, anything less is waste.

Y: Says?

X: Studies!

Y: I dunno, I think it’s just gotta pass the trachea, THC absorbs pretty quick.

Y [to X; both are starting to ignore Z]: You ever smoke bacca right outta a bowl? Rawdog it, you know? 

X: That sounds terrible.

Y: Naw. [Beat.] It’s not bad. [Beat.] I mean. [Beat.] Except the bacca part.

[Long pause. Z moves his feet as if uncomfortable; X & Y are talking among themselves.]

X: I shouldn’t smoke all this. You always put too much bacca in. You know it gives me headaches.

Y: I didn’t put that much in.

X: You know I’m sensitive. Oh, I’m already dizzy now. It’s good I’m sitting or I’d have to sit. Oh, wow. Oh man.

Y [gesturing with spliff in hand]: Are you good?

X: Uh… Uhm… I’ll have one more and then call it.

Y: We could clip.

X: No, no, if you’re not gonna finish it I’m gonna finish it. [Gestures for spliff, slumps.] Oh, wow. I can’t.

Y: I’ll clip it.

Noises from the wooden entrance gate, down the patio steps and off at the edge of stage. Large crowd, some banging pans and drums, whistles, an indistinct megaphone voice speaking Spanish.

Z: What do they want, anyway?

X: Money.

Y: A lot of things, I think.

Y sits for a while, fidgets trying to get comfortable. At last seems to rest, then twitches again, readjusting himself in on the couch. Puts his head down, appears to sleep for a minute, then jerks his head up and looks at X.

Y: Is Gordon coming back?

X [loudly, as if short of hearing; think Gordon Cole]: What? 

Y: Is Gordon coming back?

X [even louder and crankier, more nasally]: What? 

Y: He should be. The hostel’s not far.

Z: Hostel?

X: Every hostel’s got weed. This a known fact.

Y: This is a known fact.

Beat.

Y: We should ask somebody.

X: By which you mean.

Y: You should ask somebody.

X: Why don’t we ask somebody—when we see somebody—who we know knows Gordon?

Z: Alright well I’m gonna…

X & Y ignore him. He leaves while they chat.

Y: Sure, we can do that.

X: Is that a problem? You’re welcome to ask yourself.

Y: No, it’s not a problem.

Short pause. They notice Z has left.

Y: That guy would roll a spliff with a cig filter.

X [laughs, then]: Wait, what’s wrong with a cig filter?

Y: Filters your shit out!

X: That’s a myth.

Y: No way, motherfucker, that is straight-up science. F. Grotenhermen, 2001. 

X: I thought studies were fake.

III.

X: Why do you think they call it sea-weed, anyway?

Y: Because it’s a weed, in the ocean.

X: You know what the difference between seaweed and kelp is?

Y: Uh…m… formality?

X: Nope. Kelp’s in the water. [expectant pause]

Y: ...Ahuh.

X: And seaweed is on land. Seaweed is kelp that’s come untethered.

Y: I’m not sure that’s right.

[They sit.]

X: Let’s play the game.

Y: The game?

X: You know the one we did, that one time? With… Marie. 

Y: I wouldn’t call that a game.

X: What would you call a game?

Y: Uhm… winning. Or losing. There are strategies.

X: There are strategies everywhere!

Y: Okay, closed systems with clear performance criteria.

X: I played games that weren’t like that as a kid. Open-ended, improvisatory. Green fields forever.

Y: Fine, I don’t know what a game is.

Beat.

X: But where you… describe— 

Y: right… 

X: what you— 

Y: Okay, let me think. 

Pause.

Y: Mood music: “Strange Overtones”—David Byrne, Brian Eno. I’m in M’s bedroom. Autumn storm outside… 

X: Doesn’t that sound lovely? An autumn in New York… no, Vermont. A Vermont autumn, and the off-brand Satie from Being There is playing, and you’re buying a coffee in your sweater.

Y: Wrong mood. Here’s the sitch: Caught but wanting to get out. I check out the window, but it’s unreliable as a gauge; it’s hard to tell from a couple stories up whether water’s actually falling, whether it’s just the wind shaking rain loose from straggling leaves. The weather app gives hourly forecasts, which isn’t helpful for this kinda micro except maybe I can get a sense of when it’ll pass… 10pm, seven hours.

Beat.

Y: Pattern: Chewing up a sativa-heavy hybrid. The grinder’s new and the halfway holes are too small, a five-dollar bodega buy, not drilled right. I think: This is a system that would normally sort ground from the still in need of grinding. I

Y: Pattern two… [Thinks.] Blankets… I usually make the bed, gives her something nice, you know, to come home to. Messes stress her out, but it’s just stopped pouring.

X: You’re worried you won’t make it to the subway before it starts again.

Y: But the blankets. I didn’t fold them last time either. It’s starting to look like a pattern, the pull of complacency.

Y: So. [Thinking pause.] I’m down the stairs, stepping onto the steps, feeling out with my hand, water. Walk down the street, search for scaffolding to pass under. There’s an upheld hand, incandescent and orange-red ahead, floating on the opposite street corner. Pedestrian signals don’t quite map onto crossable conditions, not in this city where the cost of false negatives—wasted time—outweighs the cost of positives. I exaggerate. I switch off one system—gauging by signal—to another, just the physical facts of approaching cars, of speed and distance. I look both ways. 

X: Pattern one.

Y: How about we relight the spliff.

X: Gucc, gucc.

Y lights, inhales, X inhales, Y looks at the shrinking roach sadly.

X: The dishwasher is sitting empty. The dishes are piling up in the sink. Sarah’s telling me, load the damn dishwasher! I say: no. She says: what? I say: no. I have my reasons, I’m not revealing them. Here is my first reason: You can’t optimize over a set unless all its members are present and accounted for. I failed math but I remember this.

Y: You load back to front.

X: You wait, you flip all the jigsaw pieces upright, you sort them into edges and corners, and then by color. Now you can pack everything in perfect, so the dishes are tight but still let the jets through.

Y: Second?

X: Hmmm… OK. Lana’s over watching TV, the dog’s being high maintenance, I make a joke about locking it out. It’s a nice day, warm, humid, and I’m hanging with the dog, open the screen door onto the balcony, sit with it a while, listen to the crickets. Call it quits, head inside. Dog don’t wanna come. Can’t keep the screen door open or bugs will come in. But if Lana comes out from the TV room, she’ll think I’d locked him out. Well that’s toast for me. The sorta thing that isn’t a big enough deal for her to bring up, so I’ll never get the chance to clear my name. Yet it’ll still make an impression on her, early on you know?

Y: I’ve got it… Hang on now, have faith…

X: We’re magicians, no faith required.

Long pause.

Y: If Gordon comes back I don’t know what we’ll do next round.

X: We have the kief.

Y: Yes, we have the kief.

X: There may be a bit left in the grinder. Stuck to the metal. That can be scraped away.

Y: Is there anything in the mesh?

X: I’ll check. [Checks, eyeballs.] No…

Y: A shame.

X: A crying.

Y: Of…

X: A screaming…

Y: Comes…

X: We have enough left for a spliff.

Y: Well, we can give it some time. Gordon could come any minute.

X: Also an argument for using it now, instead of later.

Y: What?

X: Well, suppose we wait and save it, slowly sobering up over the course of an hour before Gordon shows up with an ounce. At which point, why did we go without? A waste. A waste not to use it all up.

IV.

Both X and Y are looking grim as the last spliff begins to be rolled. Y does the honors.

X: You ever come across any custom techniques? Or like… regional variations. Accented habits of hand.

Y: I’ve got a friend who claims there’s a D.C. way to roll.

X: Yeah?

Y: Yeah, something to do with the twist-off at the end, I think it’s a small thing.

X: I wonder if techniques for rolling cannabis and tobacco oughta differ at all.

Y: How’s that?

X: Maybe how tobacco is stringier. Cigarette papers aren’t very wide either, I think J’s need wider papes.

X: Whereas, you know, creases are necessary for tobacco.

Y: Creases are awful. Bamboos are thick as printer paper and when you smoke them the ashy flakes fly everywhere. Raws the glue never works.

X: I learned on OCBs, they’ve got these notches… 

A enters scene.

A [to Y, brusque but friendly]: Call for you.

Y leaves. X left alone. Fiddles with papers—scrunching up, unfolding and flattening, scrunching up again. Gordon enters.

X: Gordon!

Gordon: Howdy. 

X: Where you been?

Gordon: Ah I got caught up, there were some good hombres at that hostel, they hooked it up hard. Figured I owed them, hung around a bit—hope you don’t mind.

X: Of course not… you got here in the nick of time. 

Gordon: Where’d…?

X: Oh he had a call, he’ll be back, let’s get the stash ready for his return.

The pair make smalltalk, Gordon unpacks his bag with the goods. Y re-enters.

Y [nods]: Hey. 

Y [to X]: Something’s happened.

Gordon: Longtime no see. What happened?

Y ignores him, keeps looking at X.

Gordon: I’m gonna circulate… ciao! [Exeunt.]

X: What happened?

Y: Carolina got botted from her taxi near the outskirts. No one’s driving in. No rides. Drivers don’t want their windshields smashed.

X: Ah that’s a shame. 

Y: We have to get her.

X: Get her? It’s crazy out there! Like you said, windshields battered in, lotta people. And Gordon just got here, look— [Raises bag to show goods.]

Beat. Y keeps standing there.

X: She’s a strong woman! She don’t need no man!

Beat.

Y: Her soul’s in danger.

X: The theatricals! It’s a soap opera!

Y exits.

X: Wait, I’m coming!

X finds A.

Y: We’re leaving. Carolina can’t get across town, she’s stuck at a gas station near Barrios. We’re gonna go get her.

A: It’s an honest movement, you have no reason to worry. If she hasn’t done anything, nothing will happen to her.

Y: Can I take your car?

A: Well, that’s another matter…

Y: My car then.

Y takes keys from pocket, dances them between his fingers, looks at X as if to say, “Ready?”

X: Wait! One minute!

X dashes back to the bench, grabs Gordon’s stash, his tobacco pouch, and the king-sized papers. Presses them clumsily against his chest.

Pair exeunt.

End of Act I.