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Peaceable Kingdom: The Manger
“Is this a non-smoking room?” Mushroom Daddy asked.
Jerry, Mushroom Daddy, and Sascha were in the living room of their suite trying to figure out what to do next. It was furnished in a sort of 1950ish style that Jerry kind of liked, though the Naugahyde sofa was slippery and the orange carpet was a little bright.
Sascha looked at Daddy curiously. “No. You can light up if you want. Do you happen to have some decent cigars on you?”
Daddy shuddered. “Tobacco? Never touch the stuff, man. It’s, like, a killer.” He looked thoughtful. “Except of course for those groovy organic Cuban cigars that teenaged senoritas roll up on their soft, creamy thighs. Those are okay, every now and then.”
Jerry frowned. “What are you talking about, then?” A sudden thought struck him. “Not—”
Daddy nodded. He reached into an inside vest pocket and pulled out a baggie packed with rich green weed.
“Jesus Christ,” Jerry groaned. “You bought that with you on the plane?”
“Sure,” Daddy said. “I always take some weed along when I travel. It’s the best, man. Here, try some. Um, you don’t happen to have a water pipe on you? I couldn’t bring mine ‘cause I didn’t bring any luggage.”
Jerry collapsed on the Naugahyde sofa. I guess its true, he thought. God does take care of drunks, little children, and idiots. Sometimes, at least.
Sascha looked as amused as an eyeless man could. “No. I’m afraid I left my bong at home.”
“Oh, that’s okay, man,” Daddy assured him. “I brought some rolling papers.”
He sat down next to Jerry on the sofa and bent over the glass and chrome coffee table in front of it and dexterously rolled a fat joint.
“Got a light, man?” he asked Jerry.
Jerry shook his head. “No. I don’t smoke.”
“Here,” Sascha said. He tossed him a book of matches.
“Thanks, man.” Daddy carefully lit the joint and took a long toke. “Want some?” he asked, offering the jay to Jerry.
Jerry closed his eyes and shook his head. What the Hell, he asked himself. Why not? He accepted the joint and took a tentative pull. The smoke roiled down his throat and into his lungs. It was warm, but without harshness. Not a cough in the carload, as the old saying went. He looked at Mushroom Daddy in surprise.
“Smooth, huh?” Daddy said proudly. “It’s my own. I grow it organically. Totally chemically free. Nothing in it but good old Mother Nature’s goodness, man.”
“Let me have a hit of that,” Sascha said, crossing over to the sofa.
“Sure!” Daddy said. “You dudes can split that one while I roll another.”
Jerry took another hit and passed it to Sascha. He held the smoke deep in his lungs, then let it out in a fragrant cloud. It smelled great, Jerry thought. He could already feel himself starting to relax.
Sascha took a long hit. “Not bad,” he said in a choked voice as he held the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible. He finally let it out in a long whoooosh. “In fact, pretty good.”
Daddy was rolling a second joint when someone knocked on the door, and the three looked at each other, trepidation in at least two sets of eyes.
“Sascha, you get the door,” Jerry said. “Daddy, get your shit out of sight. I’ll turn up the air conditioner.”
There was another knock. It sounded loud and impatient. What, Jerry thought, his panic growing unaccountably, if it was the cops? They probably had some mean ass cops in Branson. He didn’t even want to think of what they’d do to someone caught smoking dope in the Peaceable Kingdom.
“Coming,” Sascha called out. He went up to the door and stood before it.
“Who is it?” Jerry asked.
“I don’t know,” Sascha said. “I can’t see.”
“Well,” Daddy said, “ask him.”
“Who is it?” Sascha asked the door.
“It’s me,” a voice called out gruffly. “Billy Ray. Sascha, that you? Open the goddamned door.”
“Dammit,” Jerry said. “The Feds.”
“Oh, man,” Daddy said. “The man. Oh, man.”
“Just a minute,” Sascha said.
“Open the windows—” Jerry said.
“Oh, man,” Daddy said. “Busted, man. Who’s going to take care of all my plants if they send me to the slam?”
“Can’t,” Sascha said. “Hotel windows. Can’t open them.”
The door rattled ominously.
“Are you guys in trouble in there? I’ll break the door down—”
“He will, too,” Sascha said.
Jerry made a helpless gesture with his hands.
“Open it. Open it. Maybe he won’t smell anything.”
Sascha nodded. He took the door off the chain and threw it open. Ray stood out in the hallway, hand up and ready to pound on the door again.
“Hello, Ray,” Sascha said with a smile. “Come on in, Ray.”
Ray entered the room suspiciously. “What the Hell is going on in here?”
“Nothing,” Sascha said.
“Nothing,” Jerry said.
“Nothing, man,” Daddy said, trying to shove the baggy full of weed further between the sofa cushions.
Ray stopped, sniffed the air, and frowned thunderously. “Are you guys smoking pot?”
Sascha, Jerry, and Mushroom Daddy looked at each other.
“Us, uh—” Jerry began.
“You’re holding out on me, you bastards?” Ray said. “I haven’t gotten high since I did some hash with a bunch of Afghani warlords. I had to smoke with them, of course. Had to put them at their ease.”
“Well,” Daddy said, “if you like Afghani hash, you’ll love—”
”Daddy—” Jerry began.
“It’s all right,” Sascha said, as if suddenly remembering that he could read minds. He sank down gratefully into the loveseat across the coffee table from the sofa. “He’s cool.”
“Of course I’m cool,” Ray said, sitting down next to Daddy. “What, you think I’m a narc just because I work for the Feds?”
“Course not,” Jerry said as Daddy produced the baggy of pot and an already rolled joint that he handed to Ray.
“Thanks,” Ray said. He lit up and took a toke. “Of course,” he said in a strangled voice, “if I was my old boss, that tight-ass Nephi Callendar,” he paused to blow smoke and take another hit, “your asses would all be headed for the nearest federal slam, right now. Hey. Very nice.”
Daddy nodded happily. “I grow it myself.”
Ray looked at him. “So, what’s the story, man, are you some kind of burned-out hippie, or are you an ace?”
Daddy shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is that I can grow things. They taste good, and they do good things for your body and your head.”
“Maybe,” Jerry suggested, “you should call yourself the Green Thumb.”
Ray frowned, and then started to laugh. Within moments they were all giggling like hopeless fools. It felt good, Jerry thought. Really good. Ray handed Daddy the joint. He took a toke and passed it on to Jerry.
They sat together, smoking, talking, and laughing for the next hour. Ray turned out to be a fount of surprisingly amusing stories about foreign and domestic diplomats. Every now and then Jerry would just say, “Green Thumb,” and they’d all laugh again, though Jerry had the feeling that Mushroom Daddy didn’t see anything particularly funny in the name and was maybe seriously considering it.
They finally polished off their fifth or sixth joint and Ray looked at them all, seriously.
“I’m hungry,” he said. “Room service, or buffet?”
They all thought about it for a moment, and then as one man said, “Buffet!”
Daddy gathered up his paraphernalia, but Ray made him leave it all in the suite. Together they descended in the elevator, to wreak havoc on the first buffet that they could find.