Grace After Midnight_ A Memoir - Felicia Pearson [28]
I took orders.
I crafted them in four sizes—small, medium, large, and extra large. Made them as real-life as possible. Took me a few hours to make a real good one. I knew my workmanship had to be solid or I’d get complaints. Not to brag, but all the time I was in business, never had one complaint. Word went out—“If you need a do-right dildo, see Snoop.”
Payment would come in different forms. Sometimes cans of soup. Sometimes packs of cookies. Sometimes candy. You couldn’t get rich in the Cut, but you could keep yourself busy.
My dildo business was a good thing.
One girl loved her fake dick so much she gave me a gift. A fat joint. I’m no pothead, but it’s easy to get bored at Grandma’s House. I looked at the joint and said, “Hell, why not?”
THE TRIP
Just one joint—one little innocent joint. A simple commonplace cigarette stuffed with commonplace marijuana.
Or so I thought.
I didn’t have a lab to analyze the shit. Maybe it was something more than pot. Or maybe a strain of pot grown to fuck you up for good. Who knows.
But there I was, sitting out in the yard after having done my clean-up duty early. I had about a half hour to kill. The afternoon was windy. Some of the girls were playing basketball, but I was feeling tired. And the joint this bitch had slipped me was looking pretty good.
Why not?
Off in the corner of the yard, no one was looking my way. Besides, I wasn’t known as a troublemaker. None of the guards gave me attitude.
Lit it.
Sucked up the smoke.
Kicked back and watched the clouds roll by.
Cool.
Clouds are cool.
Weird, but one of those clouds looked like an angry old man. I could see his eyes and his mouth. His motherfuckin’ mouth was moving. I seen it moving. There was some thunder, but, wait—wasn’t thunder. He was talking. Saying something. But what? Holy shit, I could make out his words. His words were, “Snoop, you getting high. Snoop getting fucked up.” The thunder was talking. Thunder can’t talk, but I’d be goddamned if I didn’t hear it again.
Then I seen the girls playing basketball look at me. They heard the thunder. They knew I was high.
Better take another hit.
Took another hit.
Deeper hit.
Kept that shit inside. Held it. Let it swim up through my brain so it could straighten out my thoughts. But my thoughts were getting more crooked with every puff. My thoughts were saying, “The sky is screaming your name. Get your ass inside.”
So I finished off the joint and went inside. Went to my cell and sat there, eyes closed, trying to see pretty pictures and hear pretty music. Instead I heard this chanting. Sounded like all the bitches in the Cut were chanting my name, saying, “Snoop’s high. Snoop’s high. Snoop’s high.” When the guarded passed by my cell, she looked at me like she knew.
Everyone knew.
I’d been high before, so I realized paranoia is part of being high. But for some reason I couldn’t call this paranoia. I had to call it the truth. This was real. The chanting was real. I heard it distinctly. Came right at me.
I put my hands to my ears but the chanting got louder. When I tried to lie down on my bunk, my skin felt all bumpy. I was getting bumps. I’d study one bump and it looked like it was getting bigger. Bumps all over me. Bumps and that fuckin’ chanting. I started itching. Started scratching. Bumps started blowing up. Looked in a mirror and saw my eyes bulging out. Felt like my goddamn eyes were about to pop out of my face.
Now I was getting scared.
Now I wanted the high to stop.
But I was still going up, not down, and the chant had turned into screams—bitches screaming my name—and the screaming wouldn’t stop and I went to the bunk and curled myself up like a baby and started crying to myself, crying ’cause I was scared I wouldn’t come down from this fucked-up high, crying to myself ’cause