We'll All Be Burnt in Our Beds Some Night by Joel Thomas Hynes

Author:Joel Thomas Hynes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2017-02-20T16:00:00+00:00

9

Couple of lads from Halifax, Gavin and Trevor, round about Johnny’s age, one half of a reggae-type band. Ska, Trevor calls it, but more like World says Gavin. They been blasting their latest demo for the past half hour, looking back to Johnny and shouting and nodding, fishing for his approval, but Johnny cant decipher one song from the next, cant tell which is the verse which is the chorus where one song ends or another begins, cant make out the lyrics, and the ones he does make out dont sound like they’re sayin all that much of anything. Scratchy muffled nonsense drone. But Johnny, having spent the previous eight or nine hours limping and scuffing and cursing and bitching his way along a dismal and desolate stretch of highway with all hope for a ride, and subsequently all hope of that west coast beach, all hope in humanity crushed and mulched and dashed to hell and back, grateful to be in off that fucken road, Johnny nods his enthusiasm from the back seat of the swank Ford Explorer that must belong to one of their daddies because no way in fuck could either of them be making a buck off their shoddy music, or their looks, or their fashion sense. Frazzled dreadlocks and filthy Mexican-style ponchos and rainbow bandanas and the sour stench of garlic enough to knock up a dead nun. And hey Johnny, you could be the band manager! Johnny in his shabby and shithauled ragged old suit with the cuff of the left leg stained almost to the knee from some mystery fluid he stood in near a gas station outside Edmundston, and the elbow with the gaping hole from where it hooked on the broken door handle of a prehistoric Volkswagen driven by that wild-eyed old trapper type who couldnt or wouldnt speak a word of English. Johnny’s face and hair is that greasy he’s half afraid to light a cigarette. Cant even remember what colour his shirt was. No amount of scratching to appease the itch. Incessant grungy damp in his boots. Manage these hippie Rasta fuckers right into the ground, Johnny would.

All the way to Kingston though, so say the lads. Meeting the other half of the band somewhere outside Montreal and then motoring on to Kingston. That’s a good potent run, hippie stink or no. Scraggly Trevor, the one with the dreadlocks, from the front passenger seat passes Johnny a huge joint as thick as Johnny’s middle finger and Johnny sucks it back and coughs and hacks and shouts over the blaring drone that his father lives in Kingston, perfect, perfect. Johnny nods drowsily when he’s asks what he thinks of the weed and the two lads start laughing, laughing.

Dude, there’s lots more where that came from, lots more.

Trevor produces a small black canvas bag and holds it up and thumps the side of it, supposedly to show how packed full of weed it is. Johnny’s fuzzy nod of approval. The lads start giggling again.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.