The Smell of Sage

The kid sitting beside me

(Jeff, we met less than an

hour ago) has got to be the

best driver I've ever ridden

with. His '97 Dodge Neon

slithers between Friday night

traffic; his right hand has

bonded to the shifter, they

transform into one fluent

being; the car has

relinquished power and

grown into an extension of

his will. My pal in the back

seat passes up the joint,

pinching it like he's trying to

squeeze every gram of high

out. The stereo blasts the

Chili Peppers, and I bring the

joint up to my lips to breathe

in a deep hit of Flea's frantic

bassline. The music slips into

my lungs, filling them with

sonic ecstasy, expanding their

capacity, then bleeds into my

mind and floods my

synapses, drowning my

thoughts in plays and replays

of Jeff flying like Superman,

his arms outstretched as he

picks up speed and the road

becomes a blur beneath him.