Me and Mr. J.

I listened to my gut last night while driving home from work an hour shy of midnight, a little voice that said, "Bring him some food and wait with him in the emergency room." I'm ever so glad that this time I followed my gut.

J. had been rear-ended just a few days prior by a stressed and coffee-ridden woman who was trying to get home a tad faster than legally permissible (or, depending on who is telling the story, by a baby-eating spawn of Satan, most likely distracted while participating in a highly illegal act with a weasel). Either way, my friend had suffered severe whiplash, and the pounding in his head had grown strong enough to warrant his willful journey to the emergency room. And given that in the past fifteen years he'd taken more than one bullet, a broken neck, a broken back, and knee surgery without anaesthesia, the drummer boy had to be talented indeed.

I had promised to bring him a set of spirited beverages the night before, but later rescinded after staying at work too late, and I promised to make good on my promise the next night. And I never break a promise, unless moving the promise's completion to an entirely different time constitutes a break.

But I had fully intended to make good on this promise, when J. called and told me that we'd better postpone our spirited rendezvous. And just as I was turning off the highway, it occurred to me that J. was probably very hungry, and that he might like some company in the emergency room, and that there was no way in hell that I wanted to start my own homework anytime in the next few hours. I turned back on the highway and headed for the hospital.

It was well worth the time and lack of sleep. J. and I were eating two spirited hamburger patties when the nurse walked in, carrying a rather large syringe meant to symbolize the effect of the medical bills on his uninsured wallet.

After J. got it in the ass, the fun started.

Ten minutes after the injection, J. began to grow light-headed. He put his schoolbook away and turned to philosophy, the first sign of his rapidly deteriorating cognizance.

Dude, we need to talk about God. I can't do justice to the next hour of conversation, if only because talks about deity with someone who is high can't be reconstructed without seeing far less funny and far more stupid than they actually were. Lucky for me, we had far more time than an hour, since filling out his prescription required returning to his apartment for money and making another trip to a 24-hour pharmacy. After we had nailed down the intricacies of God himself (funny how lucid things become at 2:00 in the morning, or when you're high), we turned to the effects of J.'s injection itself, occasionally stopping to make small observations about our surroundings.

Man, I bet if someone could combine this stuff with alcohol, he could really take a beating and not care. I threw him a quizzical look. Think about it - you'd be all limp, and they could beat on you all night long. He paused, thinking through the process. ...Although you'd feel terrible in the morning. Maybe it's not such a good idea.

Hey, remind me to get toilet paper before we leave here. I don't want my housemates to have to use their hands. That's really gross.

-Uh, there's some paper for you, J. Aisle 3.

Dude, ripples! Can't go wrong with those. A long pause, then I hope these don't change the shape of my butt. Those ripples, they...ah, what do I care? I can't see the damn thing.

I had long since abandoned any attempt to talk to J., since keeping my mouth closed was the only way to stifle the increasingly frequent bursts of hysterical laughter that had long since been my only response to his entirely serious musings. And I didn't want him to stop talking, for the love of God.

I just need some water...holy crap, this stuff isn't cold. And then to the cashier, Hey, do you guys have an automatic de-froster in your refrigerator? Because this stuff's hot as hell. I could only wonder what the cashiers thought of my friend and I as he then walked unevenly to the register. Man, whatever I'm on is really strong.

The automatic doors gave a burgular-esque beeping every time we walked through them. Sorry! That noise would get on my nerves in a hurry...hey! Sorry about the noise, bro! Don't want to annoy you with any of that! I should probably note that the recipient of his yells was clear across the pharmacy.

Some people are jerks. They bump into you, and they act like it's your fault. But not me. And that's why I'm not going to hell.

They did what? "Well, this indian tribe, the Hottentots, had this manhood ritual where young men would smoke their first cigar while their mothers, uh, unmanned them by half. With their teeth." Oh man! And then, glorying in the majesty of his country, Dude, that's what's great about America, nobody biting off anyone else's balls. We don't do shit like that here, man.

You know how to get home? No, I'm no good with directions. I couldn't find my way out of a wet paper bag. Are you - I'm sorry, I don't know any other way to ask this - are you directionally illiterate? J., you're one of the few people I know who uses larger and larger words when less and less cognizant.

Cogneezant? Nevermind.

Man, I hate that stupid weasel. And the lady too.

Two hours later, his housemate and I walked him up the stairs to their apartment, flanking him to prevent a fall that would probably leave him feeling terrible in the morning, though he probably wouldn't have cared at that moment.

Vicadin is powerful stuff.