Rage Is Back (9781101606179) Read Online Free

bullshit from the local herbgate, but to roll Cannabis Cup–caliber marijuana in some filthy, stale Dutch Masters cigar and then seal it with your own rank slobber is an insult to everybody who took the time to plant, grow, dry, smuggle and distribute it.
    I’m also unusual in that I like to exercise when I’m high. Pretty much only when I’m high, actually. It motivates me or something, I don’t know. Fourteen flights sounded like fun. So I blazed, climbed, slammed open the stairwell door all out of breath, and gave a discreet little rappety-rap on the door of Penthouse A.
    People think weedheads are spacey and laid-back, but not when they’re waiting for their nuggets and worried that the delivery service isn’t going to come through. Which they seem to be every time, even if I’ve been providing quality service for a year. So right away, it struck me as odd that this guy—his name was Patrick; he was a stockbroker or a financial analyst or a hedge fund manager or something, one of those money jobs where my eyes glaze over as soon as I hear the first syllable out of the person’s mouth, and unlike most custies he’d never invited me to smoke with him, which was why I’d thought to take preemptive measures—would leave me standing in the hallway for so long.
    I knocked harder. Maybe he was tore up already, and I was bringing by the reinforcements. Another few seconds ticked away, and then from deep inside the condo came the irritated bray of a man who’s sitting around in his underwear, or worse, and has no designs on being disturbed.
    â€œWhat? Who is it?”
    â€œHey,” I called. “It’s Mike, from Organic Produce Delivery?”
    The door swung wide and Patrick faced me, hands pocketed in some raggedy and no doubt hastily donned sweatpants. I’d only seen him in his just-clocked-out gear before: necktie balled up in the pocket of his suit, bottled beer in hand, top two dress shirt buttons undone, white T underneath—
I Hate My Job
, by Calvin Klein. Seeing Patrick like this, I felt a little pang of sympathy. He looked like he’d worked out in college, and didn’t have the time to anymore.
    â€œYou kidding me? You guys were supposed to be here yesterday.”
    Now, I’m high as shit here, keep in mind. As a matter of fact, from here on out, assume that unless otherwise specified, I’m probably high as shit. But in a charming, articulate way. Naturally, I assumed Patrick the square-ass stockbroker was trading in hyperbole, so I flipped open my cell phone and confirmed that yes, okay, I was running fifteen minutes behind, whatever, old Pat’s more of a dick than I thought.
    â€œSorry, man,” I said. “Train was running weird.” Standard New Yorker excuse, totally unverifiable.
    Patrick crossed his arms over his chest. “You fucking with me?”
    That right there should have given me pause. The only time a stumpy white twenty-nine-year-old
Wall Street Journal
–reading spaz like Patrick will act even the slightest bit aggro toward a six-foot mocha teenager is when there’s a formal hierarchy in place to back him. He’d have no problem loud-talking a waiter or cursing out the mailroom guy at work, but he won’t say shit if he gets jostled on the subway, you know what I mean? The power structure that’s had his back throughout his life isn’t enough. He’s gotta see it practically in writing.
    I adjusted the strap of my bag, and spread my legs a little. “Why?” I said. “Do people fuck with you a lot, Patrick?”
    He leaned forward without uncrossing his arms, and addressed me in the tone and speed of voice a junior high school teacher might use with her thickest student, about a week before giving up forever and applying to business school.
    â€œBuddy. It’s
Tuesday
. I called for a delivery on
Monday
.”
    â€œWell, then,” I said, “one of