Page 39 of Into the Blue
Blue nods his head. “Gonna take care of it.” Walking back to the tank, he allows the snake to slither back down his arm into the enclosure where it disappears under some rocks.I’d never see it coming,I think as the snake moves out of sight. “First, gonna take care of you.”
Running a hand over my head, I realize that he must have washed… and detangled my hair from the attack. It’s even got some product in it that makes the long braid it’s in smooth and neat down my back.
He’s been taking care of me.
In jogger sweats and bare feet, he comes to my side and holds an arm out. The same one that he casually handled a snake with care. I don’t miss that symbolism for a second.
From handling one snake to another.
I move as slowly as I can with his help. He keeps me steady as vertigo makes my vision wavy when blood rushes. After a moment, he’s supporting me out of the room down another hallway with dark decor and luxe wood furnishings. The carpet is plush under my feet and I am thankful that walking isn’t painful. He stops at a doorway with a heavy looking door. “Mind if I smoke first?”
It strikes me as kind of weird that he’s asking. “Only if you’re not gonna share with me,” I say.
He grins and it's unlike any of the ones I’ve seen before. This one actually looks… pleased? That is so weird to qualify, but not once have I seen him look this way.
He pushes the door open and I see why the door is so heavy. It doesn’t reek of old weed smoke, but it’s faint in the air, probably from the fabric in the room. He sets me on a plush charcoal chair that instantly swallows me up. I’m sinking into the stuffing, but it’s comfortable and not putting too much pressure on my sore body. He flicks a switch on a machine in one of the large windows. There is some kind of film over them so the room is dark enough that I can’t see outside well. I’msure you couldn’t see inside either. A low whir comes from the machine and it must be what pulls the smoke out of the room.
He walks through the space gathering things.
A jar from a shelf full of them. Each one filled with slightly different shades of green from a pale citron to a deep, purplish hue. Some of the dried cannabis is tinged with red or yellow. A true connoisseur’s collection.
A packet of cigarillos from a box with all different flavors to choose from. He picks a navy colored one with blueberries on it.
A tray from a table beside the shelf of jars.
Then a little baggie with small white foam cylinders. Cigarette filters.
Blue sits in a chair similar to mine and begins working on his project. He’s efficient as he uses a nail to slice the brown tobacco leaf in half to empty it of the shredded tobacco. A few minutes later, he’s broken down the sticky green clumps of weed from the jar. It has a blue-ish hue to it and there’s white fluff sticking to his fingertips as he sprinkles it inside the leaf by small pinches of his index and thumb. Finally, he sets the white filter in one end and licks the edge of the leaf as he rolls it closed.
The blunt is tight and plump.
He sets it on the edge of the tray and repeats the same actions for the second. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes and he’s ready to go. I didn’t think that there could be anything sexy about rolling a blunt but here I am—practically drooling.
I smoke, sure. I know about selling weed, procuring it, distributing it, the local laws of many states if caught doing any of the aforementioned things… But this? Oh, I shouldn’t have seen him do this.
He makes rolling blunts look like a craft. A skill or art form that should be awarded. Maybe it is. I’ve only seen it as a means and not a medium.
Setting the tray down, he puts one blunt behind his ear and lights the other. He takes an inhale in, holding it for a moment and then blows it out. I press my thighs together. This shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
“When did you start smoking?” I take the offered blunt and puff shallowly, aware of my sore ribs. Instantly, tingles of ease settle through my bloodstream.
“It’s crazy people think that because my Pa sold the shit, I was like nine years old with a blunt hangin’ out of my mouth.” He takes the blunt back and his eyes watch me, gauging my reaction.
I didn’t think that, but it’s hard to tell what kind of exposure he would have had. It’s not like there were history books about these crime families. All I know is from word of mouth.
“I didn’t take my first inhale until I was eighteen. He figured if I could get a Marlboro then I could at least puff somethin’ better.” There’s a tightness around his eyes as he tells this anecdote about his dad.
“You looked up to him,” I state though it could easily be a question.
He doesn’t confirm but instead conveys, “He was human. He was raised in a different generation. He had ambitions that were bigger than anybody around him could grasp. He achieved them. He gave that drive to me. So, I took it.”
He took the drive and that much is clear with all he’s done since his dad stepped down. He didn’t just become King with that step. It took time and effort to build this empire further. “What didn’t you take?”
“Wish I hadn’t taken how he treated my Ma. He didn’t fight for her or keep her safe. His eye was glued to the money and everythin’ else fell to the side. Even me and my lil’ bro. But he saw us as his legacy, so neglectin’ that was bad business. Nothin’ a Dupont hates more than bad business.”
He doesn’t light the other blunt like I expect.
Long limbs unfold to his massive frame and I feel small under the man but also under that honesty.He is as much a product as I am.His father shaped Blue and set him on the path he wanted for him.
