We’re rollin across B.C. in the summer and the top down and the radio on and the wind and I can hardly hear a thing she says.
She’s shouting and trying to light her smoke and the wind is winning and she’s been trying to light this fat screw job of a spliff for five minutes. Three joints into the day, she gets it lit bending way under the dash in some weird-ass Cirque de Soleil pose, takes a huge pull and sits up. “Where are we?” she yells.
“B.C.!” I yell back.
“Where the hell”—The joint blows out of her hand.—“are we going?”
“B.C. It’s big!”
She holds up her fingers like she still has the smoke, then realizes she doesn’t. “Did I just have a joint?”
I pass her my Kool.