Fallout (Crank 3)

of beer they’ve apparently consumed

since breakfast. The smell of cheap

brew, mixed with stale tobacco,

gags me slightly. “Uh, Dad.

You sure you’re good to drive?”

Damn straight. Why wouldn’t

I be? As if to prove he’s too

damn straight, he pulls out

a joint, hands it to Kortni.

Light that, would ya, babe?

Gotta keep my eyes on the road.

Just perfect. Can I get high

from secondhand pot smoke?

“Uh, Dad? My asthma?”

Kortni torches the blunt

anyway. We’ll just open all

the windows. You’ll be okay.

They’re smoking. I’m steaming,

despite the fact that it’s pretty

damn cold, moving freeway-speed

with all the windows dropped.

Whatever. Usually I don’t think

much about Kortni at all.

Right now I’m thinking how

much she resembles a Pekingese,

double-inhaling pot smoke

up her smashed-in nose, snorting

a little with each exhale. I bet

she’s one hellacious snorer.

As Dad’s girlfriends go, I guess