“I guess he could stay with me for a couple days,” I said. Even as I said it . . . I was regretting it. What was the deal with me today? It was as if my mouth wasn't connected to my brain.
“Wow, you'd do that for the Mooner? That is so awesome.” Mooner gave me a hug. “You won't be sorry. I'll be an excellent roommate.”
Joe didn't look nearly as happy as the Mooner. Joe had plans for the evening. There'd been that remark at the table about me owing him doggy sex. Probably he'd been teasing. But then, maybe not. Hard to tell with men. Maybe it was best to go with the Mooner.
I sent Joe a shrug that said, Hey, what's a girl to do?
“Okay,” Joe said, “let's lock up and get out of here. You take the Mooner and I'll take Bob.”
MOONER AND I stood in the hall in front of my apartment. Mooner had a small duffel bag with him that I assumed contained a change of clothes and a full range of drugs.
“Okay,” I said, “here's the thing. You're welcome to stay here, but you can't do drugs.”
“Dude,” Mooner said.
“Are there any drugs in the bag?”
“Hey, what do I look like?”
“You look like a stoner.”
“Well, yeah, but that's because you know me.”
“Empty the bag on the floor.”
Mooner dumped the contents of the bag on the floor. I put Mooner's clothes back in the bag, and I confiscated everything else. Pipes and papers and an assortment of controlled substances. I let us into my apartment, flushed the contents of the plasticene bags, and tossed the hardware in the trash.
“No drugs as long as you live here,” I said.
“Hey, that's cool,” Mooner said. “The Mooner doesn't actually need drugs. The Mooner is a recreational user.”
Uh-huh.
I gave Mooner a pillow and a quilt, and I went to bed. At 4:00 A.M. I woke up to the television blaring in the living room. I shuffled out in my T-shirt and flannel boxers and squinted at Mooner.
“What's going on? Don't you sleep?”
“I usually sleep like a rock. I don't know the deal here. I think it's all like, too much. I'm feeling bummed, man. You know what I'm saying? Edgy.”
“Yeah. Sounds to me like you need a joint.”
“It's medicinal, dude. In California you can get pot by prescription.”
“Forget it.” I went back to my bedroom, closed and locked the door, and put the pillow over my head.
THE NEXT TIME I straggled out it was seven, Mooner was asleep on the floor, and Saturday morning cartoons were on. I got the coffee machine started, gave Rex some fresh water and food, and dropped a slice of bread into my brand-new toaster. The smell of coffee brewing got Mooner to his feet.
“Yo,” he said, “what's for breakfast?”
“Toast and coffee.”
“Your grandmother would have made me pancakes.”
“My grandmother isn't here.”
“You're just trying to make it hard on me, man. Probably you've been scarfing down doughnuts and all I'm allowed to eat is toast. I'm talking about my rights, here.” He wasn't exactly yelling, but he wasn't talking softly, either. “I'm a human being and I've got rights.”
“What rights are you talking about? The right to have pancakes? The right to have doughnuts?”