The Munchies
By Jamil Ragland
“I’m hungry.”
Corey turned towards me, his eyes flashing like tail lights. “So?”
“So I want somethin’ to eat, nigga.”
“That’s just the weed talkin’, it’ll wear off.”
“Nah, I was hungry before we smoked, the weed just made it worse.”
“Nigga, it’s one in the mornin’. Ain’t no bodegas open now.”
“The smoke shop is. It’s always open.”
Smoke poured out of Corey’s nostrils. “So?”
I took the blunt into my hand. “So let’s go, nigga!”
“We got shit in the kitchen.”
“I want a honey bun.”
“Fuck that.”
“We get the honey bun, right? Put it in the microwave, make it all soft and warm, with the white frosting dripping off the sides and-“
“Now I want one.”
“I know you do.”
A pause. “Fuck you Rashad. Pass me my coat.”
It’s still February, and the electric blue slight from the street lamps bounces off the frozen puddles in the potholes. It’s cloudy, a gray sheet stretched out over the city.
“I can’t see the stars,” I say.
“You can’t see them no way ‘cause of the light pollution.”
“What the fuck is light pollution?”
“Exactly what it sounds like, nigga.”
The street is quiet. It’s strange, even at this time of night. Someone’s always blaring 50 Cent or bachata, it don’t matter what time it is. Not tonight. There’s two dudes standing on the corner, where Vine and Capen meet. I can hear their conversation. The scent of E & J is strong when we walk by.
“These niggas ain’t on my level, man. I’m tryin’ to get out of this neighborhood. I’m tryin’ to do shit. I prayed on it, and I know that God got a plan for me. I know He got it all planned out. This shit ain’t right. These niggas is wild, they don’t got no respect.”
“You right, you right,” his partner said.
“God is good, man. God is good. He gonna get me outta here, so I ain’t gotta worry about these wild niggas no more. A-maaaaaaaa-zing Graaaaaaaaaaace, how sweeeeeeeeeeet, the souuuuuuuund,” he sang, swaying back and forth to the slurred lyrics.
“They need to make weed legal and get rid of alcohol. You don’t see me and you makin’ that kind of noise,” Corey said.
“Niggas get real religious when they drunk,” I said.
“You drink wine at communion.”
“That ain’t the same thing.”
We turn onto Capen Street. A black Honda Accord slow rolls through a stop sign. The tints are darker than the paint job. I glance down at a newspaper rustling against my feet. It’s the classifieds. Someone’s selling tennis rackets.
“You ever played tennis?”
“Yeah.”
“How was it?”
“It’s straight. Harder than it looks.”
The smoke shop came into view. There were three bodegas within a block of each other, and it was the only 24-hour one. Niggas need bogeys at all times of night, especially after getting pussy. They got plenty of my money, but only for dutches. Smoking cigarettes is stupid.
The store itself is tiny, a little bigger than my living room. The counter and register are in the front of the store to the left, with a bored Dominican sitting there. On the right is the candy stand, Snickers, Twix, Almond Joy, whatever. In the back, with the soda machine and the cases of unopened Newports, that’s where we're headed.
“What up,” I said as I walked past the Dominican. He nodded back, his head resting in his hand. He was tall. Even slumped over on his stool he was looking me in the eye. Maybe he played basketball in high school. If he went.
“Yo, I don’t see no honey buns,” Corey said.
“What you mean?”
“I don’t see none.”
“They right in front of you, nigga.”
“Look, nigga,” he said, grabbing one of the buns off the rack and shaking it in my face. The golden hunk of sugar bounced in the wrapper. “You see frosting, nigga?”
“Yo, you got the ones with frosting?” I yelled to the front.
“No, papi,” the tall Dominican said.
It’s pretty hard for me to feel anything besides a mellow, giddy buzz when I’m high, but I think there was a bit of disappointment trying to sneak in. I thought I could see it in Corey’s face too. The weed was wearing off.
“Damn.”
“Shit.”
“What a waste of a blunt.”
