September 11, 2002

Today is the day not to be afraid.

So, it is September 11, and I'll make no comments on the date. To do so would be rather pointless, I believe. I don't operate this site in order to bring some sort of peace or understanding to the world, and I believe it would be a bit presumptuous to assume that people want to know what I think, and that what I think, in the long run, is of some importance. . If you do want to know what I think, go here, but it is up to you. Of course, I'd feel remiss to completely ignore the date. So. Here I will acknowledge it. I'll do more in the real world.

Moving on. And hopefully, up.

19

George stalked back to campus, as his car was parked on the opposite side of where the restaurant was located. He was relieved that he no longer had to ingratiate himself (as an aside, what is normally considered polite behavior was considered ingratiation by George Foreman) to that cypher of educational institutions. He was angry, however, that he was sober. He no longer had any drugs and he was too anxious to get out of town to stop at a bar.

Walking across campus, he spotted an unsavory-looking young man wearing baggy pants, a stocking cap, and so many piercings that he looked to be half-robot. Based on no other evidence, George assumed him to be a drug dealer.

Sometimes judgement based on appearance can be correct.

"You," addressed George. "Do you sell drugs?"

"What?" asked the young man, looking at once frightened, confused, and amused.

"Do you have any drugs that you are selling?"

"Why, are you a cop or something?"

George rolled his eyes. "I assure you that my brain is too evolved to have any wish to defend the lives of the pathetic residents of this pitiful college town."

"You know, you have to tell me if you're a cop."

"No, I don't think I do. But at any rate, I am not a cop."

"You do have to tell me."

"It really doesn't matter, because I'm not a policeman."

"Fine," said the kid, eager to finish himself of this conversation. "Come here," he said, and motioned over to a less conspicuous, heavily shrubbed part of the quad. "What do you want?"

"Do you have any…" George paused. He had no idea what ridiculous slang word young people were now using in reference to marijuana.

"…pot?" George felt ridiculous. Usually his personally assistant supplied him on a regular basis, with no questions asked. In fact, George couldn't remember the last time that he had seen his personal assistant face-to-face. That's why he liked him. Or her. He couldn't remember. The assistant's name was Jamie and had a voice that did not indicate gender.

"Yeah, how much?"

"Give me, I don't know, $10 worth." George had no idea who this character might be and what kind of wares he had for sale, and didn't want to be stuck with an unnecessary supply of the oregano he was likely selling when he had his own primo supply of kind shit at home.

"No prob. You want anything else? Shrooms? Ecstacy? I can get some acid for you if you want."

"No, thank you very much. Here you go," said George, pulling out a crumpled $10 bill. Despite his outrageous amount of money, he did not keep it organized and handsome, with a Tiffany's money clip or a fine Italian wallet.

"Ok, here you go," said the young man, depositing a small bag into George's hand before walking off at a brisk pace. George studied the bag and sniffed it. It was crumbly and dusty and obviously not worth $10, but at least it appeared to be authentic. If not petrified.

George returned to his car and, deftly rolling three joints along the way. It was a skill he learned as a child, as his mother, in an unsuccessful attempt to cut down on her smoking, decided that she would roll her own cigarettes (the lack of convenience would make her smoke less.) George, even impatient as a child, grew tired of seeing her fumble with rolling papers and spilling Drum tobacco, and appropriated the task for himself, teaching himself to roll cigarettes almost faster than his mother could smoke them. Eventually, she became so creeped out by her young son rolling cigarettes for her that she quit of her own volition. Perhaps the tobacco seeped into George's skin, giving him the habit he sustained through adulthood.

A few security guards noted George's suspicious activity, but when he raised his head and arched his eyebrow in the famous way that he did in all his bookjacket covers, they recognized him as the only notable alumnus of the university and left him alone.

He smoked a joint on the road, scrupulously driving exactly one mile over the speed limit (driving exactly at the speed limit would arouse suspicion, he gathered) and then smoked the rest in the rental-car return.

By the time he was on the plane back to National Airport, he was so stoned he even found the in-flight video programming mildly amusing.

He took a cab home and climbed into bed, glad that he could avoid thinking about his meeting with Geflen, and his next step, for the evening. He congratulated himself on having actually gone to met Geflen. Geflen, meanwhile, in another time zone, congratulated him on whatever achievement he had accomplished that had attracted the great and unpleasant George Foreman.