The next morning, Max drank coffee and smoked while sitting in the rocking chair under the pine tree. The yard, an acre in size, was enclosed by clumping bamboo, three varieties of palm trees, and sprawling live oaks at each quadrant. He stared at the one shading the fire pit, tracing the philodendron vine climbing it. In the early morning, the yard glowed lush and green. A small satellite dish stood next to the fire pit, long out of service. Like a sundial, its shadow traced the yard throughout the day. The shadow faced northwest of the sun-bleached plastic picnic chair. It was 9:30 a.m.
He lit another cigarette and took stock of the day: cash check, buy more cigarettes. Anything beyond that was extracurricular. He watched a blue jay land on a brick on the fire pit. It hopped in circles, then darted off. He observed two monarchs perform a clumsy dance around a yellow trumpet bush.
At a quarter to noon, Max took a full dropper of Delta 8 oil and drove his motorcycle downtown. While depositing his check at the bank drive-through, he felt the high come on. He tried to make small talk with the blonde lady through the window. Words came slowly; he suspected she judged him as evil, which sent him into a reflection of possible evil deeds. In the minute she left to verify his check, he traced five scenarios where God might confront him—like when he put a plastic bag over his head at ten and told Jerm to grab Memaw and say Max had suffocated. Now, years later, with creeping guilt amplified by the high transforming his neurons, he wondered what sort of thing would inspire a child to conceive of such a sinister prank.
“Okay, Max, here you go. Your receipt’s in the envelope,” the blonde woman said, smiling.
“Thanks!” he said loudly, forgetting the microphone in the bulletproof glass.
“Have a nice one,” he added, then popped his clutch and jetted forward. Thank God for sunglasses, he thought. If she could see my soul in my eyes, she’d call the SWAT team.
He turned right onto Ringling Boulevard and caught four green lights. Things might be looking up. The hot wind on his face was comforting. At the roundabout by the old city hall and Jimmy John’s, he took the third exit and headed south on Orange, then took a right past Bullet Hole and a left onto Pineapple. He cruised the historic Burns Court neighborhood. Salmon-pink and yellow Spanish buildings blurred in his peripheral. He felt the gaze of a crowd of young people outside the vegan coffee shop. It didn’t feel cool or okay. His cutoff Dickies and sleeveless Motörhead shirt felt like a caricature of his intrinsic taste. Why did I do this to myself? he thought. Take gas station weed oil? Go out in public? Be high on weed oil and ride a motorcycle in public? I hate myself.
Max took a right on Tamiami Trail. The view of the bay looked grand, its glimmering water dotted with sailboats and yachts. The road arched right; he leaned in and ripped the throttle. He turned onto Main Street and parked in the shade next to a gold-wrapped Maserati SUV.
Sitting at the WWI memorial, Max drank coffee and watched overweight old men walk their tiny dogs, businessmen in skin-tight suits, and the occasional sporty girl pass by, wearing only a sports bra and yoga shorts wedged up their crotches and ass cracks. He’d nearly transform into Slick Joe McWolf, shooting his eyeballs like torpedoes through his sunglasses. But he reflected, knowing his main appeal was to liberal arts girls who’d become jaded—girls too prickly to succumb to genuine affection, led astray by whichever prevailing zeitgeist opinion lingered on the fringes of the art world, which Max only heard about from them. Tragically hyper-aware, yet still naive. Once, a girl of this ilk referred to him as her “working-class daddy,” and he nearly committed murder-suicide from the embarrassment.