The Middlesteins Part 9

"Of course not," he said. He wouldn't even begin to justify his actions to her, leaving his sick, emotionally unstable, diabetes- and heart-disease- and who-knows-what-else-ridden wife, because he knew she didn't want to hear it. Even though in his head it made sense.

Beverly understood! Beverly was the first person he had met who got it perfectly, Beverly with her mean drunk of a father, a military man crushed by time as a prisoner of war during World War II. "I had my sympathies for the man," she said. "We all did." Richard nodded. Their generation, his and Beverly's, they all had family, and they all had heard stories from the war growing up.

And then Beverly added-and was this the moment his heart skipped for her?-with a downtrodden yet dreamy voice: You never know what's worse with the angry ones, watching them live, or watching them die.

"With the b'nai mitzvah approaching," continued Rach.e.l.le, "and with all the family in town, Benny and I want you in attendance of course. And we still would like you to recite the kiddush, obviously." His daughter-in-law had an insistent formality, spine as straight as a rod, every hair in place, her nails a pearly pink, ironed, pressed, tightly controlled. She reminded him of the average Zoloft or Prozac customer. (He was no doctor, so he would never say anything like that to his son, but she seemed like she might benefit.) "I'll be there," said Richard. "With bells on."

"Don't wear bells," said Rach.e.l.le.

"I would never wear bells," said Richard. "It's an expression."

"I know it's an expression," she said, suddenly flushed and fl.u.s.tered, her neck delicately purpling. This is hard for her, he thought. Why? In that moment of weakness, he made a grab for the gold.

"I would like to see them before the b'nai mitzvah," he said. "I could take them to services on Friday night? Or next week?"

It was Beverly who encouraged him to suggest taking the grandkids to Friday-night services. If these kids were so important to him-they were; Richard practically shouted this-then he needed to think outside the box, this last phrase she relished dramatically. Sure, it was more fun to go to the movies or shopping or get pizza, but he was probably not allowed to be having fun yet with his two gorgeous grandchildren, not in his daughter-in-law's eyes anyway. Friday-night services weren't about having fun; they were about being contemplative. The subtler point was (and she was right, Richard could not deny it) that he was not an out-of-the-box thinker. He was completely in the box. (What was so wrong with the box? He had felt this way his entire life.) But by leaving his wife at the age of sixty, he had hurtled himself out there, out into the universe, out of the G.o.dd.a.m.n box. And if he had not done so, he never would have met Beverly. So it was up to him to do whatever it took to stay there.

"Let me talk to Benny," Rach.e.l.le said, and her skin returned to its normal (though possibly tanning-creamed) golden color. He had placed the power in her hands once again, given her something to decide upon. That's where she likes to be, he thought. On top. And his mind briefly traveled to a s.e.xual moment, not with his daughter-in-law, of course (although maybe she was nearby, down the hall or in a doorway watching), but with Beverly, vibrant-eyed, sensible yet magical, unavailable yet somehow still within reach, Beverly, his hands reaching up to her, and she waved her body back and forth on top of him, a greeting, an introduction of two bodies to each other, an explosive exchange of a specific kind of information. Beverly grinding on his d.i.c.k, Beverly straddling his face, Beverly all over him all day and night long.

Beverly!

At shul the following week-of course Rach.e.l.le had said yes to Richard's request; there was no way she could say no to a grandfather sincerely wanting to take his children to synagogue, there was certainly a rule about that somewhere in some daughter-in-law handbook-Richard meandered lightly down the main aisle of the sanctuary, his two grandchildren, their tongues struck by silence since the moment they'd gotten into the car, shuffling behind him. He waved to the Cohns and the Grodsteins and the Weinmans and the Frankens, all the couples he had come up together with for the last twenty, thirty, nearly forty years. They had all gone to each other's children's bar mitzvahs and weddings and anniversary parties and thank G.o.d no funerals yet, but he supposed they would be attending those, too, until there was no one left.

How would that feel? To be the last one standing? Who was going to make it to the end? Would it be Albert Weinman, who swam every morning and golfed every weekend and ate egg-white everything? Or Lauren Franken, who'd already had a double mastectomy, and joked that she'd gotten the hard part out of the way early and it was all smooth sailing ahead? Surely it wouldn't be Bobby Grodstein, the way he smoked those cigars after dinner.

He allowed himself to consider his practically-ex-wife, her supersized existence, the secret eating late at night (every night he could hear her opening cupboards and packages and crunching crunching crunching, echoing through the quietude of their home, their street, their town, their world, but he had given up on trying to stop her), the twice-weekly trips to Costco (even though he knew where all the food had gone, he couldn't help but wonder out loud to her every single time she went, "What do you need?"), the flesh stacked upon flesh stacked upon flesh. No, she would not outlive him.

Would it be Richard himself? He worked out a few times a week, not as hard as he could, sure, but those knees of his . . . His blood pressure was good, his cholesterol was a little high, but nothing he couldn't manage with Lipitor. He took vitamins. He ate his RDA of fruits and vegetables, sometimes even much, much more than the RDA. During his last checkup, his doctor had given him a friendly swat on the arm before he left the room, clipboard in hand, and promised he would live a long life. "There's no reason you couldn't live till one hundred," is what he said.

Would he want to make it that long? Would he want everyone he knew to be gone? Except for his family, they'd probably outlive him: Benny, who he knew would forgive him eventually even if he had lost respect for him, and his sullen daughter, Robin, who was already too busy to visit him while he was still a fully functioning human being-what about when he was old and decrepit in a nursing home? He'd off himself before that happened. He'd off himself before he was wearing diapers. He knew it. He could prescribe himself the exact mixture he would need to send himself to a faraway dreamland, never to wake up again. For decades he had been facing the adult-diaper section in his pharmacy, studying the people who purchased them, their slow, miserable shuffle, imagining he could see right through their clothes to what was underneath. Your needs at the beginning of your life and at the end of your life were exactly the same. But Richard Middlestein was no baby; he was a man. (He felt like pounding his chest right there in the middle of the temple. Beverly!) He'd live until the day he was ready to die.

If his grandkids didn't kill him first.

Because there were Josh and Emily, all three of them now seated in a prominent position close to the aisle and near the front of the room, just four rows from the bimah, and even though they were huddled over slightly, it was clear that they had their cell phones out and they were texting. (Middlestein thought texting was the same as Morse code, and the more people texted, the closer America came to being a nation at war. "Think about it," he'd told Beverly, poking his index finger on his temple.) He leaned across Josh and squeezed one of Emily's hands-the hand that was tap-tapping-and rested his arm across Josh's lap, and then, with as much restraint as possible, because he did not want to alert the Cohns and the Grodsteins and the Weinmans and the Frankens, all of whom were seated two rows behind him, that his grandchildren had apparently been raised by wolves, he said, "Put those away." Josh, simple, scrawny, sweet-faced, looked instantly terrified and shoved his phone into his back pocket, but Emily was another story. Emily was so much like her grandmother and her aunt-at least in appearance, but Middlestein suspected it went much further than that-she was practically marked by the devil. She gave him a mean look, and was precariously close to opening her mouth, and what she might say, and at what volume she might say it, he could only imagine. If she were truly like her grandmother, it would be just loud enough so that everyone around them could hear but not so loud that it could be considered inappropriate. Nothing to ruin anyone's reputation over anyway. Not like everyone hadn't lost it on their spouse at one time or another.

But young Emily did not yell. She merely whispered, "I'm not done yet," and then, in perhaps her most offensive act of the evening (and there were a few yet to come), shook his hand off hers with vigor. Middlestein pulled his hand back, stunned by her aggression. Josh turned to her openmouthed but did not say a thing, closed his mouth, turned away, faced forward, opened his mouth again, and turned toward her, and the two of them stared at each other, and then-this was the part that crushed Middlestein, that made him realize that it was possible there was no one left in this family he had a decent relationship with (And was it his fault? He had nearly convinced himself it wasn't.)-Josh let off a short, staccato laugh, as if he were trying to control it but could not.

Once he had bathed these little babies. Once he had bounced them on his knee and ran his fingers through their soft curls. These were going to be the children he would never argue with, never punish, whose curfew he would never have to worry about. He would never have to spank them. He would never have to disappoint them. All he had to do was spoil them rotten, overspend on every birthday and Hanukkah just to see their eager smiles. Now they revered their iPhones above religious decorum and thought he was a schmuck because he'd left his wife. Now they didn't give a s.h.i.t what he thought.

Middlestein was devastated throughout the entire service. He could barely bring himself to sing the Shema, which had always been such a soothing prayer for him, a proclamation of his faith. It had always been so good to believe in something. Now he was distracted by the little miss down the row, with her eye rolling and sighing and the loudest page flipping this side of the Mississippi, her brother choking in his laughter, the Cohns and the Grodsteins and the Weinmans and the Frankens giving him rueful glances. It wasn't enough that he had abandoned his wife, now he had ill-behaved grandchildren too? Shameful. He was shamed.

Once he had counted their fingers and toes, just to make sure they were all there. Their nails were like dewdrops. This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home.

He sighed and closed his eyes and tried to achieve bliss: Beverly! What did her toes look like? He knew she got a manicure (and a pedicure) once a week from the Polish girls in the same mini-mall that housed his pharmacy. She strolled in afterward, her nails glowing coral, afraid to fish out her wallet from her purse. "I always end up chipping," she said with that adorable British accent of hers, offering her purse to Middlestein. As he roamed through her sungla.s.ses and cell phone and lipstick and checkbook and a paperback novel, on the cover of which was a dark-skinned man with bright blue eyes against some sort of Middle Eastern backdrop (it looked smart), a package of Wrigley's peppermint gum (a cla.s.sic and elegant choice if one had to chew gum), and a dozen pens (freebies from local businesses, he had a box of them himself that he handed out to customers, all bearing the Middlestein Drugs logo), he was touched by the intimacy of the moment, even if she was a complete stranger. There were three quarters at the bottom of her purse, and a tube of ChapStick. A plastic comb, also bearing the logo of a local business. Did she just say yes every time someone handed her something? Was she too nice to say no? n.o.body needed that many pens.

She was buying a greeting card, for a college graduation; on the cover there was a young man wearing a mortarboard in a hot air balloon, and on the inside, opposite a flap to hold a check, it read "Congratulations on moving on up in the world!" It was a dumb sentiment, but he carried only five different kinds of college-graduation cards in his display. (He had been trying to phase them out since 1998 but couldn't bring himself to throw them away.) He suddenly wanted nothing more than to impress this British beauty, and all he had to offer were decade-old greeting cards.

He waved the card at her. "Mazel tov," he said. "Your son?"

"Nephew. Michigan State." She blew on her nails.

"That's a gorgeous color on those nails," he said.

She pulled her hands away from her face and c.o.c.ked her head as she stared at them. "But it's a bit bright, isn't it?"

"Nah, it's perfect," he said. "You should always wear that color."

He pulled a five-dollar bill out of her wallet.

"I don't like to be too flashy," she said.

"Add a little sparkle to your day, there's nothing wrong with that," he said.

She straightened herself and stared at him meaningfully. "Truer words were never spoken," she said. And then she collapsed slightly. "Life is so dull sometimes." She gave him a wistful but (he was almost positive) flirty smile. "It's as if I can hear the clock ticking off the minutes of the day."

"I can't imagine a woman like you, with nails like those, would ever be bored."

"I keep myself busy," she said. "I have hobbies." She said "hobbies" with a bit of spite. As much as he had hated his ex-wife's ire and venom, he did find a woman with an edge extremely attractive; they were so fearless. "But lately I've found myself just waiting for something to happen."

Did this gorgeous, witty, well-read, nicely groomed, age-appropriate, mostly organized woman really just walk into his pharmacy and lay out an invitation for him to flirt with her? Had he done anything good that day to deserve this moment?

"I noticed there's no ring on that finger," said Middlestein.

"I noticed there's no ring on your finger either," she said.

Ante up, Middlestein.

Down the aisle Emily flung herself into a coughing fit, a grimacing Josh patting her on the back, and then Beverly's smile gave way to a vision of his any-second-now-ex-wife. She had been hovering somewhere in the back of his mind and then pushed her way to the front, knocking Beverly over until she returned, timidly, to a dark s.p.a.ce out of frame. Edie said nothing, she just stood there, her hands in fists, her presence enormous. Everyone in the temple sang, and so did Richard, and he looked at his grandchildren, and Josh was singing, and Emily had her arms crossed and was staring into s.p.a.ce. An angry young girl. She looked at her grandfather, sneered, and turned back toward nothing in particular. Richard faced forward, folded his hands together, rested his forehead on them, and began to pray on behalf of his (if he had to be honest with himself now that he was in an actual conversation with G.o.d here) long-drawn-out-legal-battle-until-she's-his-ex-wife. Because she was sick, she was very, very sick, in the head, in the heart, in the flesh, and even though he could not watch over her anymore, it never hurt to ask G.o.d for a little help. Here he was, in his house of worship, asking for help for her. Because now that he was really being honest, he'd give up Beverly in a second if he knew that it would heal Edie. But he knew that nothing would make her better. That's what he knew that no one else did, not his daughter or his son or that little grimacing monkey two seats down. That Edie didn't care if she lived or died.

Middlestein almost felt like he might cry, and where better to do it but here, under the watchful eye of G.o.d? He had seen so many people cry over the years in synagogue, in this long life of his, particularly during the Kaddish. He was born a few years after the Holocaust had ended, but it seemed like it dragged on for years, the wailing and the moaning, gradually fading to tender streams of tears accompanied by a choked-up sound, the sadness trapped in the heart and the chest and the throat, resolving, years after the fact, into just a whimper, for some faraway soul. (Could they even remember what their lost loved ones looked like anymore?) Then there was Vietnam. There was cancer. Heart attacks and strokes and car accidents. A surprising amount of cliff-diving accidents. (Six.) Suicides, hushed. Old age. Bankruptcy. Runaway children. Hands clenched across the heart, as if the white-hot force between the palms could make a miracle happen. If one believed in miracles. So many wars over the years, sons and daughters came and went. Pray for them, and pray for Israel while you're at it, too. (Everyone always should be praying for Israel.) Hold on to hope. Hold on to love. Hold on to your family, because they won't always be around.

Where better to cry?

But where worse to cry than under the watchful eye of the Cohns and the Grodsteins and the Weinmans and the Frankens? They didn't need to know how bad it was. He didn't want them talking about him later in their living rooms, over a nightcap of fat-free snacks. Worrying or judging, he didn't know which, and it didn't matter; either way would make him feel weak and helpless, and even after all these years of being in each other's lives, what did they know anyway? They didn't know anything about him.

Or to cry in front of Emily, who was now slumped on her brother's shoulder, looking in profile a little dreamy, less like the Middlestein women and more like her mother, her pet.i.te chin, the smooth drop of her forehead, the pink swell of her lips, the furious blaze of her eyes temporarily dampened, as if she had pulled herself deep underwater, and was holding her breath until she turned blue. She must have felt him staring at her: she suddenly shook her head, and the eyes were relit. She had remembered she was supposed to be mad at him. No, he would not cry in front of Emily either.

After the services were over, he hustled the two children, his hands in an exceedingly firm grip on the backs of both of their necks, out the door, past the wall of gold leaves embossed with the names of donors-his was up near the top, because he was one of the first, although it had been a long time since he had given any sizable amount of money, what with this economy-all of them forming the long limbs of a tree, reaching up and outward as if they were holding up the synagogue. He didn't stop to chitchat with anyone, just a nod and a "Good Shabbos, " making a hapless, dog-eyed expression toward the children, as if to say, It's not me, it's them.

Outside, in the late-spring evening, the crack of summer heat curling at its edges, as they dodged the cars pulling up curbside to pick up the elderly, then mixed in with all those people filled with prayer and joy, the women in high heels, the men in their suit coats (no ties necessary during the warmer weather), the children running and giggling, released at last from sitting still, everyone immersed in that post-shul glow, he almost let himself forget that his grandchildren had engaged in such subversive behavior. He was, in fact, ready to forgive them, until Emily said, loudly, "I'm so glad that's over."

"It's over when I tell you it's over," said Middlestein. "You're lucky I don't make you go back in there and have a talk with the rabbi himself about how G.o.d feels about texting during shul. He'd have a thing or two to say to you."

"We didn't want to come, you should know that," said Emily.

"Shut up, Emily," said Josh.

"You shut up," said Emily.

"I think he knows that already," said Josh.

Middlestein released his hands from their backs, which had started to sweat, and pulled out his keys from his suit-coat pocket, pressing the unlock-door b.u.t.ton even though they were still at least a dozen rows from his car. He pa.s.sed Josh, he pa.s.sed Emily, he pa.s.sed the Weinmans, headed, as they did every week, to a Shabbat dinner with Al's elderly mother at her nursing home in Oak Park. He walked and walked through the streaming crowds until he was at his car, and he got in, and he sat, and he waited for those little sons of b.i.t.c.hes to get there.

Josh got in first, Emily pausing with her hand on the door, starting a staring compet.i.tion with her grandfather that she almost instantly comprehended-he could see her bite her lip-she was never going to win. Don't you understand, he wanted to say, I invented the staring contest? Don't you understand that, as far as you know, I invented everything?

She got into the car, the front seat, and pulled herself as far away from him as she could.

Years ago, seventeen, maybe eighteen by now, Middlestein sat in this same parking lot with his daughter, Robin, but in a different car-was it the Accord then?-and he was just as furious with her as he was with Emily now. It was a month before Robin's bat mitzvah, and she still hadn't memorized her haftorah. The cantor had called them in for an emergency meeting, only Robin hadn't realized that's what it was, or maybe she didn't care, because-if it was possible-she was even more sullen than Emily was now. Robin these days was a confident though still difficult woman, but at the age of thirteen she was awkward and chubby, with a head of hair like a mushroom cloud, and cranky because of all that. Middlestein had adored her anyway. She was the youngest. She was trickier than Benny. She would retreat and attack quickly, a limber boxer. He never had a handle on her once she learned how to talk back. And there she was talking back to Cantor Rubin, then a young man, bearded, barrel-chested, a new recruit to the synagogue (Middlestein had offered to give him a discount at the pharmacy, but Rubin had never shown up, not in all these years, a slight insult if he had to admit it), giving him lip while he tried to explain calmly that if she just worked with the tape every night, one hour a night, he was confident she would have her haftorah down by her bat mitzvah. And Robin dryly said, "Can't we just play the tape instead and I'll lip-sync it? No one's going to be paying attention anyway." If it was a joke, it wasn't funny. If she was serious, then why was Middlestein sh.e.l.ling out twenty thousand dollars for this party? If she was serious, then who did she think she was, speaking that way to an adult, and not only an adult but a religious leader (and potential customer) in the community? If she was serious, then somehow Middlestein had failed as a parent, and he was pretty sure he had not failed at anything in his life, even if he hadn't really succeeded at that much either.

After the meeting, in the parking lot, in the last car he had before this one (no, it was definitely not a Honda), barely after Robin had closed the door, she turned to give him one more smart-a.s.s comment, and he greeted her with an open palm. Hard, he smacked her hard, he could admit it now. Maybe it was too hard. Maybe it was just hard enough. She pulled back flat against the car door and put her hands up to her face, and then she began to cry noisily. He started the car. He didn't care. Let her cry. And she did, the whole way home. He had thought hitting her would make him feel better, but it only fueled his anger; he could feel it clutching at his chest, a red-hot grip. "Cut it out, Robin," he said. She wailed and wailed.

When he pulled in to the driveway, she burst out of the car and into the house as if she were being chased, so dramatic as always. All he had done was. .h.i.t her, his child, once, what was the big deal? Yet Middlestein felt his insides get sucked out and replaced with dread. His dad used to beat him with his belt, and Middlestein had done the same a few times (though definitely much less than his father) to his own children. Mostly he took his belt and bent it into a loop, snapping the insides together as a warning call. It had always worked; often the children would burst into tears just at the sight of it, never mind the snapping noise. But this was obviously different. This was less one part of an orderly system of punishment (bend over and take what's coming to you) and more an act of spontaneous violence. He had felt a jagged line of energy coming from his hand when he struck his daughter's face, as if a lightning bolt had sprung forth from it. Oh yes, for many reasons this was different, but perhaps the biggest one was that he hadn't discussed it with his wife first.

"What happened?" Edie, younger, thinner, but never thin, walking out of her office (always working, tireless, ceaseless, she loved her work more than him, this had always been obvious) and into the foyer, where Middlestein had stopped himself, helplessly.

"Our daughter . . ." Yes, that's smart, Middlestein, that's the tack, make sure she knows you're both in it together. "Decided to mouth off to the cantor."

"What did she say, exactly?"

"What didn't she say?"

"Do I need to go ask her what she said? Why is it difficult for you to answer the question? Why, Richard, is it always so difficult for you to answer the G.o.dd.a.m.n question?" Robin's crying stopped in a choke, regrouped, and then commenced even louder than before. Edie moved closer to him, and he found himself backing up flat against the front door. "Why do I have a child up there losing her mind?"

"She was completely disrespectful to the cantor," he said. He stood up straight. He was taller than Edie. He was her husband. He was allowed to make decisions.

"What did you do?" she said.

"I hit her," he said. "A slap."

Edie gave him a dark look-the pits of h.e.l.l were in those eyes sometimes-and then burst out with her hands, her own lightning springing forth, slapping him on his shoulder, on his neck, on the side of his head, as far up as she could reach. "You don't hit my child," she said. Everywhere Richard covered himself, she struck somewhere else. "You are not allowed to hit her, do you understand me?" Her slaps stung him. Her lips shone with spit. "You don't go near my child." She hit him once more, in the face. "I have a deadline tomorrow and a terrified child tonight. It is like you don't want this house to function, Richard." She pushed a hand into his chest. "You are a ridiculous human being."

She shook her head and then ran up the stairs to her daughter's room, where, after a minute, the crying abruptly ceased.

Middlestein looked at Emily, smashed up against the window, dark, fearful eyes. She knew she had screwed up.

"If I were your father, I'd smack you so hard your head would spin," he said.

Emily's eyes widened, but she did not cry.

"But I'm not. I am your grandfather. So all I can tell you is that was just terrible, terrible behavior tonight. You, too, Josh. Just because you're the lesser of two evils, that doesn't mean you weren't being bad."

"I'm really sorry," said Josh.

"It's not your fault we didn't want to come," said Emily, remorseful at last. "I had a birthday party tonight. We both did. This kid at school."

"It was at a laser park," said Josh.

"I don't even know what a laser park is," said Middlestein.

"It's pretty cool," said Josh.

"I'm tired of going to the synagogue," said Emily. "We have Hebrew school all the time this year."

Middlestein let out an enormous sigh. "Emily, there are so many things we don't want to do in this life of ours. You have zero concept of this. You will someday miss this moment when the worst thing about your day is contemplating G.o.d's word for an hour or two."

"Doubtful," mumbled Emily, but he heard her, and his hand snapped out, and she jerked her neck back, and he nailed nothingness, just the air, the air between him and his granddaughter. He held his hand there for a second, and then patted her shoulder, as if that's what he had intended to do all along.

"You'll see," he said. "You'll see someday."

It was a silent car ride home; the children wisely kept their phones in their pockets, so it was just the sound of their breathing, the car engine, a light-rock station playing barely above mute. In their driveway they got out of the car before he had even turned off the engine and darted inside. Why were these children always running away from him? Didn't they know that he loved them with all his heart?

His son, Benny, walked outside, his arms tight across his chest, Rach.e.l.le only briefly poking her head out the door to wave h.e.l.lo, and then retreating inside, presumably to quiz the children on the night.

"How was it?" said Benny.

"The rabbi went on for way too long about Israel tonight," said Middlestein. "It's not that I don't agree, but he's like a broken record sometimes."

"The kids were okay?" said Benny.

"The kids were fine," said Richard. "I don't think they wanted to be there, but they're kids. They like hanging out with their friends."

"They kicked up a storm," said Benny. "There was this party-"

"I heard all about it," said Middlestein. "A laser park. Whatever that is."

"It's where they play with lasers," said Benny. He relaxed his arms. Middlestein had offered up just enough information to prove that he had bonded with the children. "There's one over in Wheeling. It's been around for a while."

Middlestein shrugged. "Whatever makes them happy, right?"

"Right. Well, they didn't get to go, so they weren't that happy about it."

"They're good kids," said Middlestein.

Benny nodded, looked back into the house, and then put his arm around his father. "You want to go out back for a little bit?" he said. The two of them walked around the front lawn, through the darkness, and onto the back patio, where Benny promptly pulled out a joint.

"You still doing that stuff?" said Middlestein.

"Once in a blue moon." Benny looked up in the sky. "It looks pretty blue to me tonight."

"I'd have a hit. Just one, though, because I have to drive."

"One's all you need anyway," said Benny. He lit up, dragged off it a few times, then a few more-Blue moon my a.s.s, thought Middlestein-then handed it to his father. He immediately relaxed, the crush of tension in his heart and his back collapsing down toward the earth.

"Not bad stuff," said Middlestein.

"It's government grade," said Benny. "No hangover supposedly, though sometimes I'm a little slow in the morning." Benny sat down on a patio chair and motioned for Middlestein to join him. They both put their feet up on the table. Benny handed him the joint, and he took one quick last puff. "Enough for me," he said.