“There can’t be any question: Things are weird,” Keenan says, nursing a battered roach. He lets a white cloud out of his mouth.
“And you know, it’s not like things will be better next Tuesday at 3:45 a.m. Next Tuesday is the day before Wednesday, which is when I have to contribute to society, and I can’t decide that Wednesday is my day and just ditch everything, drink beer,” I say.
Keenan sort of salutes me. I open my mouth to say something else, but then greet it instead with a pathetic nibble of cancer mixed with cannabis. I cough the word Yeah and it’s all I can muster; I talk too much.
It’s been a hard night out. I and the rest of the hooligans have come back home during the Dead Zone, the time between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. when everyone knows that he or she is fucked for slakin’ that hankerin’ for a bite.
I start cracking eggs. Keenan lets a white cloud out of his mouth; he’s rolled another one. “I don’t know, man, it doesn’t sound, you know, likely. Well, for you, anyway.”