Smoke 7

"Son."

Joe Eawest's pulse quickened and throat tightened, as they always did on hearing that word.

Raymond Eawest stepped into the room, suit and tie, the model of the perfect 50's father...

His face was red with rage.

"I don't know how... they... led you. But I've always tried to raise you to be a good Christian and a fine young man."

He pulled his furiously shaking hands from behind his back, revealing that they held a silver cigarette case, with a sticker of "one of your childish cartoon characters" on the top. Joe and he both knew where he had found it. He opened it up. It was full of joints.

"Smoke seven."

"Excuse me, Dad?"

"Father."

"Excuse me, Father?"

"Smoke. Seven."

"What -"

"Now."

Raymond's nonexistent patience expired, and he began ripping the fat, amateurishly-rolled cigarettes out of their slots and ramming them into Joe's surprised lips. Joe knew that if he resisted, the next stage would be the belt. He was already secretly learning the skills to physically resist his father, but wasn't ready yet. He knew he should be happy his father pretended to need the belt. He should be happy his father let him live.

Raymond, a pipe smoker, took his matches and lit the seven joints one by one, almost like birthday candles.

"Now."

Joe asked no questions and inhaled.

He grabbed Joe, helpless in a fit of coughing, and maneuvered him into the living room, home to the adults' record player.

"Oh, hello Ray," said Mrs. Eawest as Ray entered. Joe was standing with his back to Mrs. Eawest.

"Hello, honey. May I ask that you stay in the garden for a few hours? Joe and I need to have a very long and very serious discussion about growing up and manhood."

"Oh certainly, Ray! Oh, come to think of it, Sally wanted me to come over for coffee."

"That sounds nice, dear."

"Well, you two have a fine afternoon, sweetie."

"We certainly will."

Mrs. Eawest exited to the foyer and did not return, presenting an excellent front of seeing nothing odd going on and having no reason to stop back in the living room. Mr. Eawest spent the next few minutes tying Joe to the living-room armchair while simultaneously making sure that he smoked his seven in earnest.

"I've heard that you young people love experimental music, and find repetition soothing.... Oh, id you know that this record player can repeat an album indefinitely?" Raymond said as he dropped the needle down on Yoko Ono's "Don't Worry Kyoko." He then turned the speakers up to the highest volume that wouldn't disturb the neighbors. The Eawest lived in nice suburbs with nice large yards. The neighbors weren't too close.

"Humph! I wish your mother would have tended to the garden instead of twittering with that diddy! Well, you know what they say! If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself!" Raymond shouted over Yoko's screams. "I hope you have a fine and educational afternoon, son!" Raymond concluded cheerily, as if he were doing the most natural thing in the world. The scream - the screen door slammed.

No, no, no!