IN THE GROOVE ROOM WITH DOUBIE
You didn’t take your glass beads home after that last day we toked up in the Groove Room.
Cheap love beads but they reflect the light well.
Holding them up to the light from the window, we giggle and smoke the silly weed all afternoon.
There is no hurry.
I see them fall when I pick up a pair of jeans from the floor the next day. I try to grab them but they slip through one of the wide cracks in the floor boards.
I was rushing to get to school.
Then you got married and I forgot.
Do you think they’re still there, lying in the dust and the cobwebs? In the dark, with the light they no longer reflect weakly slicing through the floor cracks?
The eyeball knows.
When we stare at the thick-lashed eye painted on the ceiling, it winks at us. Especially if we take a long, long drag of weed first.
We laugh until our stomachs ache; our breath is gone and we can no longer speak. Nothing compares to the laughs induced by the eyeball. Or the weed.
We paint flowers on the Groove room walls with half-understood sayings like; “War is not good for children and other living things” and “Save water, shower together.”
People Are Strange plays on the radio and we imagine sneaky, fat bears tiptoeing around the room.
We can’t stop laughing at the thought.
“When you’re strange, faces come out of the rain,” we scream in unison.
It was a seventies thing.
We were so very young, with our freshly straightened hair, our shirts tie-dyed in our mother’s sinks and those silly paper mini dresses. The rain The Doors spoke of curled our hair, streaked our shirts and sogged up our paper dresses.
“When you’re strange, no one remembers your name.”
Doubie. That was your name. I remember.
We spend a total of 30 years in the Groove Room. Or maybe it was not quite 30.
Maybe it was less time than we thought or ever could have imagined.