The Story Itself
“I’m not going to hit you,” he promised, but he held the guitar menacingly over his head.
“Then put down the guitar,” I tried.
“Just tell me where it is,” he pressed.
“Look, I didn’t take your stupid baggie of weed. I don’t smoke it no more, to quote Ringo.” He really looked like he was going to hit me.
“You know how I feel about quoting Ringo!” I did. Everyone does. It’s an odd quirk, but what do you expect from a guy menacing his own brother with a guitar over a missing baggie of weed. Frankly, who even says ‘baggie of weed’ these days.
“How do you know you haven’t smoked it already? You know how forgetful you are when you toke up.”
“Do I look like I’m high right now,” and he gave the guitar a mean waggle. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t even able to quote Ringo despite the fact that I’d been fighting my memory for the lyrics to ‘Octopus’ Garden’. I was too distracted. From my lowly seated position, through his legs, I could see the blue and white microbus careening towards us.