You spent weeks trimming trees in your yard in the cool, early spring. There are a lot of different types of trees in your yard; the pecan and blackberry trees along one side of the house that separates you from your neighbor, the red plum tree that used to provide shade in the middle of the yard that no longer blooms because it’s overrun with root fungus, and the pear trees that hadn’t been trimmed for years when you bought the house and that you hadn’t maintained well since you moved in. There’s also many different bushes and shrubs below the front and back windows.
When the trimming was done, there were more branches and clippings than could fit in the rolling bin that the city gave you to put on the curb on garbage day, so you stacked and piled it all up as neatly as you could next to the shed where you keep your lawn mower. You used the chainsaw to cut up the larger branches into managable pieces to fit in the fire pit you had daydreams of installing in the backyard.
Your roommates were all for it, and you spent a whole afternoon picking out the right fireproof stones at the home improvement store, then arranging them in the backyard before cementing them together. You made sure it wasn’t too big, you wanted it to be the right size so you and your roommates could sit with you and talk easily; you weren’t interested in a huge bonfire, those attracted people like bugs to a bug zapper.
When it was done, you were so eager that you started a fire that very night. Your roommate, Chris, bought marshmallows and your other roommate, Garrett, brought beer, and the three of you sat out making jokes. The night was cool and the sky was clear, and you all sat in comfortable chairs.
“I still can’t believe you bought a house,” Garrett said and finished off a can of beer.
“I’m thirty,” you said with a laugh, “I wasn’t gonna rent forever.”
“It’s not like you got a family or anything,” Garrett said, obviously drunk enough to have no filter.
“Will you shut up!” Chris said. “It’s good he doesn’t have a family, we’ve never paid rent this cheap before.”
“What?” Garret said. “We don’t have houses yet and we’re the same age. Should we have houses?”
“If you two bums had your shit together, yeah,” you said. “And I didn’t realize I was giving you guys such a discount. We can raise it up, then?”
Chris laughed nervously, “You’re funny.”
“You ain’t raising my rent,” Garrett said.
You all laughed and the beer cans piled up.
“Drink another beer,” Garrett growled at Chris. “You’re making us look like alcoholics.” He threw a can at Chris who caught it in his lap.
“I’m not drinking a beer you give me, you’re not even vaccinated,” Chris joked as he wrapped his shirt around his hand, grabbed the beer and tossed it on the ground. “Can you pass me one,” Chris said to you.
“One and done baby,” you said, grabbing the same beer that Chris had tossed and handing it to him. You all laughed when he opened it and it sprayed all over him.
“Fuck a vaccine,” Garret said. “It’s all a hoax. If you’re a strong American, there’s no reason to be scared of the kung-flu.”
“Oh my god!” you and Chris said unison.
“Why are we friends with a racist?” Chris asked.
“Because we all grew up together and we don’t bail on each other because one of us thinks Joe Rogan’s podcast is funny,” you say.
“Joe Rogan is the modern day Ted Koppel,” Garrett said, waving a finger. “You guys are just closed minded elitists with your bank accounts and mortgages.”
“I’m sure you’re thinking of Walter Cronkite,” you said. “And that’s horseshit. Walter Cronkite wasn’t interviewing people and spouting his opinion. You know what, we’re not doing this. Drink, you bonehead.”
“This firepit is awesome,” Chris said, changing the subject. “I’m glad we’re all here together.”
“Yeah, you guys are like my brothers,” Garrett said. He rolled marijuana in white paper and lit it up.
You smelled it, and it took you back to high school when the three of you would roll up the windows in Garrett’s car and smoke for hours. You all would laugh at stupid things, and confide all of your insecurities. You had siblings, but Chris and Garrett were like two extras who were your age, in your grade. They were always your best friends.
Chris eagerly took the marijuana, and when he was done he offered it to you.
“I can’t,” you say, slightly angry, “they drug test at my job.”
“Aww that fucking sucks,” Garrett said and he took it, took deep pulls from it.
“You haven’t smoked since you got this job?” Chris asked. “You been working there forever now. Didn’t you smoke with me at that cookout?”
“No, Chris,” you laughed. “I didn’t smoke then and you said the same thing that time, and every time before that.”
“He’s a pothead,” Garrett said, still taking deep puffs from the marijuana. “He doesn’t have any memory left.”
“Well, if not smoking weed is the cost of having this house and hanging out with you guys, I’m ok with it.”
You want more. Maybe you’ll get married, have some kids, get a dog. But at that moment, your life made sense. That was all you needed, and everything was alright.
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