All Together
Barry Graham
She said there’d be power tools, but there weren’t; only an old Ford Thunderbird her dad talked about restoring and a rusty yellow refrigerator for beer, so we entered the house through the door inside the garage and headed to her parents’ bedroom for the jewelry. There were a few gold necklaces and a little diamond ring, so we took them, and the vacuum cleaner, the DVD player, a two-liter of Mountain Dew, her little brother’s piggy bank, and the remote control to the TV just for something to laugh at later when we got high.
All together, we got thirty dollars from the pawn shop, used ten of it for gas, ten for a dime bag, and bought eight soft shelled tacos and a nacho belle grande. It wasn’t the best weed we ever smoked, but it served its purpose. Nobody had papers so we dumped out the two-liter, poked holes in the side, and smoked off the bottle, even after it melted and we all knew we were just taking hits of ash and plastic.
She said they wouldn’t testify, but they did. They washed their new car and put on new clothes and showed up at the court house, all together.
Barry Graham is a simple man, who writes about simple things, very simply.