Practical Demonkeeping
The Breeze
The Breeze blew into San Junipero in the shotgun seat of Billy Winston's Pinto wagon. The Pinto lurched dangerously from shoulder to centerline, the result of Billy trying to roll a joint one-handed while balancing a Coors tallboy and bopping to the Bob Marley song that crackled through the stereo.
"We be jammin' now, mon!" Billy said, toasting The Breeze with a slosh of the Coors.
The Breeze shook his head balefully. "Keep the can down, watch the road, let me roll the doobie," he said.
"Sorry, Breeze," Billy said. "I'm just stoked that we're on the road. "
Billy's admiration for The Breeze was boundless. The Breeze was truly cool, a party renaissance man. He spent his days at the beach and his nights in a cloud of sinsemilla. The Breeze could smoke all night, polish off a bottle of tequila, maintain well enough to drive the forty miles back to Pine Cove without arousing the suspicion of a single cop, and be on the beach by nine the next morning acting as if the term hangover were too abstract to be considered. On Billy Winston's private fist of personal heroes The Breeze ranked seco ... read full excerpt from: Practical Demonkeeping ebook
