Reinventing Mike Lake by R.W. Jones Read Free Book Online

While I figure out exactly what I’m looking for I figured I’d do it in the most beautiful places I could surround myself with.  As you can see, we have plenty of beauty, and we have plenty of room, so you are welcome to stay as long as you want.” 
                  Gail nodded her approval of his invite.  That’s how Bahama and I ended up staying in Treasure Island for the next month.
     

9
                  It had been maybe ten years since I had been high – I mean really high.  I had smoked a few times at cookouts, parties, and a concert or two, but I hardly ever felt any differently afterwards.  With Howard and Gail around it was going to be hard not to be high.  They celebrate almost every occasion with the words, “Let’s get high.”  Going to the grocery store?  Let’s get high.  We’re going for a walk.  Let’s get high.  I need to get air in the tires.  Let’s get high!  I want to get high!  Let’s get high!
                  While not an authority on this topic, I was assured what I was smoking was “good shit.”  I felt that my uncle and aunt are nice enough people to get connections in every city that they live in, and that’s how they always had a healthy supply of “herb,” as they like to call it.  However, when this came up one night my uncle told me they have been using the same supplier for close to 25 years.  Perhaps, sometimes, it’s different types of weed, but always the same supplier.
                  Their supplier, a couple with whom they had become good friends, lived in Arizona.  Uncle Howard met Zeke and Callie when they were vacationing in Phoenix one winter.  Howard said he knew he wouldn’t last long in Phoenix because it wasn’t close enough to a large enough body of water, but as a consolation prize, he did find a source to make sure his weed never ran out.  I was told Zeke and Callie grew weed out of their basement, and have connections all over the world to other forms of herb. 
                  Knowing Howard wasn’t venturing to Phoenix every time he ran low, I asked him how he stayed stocked on one of my first days as his roommate.
                  He replied, “I know you’re family, and I love you like the son I never had, but I’d rather not answer that.” 
                  I respected his response, and didn’t press for an answer.  I was free to use my imagination.  Whatever I was smoking with him sure did help my imagination.  I just figured a weed stork brought it to him during one of my hazy daydreams while staring out in the Gulf. 
                  Even though there was no pressure from my uncle or aunt to do much of anything, I was again getting the desire to write.  It’s odd to think that smoking a ton of weed would make want me to do anything other than eat, but I think it was because of my chemical-filled brain I was getting antsy to get something out.  It’s no coincidence, I thought, especially while feeling like this, that it seemed most writers needed a little extra motivation, if you will, to be the best writer they can be.  Inspiration has to come from somewhere, right?
                  A few peers in my college writing class and I would get a case of beer, and sit around one of our crappy apartments.  Only a few beers in and I think everyone experienced a wave of inspiration.  Occasionally, we would go from wanting to write books to wanting to write movies.  The problem with combining drinking and writing is the fine line where you feel inspired and the point you start to get too drunk to even operate a pen.  By the time our little group graduated we had at least a half dozen “scripts” started.  My favorite one was the one we started on the inside of a pizza box.  The main character was a pizza delivery driver.  Imagine that.
                  So I don’t know if it was the weed, or my