In Centennial: The only ones left alive

7 my husband and i bought weed at the local hash dispensary where the budtender, who looked like David Foster Wallace—bandanna -capped hair, wire-rimmed glasses, soft unshaven face— informed us about the holistic health benefits of CBD for pain control. He recommended two kinds of vapes and edibles, which we purchased and brought back to the apartment to smoke with my in-laws, John and Rachel. It was early August, a hot and dry day. John had recently moved to Centennial, a suburb of Denver, to work as a radio consultant for Clear Channel before being forced into retirement three months after his arrival. A former Top 40 deejay, John always talked to his family as if he was interviewing them on air. In Centennial The only ones left alive Cathy Park Hong the moment 8 | CATHY PARK HONG “So Cathy, who would you say your muse is?” “So Cathy, what are your top ten poetry books?” John used to live in Dallas with Rachel. But when his company decided to move him for the third time in two years, Rachel had put her foot down and said she was staying. Rather than take that as a sign their marriage was troubled, John moved to Denver by himself. His new apartment, with its gray leather couch, glass coffee table, and flat-screen TV, was as bare and impersonal as if it were regularly rented out on Airbnb. Around noon, once we settled in, we vaped several rounds of sativa. Almost immediately, we had cravings, even though we’d had brunch a couple of hours ago. “I wish you’d bought some snacks,” Rachel complained. Eager to please his wife, John rose up and brought out a bag of zero-calorie popcorn, three waxy red apples, and some dry carrot sticks—the unmunchiest of snacks possible. My husband, Jeremy, took a bite of the apple and then asked, “Do you have anything else, Dad?” John looked in the refrigerator and o≠ered us a carton of blueberries . I popped a few in my mouth. They were so flavorless I was sure that my taste buds had died. Weed was supposed to accentuate flavors, but in this case it accentuated the ominous absence of flavor. Instead, I tasted the thousands of miles this fruit had traveled , the carbon emissions wasted, the gloved hands that aborted the berries before their ripening. “I think I prefer the apple,” Jeremy said. Rachel and I screamed with laughter. Jeremy joined in, while John looked at us, confused. I wiped tears from my eyes as I tried to explain to John why it was so funny: I thought it was only me who was freaked out that blueberries had no flavor, because I was so high! But Rachel and Jeremy were also freaked out about the blueberries, though they thought it was because they were high. When really, we were all thinking of it at the same time, in sync, I said ecstatically. And there we have the bonding e≠ect of weed: the creeping paranoia that no one else shares the intensity of your sensations, before the euphoric wash of relief that your IN CENTENNIAL | 9 sensations are actually shared by all—that you are, in fact, not alone. We decided to buy snacks at the gas station convenience store. Tra≠ic sped past us as we walked for ten minutes along the main thoroughfare. I always found perambulating in a neighborhood where everyone else drove to be a terrible, dehumanizing experience . We were such vulnerable bipeds, so exposed and isolated and open to abuse. Anyone could pelt us with a Wendy’s milkshake as they drove by. But then, I have always been sensitive to the white noise of whooshing tra≠ic. If I were locked in a room with a recording of whooshing tra≠ic playing twenty-four hours a day, I’d probably hang myself. At the store, we purchased seven varieties of chips and four varieties of ice cream chocolate bars. I felt timid as I slid them across the counter. The gas station clerk knew. Those chips gave up my condition just like buying a pregnancy test would. We...