This wasn’t the first time he’d been inebriated at the office, but this was definitely the earliest, and probably the most brazen. And usually he drank whiskey from a bottle in his desk.

Marijuana came in so many forms out here on the West Coast; more than that, it was so easy to come by. He’d purchased a tincture—liquid weed! No one in good old Massachusetts would believe it—and following the advice of his medical marijuana dispensing professional, added a dropper-full to his afternoon green tea. He’d stood right there in the kitchen, right there, and dosed himself in plain view of his colleagues eating food-truck lunches and free yogurts. It looked like he was just practicing some homeopathy or something.

Two hours later, he sat staring at his computer and realized he had been staring for sometime.

“You are now the kind of person who does this,” he thought, not for the first time. In fact, he’d been thinking that phrase—”You are now the kind of person who does this”—more and more often, as if on some sort of exponential curve of personal line-crossing. When younger, he’d told his mother he’d never drink. He crossed that line at 16. He never specified about marijuana-use at work, but he’d never imagined that line would come up. Then it did and he stepped right on over it.

Someone said his name.

“Yeah,” he said.

“You coming?”

Were his eyes red? They felt really red.

“Yeah.” He rubbed his eyes. “I think I need those computer glasses.”

But they weren’t standing there anymore. He checked his calendar for the meeting room and grabbed his notebook and pencil. Then decided he needed to sharpen his pencil. “You are now someone who uses pencils,” he thought and laughed.

The office felt loud and he tried his best to appear normal, something he knew could backfire—appearing normal that is—but which didn’t overly concern him. One thing you couldn’t deny about him was that he was very good at being inebriated. No matter how messed up he got, one part of his brain remained on watch and talked him through the experience. He was his own Cyrano, feeding himself lines and expressions that made him appear more in control than he actually was. Of course, this was his own view, which view was compromised to say the least, but he definitely felt those two parts within himself, and that was proof enough of his control. That and he’d not embarrassed himself or gotten into an accident. At least not yet. He’d gotten close, especially since moving out here with her. He imagined the voice like an air traffic controller sweating it out, sleeves rolled up, and sucking down cigarettes while he tried desperately to land a plane with one engine on fire and the pilot unconscious. But the plane had touched down every time. And every time he thought, that was close, I shouldn’t get that close.

But he was the kind of guy who now did this.