Phil and Tony are elephants. Their eyes are glossy brown beads, bulging from their big, blue heads. Their ears droop low, hanging near their knees. Do elephants have knees? I squint my eyes at their stubby legs, poking the wrinkles where their knees should be. It’s hard. I can’t get my finger under the folds, but I’m sure there’s something in there–a synovial joint for sure. Just then, he bends his legs, spilling some ash. Knees! Tony’s my favorite. My heart stops for a moment. Did I do my English homework? I check the “Homework” section in my Notes app. Nothing’s there. Must’ve done it earlier today. My heart resumes its contractions. Contractions? “God I hope I’m not pregnant.” I look up.
“We’re not doing this right now.” He flicks the lighter, waving the flame in front of my eyes.
“Tod, my lashes are on fire,” I whisper.
“That’s ok,” he says.
“Oh, ok.” My eyes return to Tony.
Anyway, Tony’s my favorite. Tony with his big blue ears, long trunk, three holes–plug one, fill one, suck one. Tony. Tony’s the baby. He’s new to this world, still smooth and fresh. His body is not yet dirtied by plants and flames. His bowl is not yet sticky from ash.
There’s also Phil. Phil the mighty. Phil the first. Phil the olive branch. Phil the veteran, the noble elder.
It was three weeks before Valentine’s Day when I found myself in a similar state, scrolling on Etsy. Is this even legal? Add to cart. Ship to school. No wait, home. Tod and I had been arguing over something I can’t quite remember. Something about his bed pickles addiction and how it needs to come to an end. Wait, no, switch that around. His panties have been in a twist over my bed pickles. Let me have my fun. I like eating pickles in bed.
Pickles in bed sound really good right now. I trail my eyes over to him. He’s playing tic-tac-toe on the wall. I reach into the fridge, grabbing the goods. I struggle to get onto our lofted bed. He instinctively reaches his hand out for me to grab, still focused on his game that’s now heated. I slowly hand him my pickle jar. He twists the lid off, eyes on the wall. “O in the top left corner. Bingo!” I stick a metal straw into the jar, sipping on the brine.
He turns to me, “off the bed.” Damn. Sore loser or still upset from last week’s bed pickle spill? The spill that resulted in an entire jar of Claussens’ brine soaking into the bedsheets at 2 a.m. I hop off the bed, leaving the pickles balancing on the mattress.
As I was saying, it was three weeks before Valentine’s Day when I ordered Phil as an olive branch. Branching out a gift of peace in the bed pickle dilemma. At the time, I figured he’d be in a different state, too burnt to know the difference between me, the bed, and the pickles. In retrospect, something that burns your soul could never quite be burnt out.
We take turns rapidly inhaling from Phil and Tony’s trunks. Tod holds Tony for me, his thumb on Tony’s butthole, his other hand burning the ground plant with a lighter that I accidentally stole, in a similar state once again, from CVS last semester. I watch as the plant burns deeper with each inhale. The ashes glow a sienna orange; the flame reflecting off my glazed eyes, almost as glossy as Tony’s. Tod places Phil and Tony near the edge of his mini fridge—the fridge that leaks when we use the freezer; the fridge that sits at the foot of the bed; the fridge that keeps yogurt at room temp; the fridge that we grind and pack on.
I attempt to climb the ladder of the bed but find myself stuck with one foot planted on the floor and the other stretched to the top of the mattress, something akin to a split. Tod exhales a cloud of smoke before effortlessly lifting me. I giggle at Phil’s smokey aura escaping from his holes. It’s almost as if we’re connecting with his burning soul, too burnt to burn us with every inhale. “Thanks, pal.” I let myself collapse, face-first onto the bed. I can feel my leg hit something hard followed by a shattering noise. Tod is silent. “What was that?” I ask, my face still burrowed into the comforter.
“It’s Phil and Tony. They’re not good,” Tod warns. I lift my body and turn towards Tod. I trace his eyes down to what I deem a murder scene. A variety of dark and light blue shards of glass scatter the floor. Their ashes are spread on the tiles. I stare at their dismembered bodies—the bodies that introduced us to different worlds, the bodies that held grams of indica, the bodies that sat atop the fridge together, a pair never separated. Tod picks up Phil’s trunk, still whole, from the floor. “They’re dead.” I look at the trunk, finding myself lost in the loss of Phil and Tony. But even more so, I think about all that Phil and Tony stood for–escapism, peace, and our burning desire to be burnt out of this life. I look back at the floor, their bodies crashed and ashes burned. My hair is wet. I turn my torso to see the jar of pickles lying on its side, absorbing into the sheets, dripping over Phil and Tony’s remains.
I laugh, “Pickled elephants.”