In 1970 two hippies drive a load of marijuana cross country. GEORGE: THE MIDDLE YEARS, by William Mays tells the story of a mob boss in training.
George took the last puffs off the last joint, and wondered when, or if, Uncle Nick would arrive. How many days had it been? How to gauge the passage of time? He had started with four great big bomber joints. Halfway through the first, realizing that most of the precious smoke was wasted billowing into the air, he’d re-rolled it into two skinny joints. Eventually he’d re-rolled them all, and re-rolled them again into progressively skinnier joints. It was the age-old half-life of dope paradigm. When dope supplies run low, you only use half, so theoretically you never run out.
Unfortunately, he had run out, and the constant re-rolling made it impossible to measure time by how many joints he'd smoked. Archeology provided the answer. A pile of cardboard carryout boxes littered the floor of his motel room in Durango, Colorado. At the bottom, peeking out, was the box with the uneaten steak he’d gotten for Kelly. Above that there were the other boxes and sacks, and the empty bottle of whiskey.
Three days, he estimated. Very Biblical.
And way too long. Nick should have arrived.