Puff

A cloud went to a party. The cloud didn’t know anyone, so it just hovered awkwardly and nibbled puff pastries in the living room. A guy came up and introduced himself. “I’m Danny,” Danny said. He asked the cloud what it did for a living. “I’m a cloud,” the cloud answered. “I mostly make rain.” A brief scowl from Danny. “Is there much money in that,” Danny asked. “I’m not in it for the money,” the cloud replied. “I like to see things grow. That’s the kind of green I care about.” “Speaking of green,” Danny replied, pulling out a baggie of primo sativa weed, “want some?” The cloud nodded, though this was barely perceptible. The man and the cloud stepped outside. There were some people chilling in a hot tub, naked as the moon is wide. Danny and the cloud sat on patio chairs and lit up a pipe. After a few puffs, they could feel themselves growing lighter and lighter. Gravity was let out of them, like air from a basketball. “Hop on my back, dude,” the cloud said. Danny obliged. Slowly, they started to rise, soaring above the penthouse rooftop. They gazed down on the party from this vantage. Everyone below looked like game pieces on a board. Like they didn’t matter a whit, thought Danny. His boss was down there. His college roommate. His on-again off-again girlfriend. He cared, on some level, about these people. Or he cared at least what these people thought about him. But up here, it suddenly didn’t matter anymore: Danny was freed of expectations. Free as a bird, he thought. Though are birds really free, he wondered? They seem to be operating on herd instinct most of the time, the way they mass militaristically in formation. They look miserable, actually. Screw the birds, Danny concluded finally. “It all makes sense to me now,” Danny said to the cloud, “how we barely matter at all. It’s a relief, really.” None of this was of interest to the cloud. “I hate parties,” the cloud said, and parted, to allow Danny to plummet ungracefully back to ground level. His return made a splash in the hot tub, sending jets of water cascading everywhere and ruining the carefully-wrought ambiance the party host had created in hopes of impressing a celebrity guest, who hadn’t even bothered to show. “That’s it, fun time’s over,” the host announced with a bouncer’s finality. “Everyone kindly get the fuck out of my house.” The hot tubbers groped slipperily for their suits and bikinis, phones and wallets. Danny groped gluttonously and glutinously for puff pastries, but found there only a handful of crumbs. Up above, the clouds filled in, grew darker and darker, as if to rain their buzzkill mood down upon the oblivious, celebratory world.