Mos was counting his steps like he does every day. One foot, two foot, three feet, four…. This could be a song, he thought. So, he kept counting. This is just the kind of stuff geniuses do. It didn’t seem bother Dave Chappelle who puffed on a thin joint he fashioned for their walk. Seven, eight, nine….
“Mos,” Dave said.
“Yeah?” Mos answered keeping count on his fingers.
“First, hit this.” Dave took a quick toke and handed the joint to Mos. But, before he inhaled he looked at the thing. “This is a nice joint,” he said, “It’s an exact 180 degree line channeling smoke at a rate of 25 cubic feet per second.”
“Yeah,” Dave said.
“You know what that means, man? Do you fucking know what that means?” Mos asked.
“Yeah, means I can roll ‘em up fucking nice.”
“That’s exactly what that means,” Mos said. Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen….
“Charlie Murphy has been getting on my nerves,” Dave Chappelle said. “It’s always, ‘Dave, when you gonna start that show up again’ and ‘You know, about that show’. I feel bad telling him—” He takes a long drag. “I mean, he’s my friend and all and I know he’s having trouble finding work—”
“Dave, it’s the economy. And, he’s everybody’s friend, but,” Thirty, Thirty-one, Thirty-two, “He’s Eddie’s responsibility now, you shouldn’t beat yourself up about this.”
For a long time they didn’t talk. Mos was counting his steps. Dave was finishing the last of his roach. It seemed even for a genius like Mos the right words weren’t coming to him, just numbers. Seventy, Seventy-five, Eighty….
“Dave?” Mos said.
“Friends keep going like numbers.” Ninety-five, Ninety-six…. “Some go on for infinity. Some can be broken down. Others you lose count of. Charlie, he’s a zero. You start there, but move on as time goes by.”
“You really are smart,” Dave said.
Mos Def nodded. He said, “I know.”