Who's high?

A quiet, overcast morning with few people out. There was a serious Japanese consultant at the counter, waiting for a road bike. Three men came staggering by. One looked like an aging start-up guy who'd been out on a bender — wire-rimmed glasses, thinning blond hair, a button-down shirt with damp stains down the front and the wrong shoes. He barreled toward the counter laughing and then caromed off, a beer-bellied illustration of Newtonian motion. One of his friends looked like a 90's indie rock heartthrob who'd bottomed out along the way — the brunette dreds were unchanged from his glory days, but the green face tat hinted at hard times. He was carrying an acoustic guitar and walked toward the counter. "Hey, who's high?" he demanded. "You and you?" he asked, pointing at me and the customer. "Him?" pointing at his own pal. The customer gripped the counter and didn't turn around.
"I think it's you guys," I said.
"YES!" He answered, like I'd solved a riddle that had been bugging him. "That sounds right." They wandered off.