Whether it was the drugs, the perfect form-fitting nature of our environment, or the quality of Toronto's garbage, we couldn't tell. What we could tell, was that we were far more comfortable we'd been since the journey started (except maybe for sprawling out on Carla's double bed back in Calgary.)
On second thought - this was way better.
"Right?" Scrib was in full agreement, and we both leaned back against our garbage bag thrones. We listened to the beating of the wind against the dumpster's steel casing and flashed a condescending grin towards nature. Dumpsters had saved us from the elements again.
Smoking drugs outside had proved difficult. Smoking drugs in here had proved excellent. Once we'd finished the first bowl of our jib, we fell into the most intense and hyper-motivated bro-talk I'd experienced since the days of being an e-tard in high school. We evaluated our entire friendship from the moment we'd accidentally laid eyes on each other at a party years ago; we pin-pointed our positive memories and repented in regard to negative ones; we analyzed and contemplated the reasons we were friends and why we were going to stay that way. We picked apart our contrasting personalities; Scrib's anger and my lax amiability made for an interesting balance - our shared desire in linguistics and freestyle poetry was a fantastic bond, and the fact that we were both introverts stuck trying to thrive in an extrovert's world held us together.
Apparently, however, reliving an entire friendship while smoking meth in a dumpster disorients you. (That's a sentence everyone should be able to say at least once in their lifetime... right?) The next time we checked our clocks and the bag of drugs, we realized that we'd been sitting in our trash castle for almost 45 minutes. 45 minutes that Fernweh had been left waiting in the blustering wind a block away, while we were inadvertently smoking his portion of the drugs. Fuck. There was too much dopamine battering our brains for us to remember how to feel sympathy, but we knew it was time to go back.
We vaulted out of the dumpster and hustled back to Fernweh and our new photographer friend, Aidan (who none of us really seem to remember, save for our lingering Facebook relationship that had sprung up and confused us the next morning.) He remembered us, though.
While me and Scrib had been elatedly experiencing the highest point of our relationship, Aidan and Fernweh had been stranded in the windstorm, their hair slapping their faces and their arms huddled up under their jackets, oblivious to our whereabouts. We tried to buy their acceptance. We didn't say sorry, but we offered the next best thing: food. Before we'd jumped out of the dumpster, we'd ripped open one of the bags and scored ourselves an apology gift - two boxes of KD, an unopened package of microwave popcorn, 2 cans of tuna, and a box of crackers - all prior to expiry. Great!
We'd expected rage, but what we received was worse: disappointment. We passed Fernweh the rest of the drugs and he trudged off into a corner to smoke them by himself. Me and Scrib's buzz hit the ground as guilt wrapped its hands around the euphoria we'd been unjustly experiencing. We watched Fernweh flick his lighter dejectedly while the wind kept beating the flame out, occasionally managing to blow out a meager puff of smoke.
He finished blazing the meth and stood up to walk back towards us. I guess he'd managed to get some decent hoots, because that was where everyone blacked out.
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