"Hey, where do I know you from?"
"I dunno. Uhm, you probably know my twin... Dina?"
That was it. I did know Dina - I'd met her briefly in Victoria before our journey had begun. The girl curled up in her jacket, shielded from the wealth of passers-by with her sign (entailing how BROKE and HUNGRY she was, obviously), was Squanch. How I recognized her, I'd never know - seeing her and her sister side-by-side six months in the future would prove that they didn't really look that similar.
Either way, this awkward introduction was enough to spur the beginning of a very interesting relationship. The ensuing conversation revealed that she, too, was interested in delving into the world of psychedelics. She left her hobo partner and joined our crew, adding her subtle, self-conscious voice to the music (noise?) of me and Fern's belligerence, the contemplative ring of Scrib's thought-provoking words, and the excitement of our new friend Hades.
There were five of us now, and we began making our way to the ferry terminal. We'd unanimously agreed to spend the duration of our acid trip on Toronto Island (a laughably named, man-made chunk of dirt that I'd never known to exist before.)
The ferry ride introduced us to another soon-to-be member of our psychedelic journey - Kevin. Kevin was a friend of Hades, and quickly proved himself to be more manly than any of us: he chomped back two of the ghost peppers I'd been smuggling around without so much as shedding (too many) tears. The mere smell of the bag was enough to make most people cry.
Kevin was a thick, put-forward fellow from Barrie, Ontario. His voice was laced with the residual sound of an adolescence cloaked in anger, but it seemed that he was now stepping away from the merciless, soul-crushing grip of gangsterhood. He wore a smile now, but it seemed to mask a childhood of difficult years.
His ability to rectify aggressive situations would come in extremely beneficial later in the evening - but we couldn't have guessed that. For now, our zealous chattering promised a colourful night filled with laughter and philosophy; there was nothing to foreshadow the psychotic and painful spiral that our acid-fueled night would offer. At the time, though, our hopes were high. We watched the eye of the island grow larger with every moment, unprepared for the heinous events that would forever tarnish my memories of Toronto Island.
Monday, 16 December 2013
Tuesday, 3 December 2013
Shitstorm
Scrib's morning jumpstarted into a confused shitstorm - quite literally. Clenching his buttcheeks, he vaulted from the chair he'd been crumpled up on all night. He had no time analyze his surroundings (other than coming to a quick conclusion that he had no idea where the fuck he was) before he bounded down the staircase of what seemed to be someone's front porch. He hustled into the back yard, exerting every ounce of his haggard consciousness towards keeping these furious turds safe within his bowels. Finally, once he'd leaned up against a fencepost and dropped his trousers, fully exposed and indifferent, he dropped a violent deuce fit for kings.
Relieved, he was met with another problem. He searched the yard for anything he could use as toilet paper and his eyes landed on an old, dewy paperback a dozen feet away. With his pants dangling around his ankles (and hoping that nobody inside whoever's house this was was watching him) he crab-walked over to the book. It was damp, its pages soggy and thus perfectly absorbent, and he wiped with glee before leaving his steaming pile and returning to the porch.
By that time, me and Fernweh had concluded that Aidan had most likely gotten ahold of one of his friends and organized a crash party for us on their front porch. Unfortunately, we had no recollection of who that might be, and Scrib had just shat upon their property, so we decided we ought to leave. The sun, looming overhead, promised an inviting day.
Little did we know how wrong the sun can be.
Since Scrib was trying to dodge the cops, and we'd grown tired of Queen street, we decided we'd bring our obnoxiously polite selves down to King street. We dove into our usual pastime of screaming and bellowing good wishes to passersby from across the street (or yelling pleasant greetings into their faces from mere feet away) earning us many awkward smiles, a few startled jumps and the odd returned greeting. Today, however, something different happened.
Today, our obnoxious pleasantries were received quite well by a young brown man named Hades. In response to our bloodcurdling shrieks of "HI!" and "HELLO!" and "HAVE A GOOD DAY!" he managed to squeeze in a few words. Those words, being: "Hey, guys. Wanna do some acid?"
Relieved, he was met with another problem. He searched the yard for anything he could use as toilet paper and his eyes landed on an old, dewy paperback a dozen feet away. With his pants dangling around his ankles (and hoping that nobody inside whoever's house this was was watching him) he crab-walked over to the book. It was damp, its pages soggy and thus perfectly absorbent, and he wiped with glee before leaving his steaming pile and returning to the porch.
By that time, me and Fernweh had concluded that Aidan had most likely gotten ahold of one of his friends and organized a crash party for us on their front porch. Unfortunately, we had no recollection of who that might be, and Scrib had just shat upon their property, so we decided we ought to leave. The sun, looming overhead, promised an inviting day.
Little did we know how wrong the sun can be.
Since Scrib was trying to dodge the cops, and we'd grown tired of Queen street, we decided we'd bring our obnoxiously polite selves down to King street. We dove into our usual pastime of screaming and bellowing good wishes to passersby from across the street (or yelling pleasant greetings into their faces from mere feet away) earning us many awkward smiles, a few startled jumps and the odd returned greeting. Today, however, something different happened.
Today, our obnoxious pleasantries were received quite well by a young brown man named Hades. In response to our bloodcurdling shrieks of "HI!" and "HELLO!" and "HAVE A GOOD DAY!" he managed to squeeze in a few words. Those words, being: "Hey, guys. Wanna do some acid?"
Monday, 2 December 2013
Throne of Trash
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.
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.
Saturday, 30 November 2013
I'm sexy and I'm homeless
What is it that's so damn attractive about hobos? We made a lot of inquiries about our personas that morning, inspired by our group's most recent additions. Two gorgeous housecats (whose names have been lost in the realm of worlds past) had decided to dedicate their early hours to our presence.
Here they were, glowing, freshly showered, and scented like tropical flora. Here we were: stinky, homeless and drunk. Was it our
Dirty clothes? Probably not. A pair of blue jeans crusted black by hardened train grease doesn't sound particularly attractive. To me, it is: to shamelessly wear such filthy clothes glorifies an individual's confidence and their ability to defy cultural norms. Maybe these girls realized that, too. Or, maybe it was our
Confidence? Most hobos have developed an uncanny and sometimes ridiculous sense of self-assurance. Being stuck on the road with nobody but yourself for backup really helps solidify a person's view of themselves. Confidence is one of the most desired traits for pretty much any individual, but I'm pretty sure the winning factor was
Personality? just as the winning factor for any personal relationship should be. We liked them. They liked us. Nine out of ten hobos have an absolutely bat-shit ridiculous and incredibly unique personality that they've developed through months or years of relying on their own words and creativity to survive.
I watched Scrib, Fern and the two girls pass a pipe back and forth while I fiddled with my guitar until Ogre popped around the corner. He waved himself over and checked out my guitar for a moment.
"Hey, can I borrow that?"
Normally, I'd suggest never lending anything to a heroin dealer, but Ogre was more of a friend to me than a dealer. I saw him all the time and he'd never wronged me - he was the kind of guy who'd walk 5 blocks in the pouring rain just to bring a guy a joint, and it was for that reason I said sure. I didn't know I'd be leaving Toronto before I saw him again, but that was just as well because he gave me a bag of speed and a bag of weed as collateral. They didn't last long.
Scrib and I glanced up at each other, then back at the two girls with their glorious smiles and the soft, rhythmic sounds of the guitars they were strumming. They'd been too preoccupied to notice the transaction of two small bags swapping hands. The look me and Scrib exchanged said it wall: we wanted to get high, but we wouldn't disgrace the girls' company by using such a filthy substance in front of them. That shit was immoral!
Things worked out perfectly though. The universe tapped into to our thoughts; our addicted minds willed causality to bend for us. The two girls began packing up their guitars, we hugged goodbye, and once they'd turned their backs the three husbands exchanged some devilishly sly grins. Devilishly sly grins that only recreational drug addicts can seem to muster. Devilishly sly grins that implied that the night was about to get much more interesting. We bounded to the nearest bathroom to smoke up.
Here they were, glowing, freshly showered, and scented like tropical flora. Here we were: stinky, homeless and drunk. Was it our
Dirty clothes? Probably not. A pair of blue jeans crusted black by hardened train grease doesn't sound particularly attractive. To me, it is: to shamelessly wear such filthy clothes glorifies an individual's confidence and their ability to defy cultural norms. Maybe these girls realized that, too. Or, maybe it was our
Confidence? Most hobos have developed an uncanny and sometimes ridiculous sense of self-assurance. Being stuck on the road with nobody but yourself for backup really helps solidify a person's view of themselves. Confidence is one of the most desired traits for pretty much any individual, but I'm pretty sure the winning factor was
Personality? just as the winning factor for any personal relationship should be. We liked them. They liked us. Nine out of ten hobos have an absolutely bat-shit ridiculous and incredibly unique personality that they've developed through months or years of relying on their own words and creativity to survive.
Fervent pheromones fly forth from our fetid pores
as sweat pours
from the pits
of our hearts.
Spreading smiles can be awful hard work.
I watched Scrib, Fern and the two girls pass a pipe back and forth while I fiddled with my guitar until Ogre popped around the corner. He waved himself over and checked out my guitar for a moment.
"Hey, can I borrow that?"
Normally, I'd suggest never lending anything to a heroin dealer, but Ogre was more of a friend to me than a dealer. I saw him all the time and he'd never wronged me - he was the kind of guy who'd walk 5 blocks in the pouring rain just to bring a guy a joint, and it was for that reason I said sure. I didn't know I'd be leaving Toronto before I saw him again, but that was just as well because he gave me a bag of speed and a bag of weed as collateral. They didn't last long.
Scrib and I glanced up at each other, then back at the two girls with their glorious smiles and the soft, rhythmic sounds of the guitars they were strumming. They'd been too preoccupied to notice the transaction of two small bags swapping hands. The look me and Scrib exchanged said it wall: we wanted to get high, but we wouldn't disgrace the girls' company by using such a filthy substance in front of them. That shit was immoral!
Things worked out perfectly though. The universe tapped into to our thoughts; our addicted minds willed causality to bend for us. The two girls began packing up their guitars, we hugged goodbye, and once they'd turned their backs the three husbands exchanged some devilishly sly grins. Devilishly sly grins that only recreational drug addicts can seem to muster. Devilishly sly grins that implied that the night was about to get much more interesting. We bounded to the nearest bathroom to smoke up.
Wednesday, 27 November 2013
Reasons not to eat out with hobos
Fifteen bucks for all you can eat for sushi? Hell yeah, man!
I'd been to this restaurant a year before and it had become an instant icon for me. I'd brought the boys here the week prior and we loved it, but we'd made a total ruckus. The three husbands suck at restaurants. Patience is a highly recommended virtue for restaurantiers, and the three of us lacked it.
Whilst waiting for our food, we'd fallen into a bored, hungry stupor. Boredom and hunger don't go well together. The combination results in a need to do something - anything - to pass the time between the moment the boredom hits and the time you get your food.
By the time the first course arrived, we'd succeeded in covering the table in the myriad of sauces the table offered, spilled almost a third of our water, and stacked everything that was stackable on top of itself. The waitress was appalled, but she kept her words to herself. We dove into our food.
The restaurant had a rule to prevent idiots like us from coming and over-ordering: if you didn't eat all your food, you had to pay a fee of 50c per remaining piece. The faster we ate, the faster she kept bringing us the rest of our order. Once it became blatantly obvious that we couldn't eat our entire meal, three things happened:
First, we started stuffing handfuls of sushi into paper towels, bundling them up and shoving them into pockets, backpacks and whatever else we could find.
Second, we realized the tremendous expansion of our mess. Mere soy sauce, water and stacked shit now seemed feeble in addition to the conglomeration of rice, fish, wasabi and prawn tails that now oozed all over the table. Nice.
Thirdly, one of our friends had popped into the restaurant to say hey. Her sly, sexy and seductive grin was ill-placed in the presence of our ungodly mess, but she wasn't nearly as disgusted by our "creation" as the waitress was. Our type of people aren't easily grossed out. Garbed in a studded leather jacket with torn skinny jeans, her punk outfit spoke of rebellion but the genuity that sparkled in her eyes when she smiled did not. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why she spent so much time hanging out with the Traincore kids.
She sat down next to us and we essentially force-fed her sushi while avoiding the prying eyes of the waitress, in hopes that we wouldn't have to pay any additional fees. Our surreptitious efforts failed us.
"You can't do that!" The waitress's abursdly Asian accent floated across the restaurant. She cast us and our mess and our punk friend a look of intense scorn that I thought to be extremely unusual for a member of such a polite culture. I also remembered that the Japanese culture places a huge amount of importance in regards to manners around food. Whoops.
Once the waitress turned around, we pilfered the rest of our food, paid the bill with a pound of freshly spared change, and left feeling satisfied that the waitress now had something to do for the next half hour while she cleaned up our mess. See? We could be good Samaritans!
Anyway, that was last week. This was this week. The same waitress was working. She made to welcome us, then hesitated once she recognized. She shifted her glance side to side, and then mumbled with the accent of one who rarely lies: "We do not do all you can eat, today."
"Uh, yeah you do. The sign's out." we pointed to the sign on the sidewalk that had offered us a warmer welcome than the waitress. We weren't getting kicked out without a fight.
"Not today."
"Okay. Well, we'll just order off the menu then."
"No, we are closed."
"No, you're clearly not closed." Pet peeve number seventy-four: beating around the bush. If you want to kick us out, just kick us out. Don't waste your time dishonouring yourself by fabricating lies. Either way, we realized that the argument wasn't gratifying in any sense, so we bounced and went next door to a Thai restaurant. The service there was better - so fantastic, in fact, that we didn't even feel the need to make a big mess. Lunch was served, and Scrib was beginning to get over the initial shock of being caught with drugs.
Things were moving forward again.
:)
I'd been to this restaurant a year before and it had become an instant icon for me. I'd brought the boys here the week prior and we loved it, but we'd made a total ruckus. The three husbands suck at restaurants. Patience is a highly recommended virtue for restaurantiers, and the three of us lacked it.
Whilst waiting for our food, we'd fallen into a bored, hungry stupor. Boredom and hunger don't go well together. The combination results in a need to do something - anything - to pass the time between the moment the boredom hits and the time you get your food.
By the time the first course arrived, we'd succeeded in covering the table in the myriad of sauces the table offered, spilled almost a third of our water, and stacked everything that was stackable on top of itself. The waitress was appalled, but she kept her words to herself. We dove into our food.
The restaurant had a rule to prevent idiots like us from coming and over-ordering: if you didn't eat all your food, you had to pay a fee of 50c per remaining piece. The faster we ate, the faster she kept bringing us the rest of our order. Once it became blatantly obvious that we couldn't eat our entire meal, three things happened:
First, we started stuffing handfuls of sushi into paper towels, bundling them up and shoving them into pockets, backpacks and whatever else we could find.
Second, we realized the tremendous expansion of our mess. Mere soy sauce, water and stacked shit now seemed feeble in addition to the conglomeration of rice, fish, wasabi and prawn tails that now oozed all over the table. Nice.
Thirdly, one of our friends had popped into the restaurant to say hey. Her sly, sexy and seductive grin was ill-placed in the presence of our ungodly mess, but she wasn't nearly as disgusted by our "creation" as the waitress was. Our type of people aren't easily grossed out. Garbed in a studded leather jacket with torn skinny jeans, her punk outfit spoke of rebellion but the genuity that sparkled in her eyes when she smiled did not. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why she spent so much time hanging out with the Traincore kids.
She sat down next to us and we essentially force-fed her sushi while avoiding the prying eyes of the waitress, in hopes that we wouldn't have to pay any additional fees. Our surreptitious efforts failed us.
"You can't do that!" The waitress's abursdly Asian accent floated across the restaurant. She cast us and our mess and our punk friend a look of intense scorn that I thought to be extremely unusual for a member of such a polite culture. I also remembered that the Japanese culture places a huge amount of importance in regards to manners around food. Whoops.
Once the waitress turned around, we pilfered the rest of our food, paid the bill with a pound of freshly spared change, and left feeling satisfied that the waitress now had something to do for the next half hour while she cleaned up our mess. See? We could be good Samaritans!
Anyway, that was last week. This was this week. The same waitress was working. She made to welcome us, then hesitated once she recognized. She shifted her glance side to side, and then mumbled with the accent of one who rarely lies: "We do not do all you can eat, today."
"Uh, yeah you do. The sign's out." we pointed to the sign on the sidewalk that had offered us a warmer welcome than the waitress. We weren't getting kicked out without a fight.
"Not today."
"Okay. Well, we'll just order off the menu then."
"No, we are closed."
"No, you're clearly not closed." Pet peeve number seventy-four: beating around the bush. If you want to kick us out, just kick us out. Don't waste your time dishonouring yourself by fabricating lies. Either way, we realized that the argument wasn't gratifying in any sense, so we bounced and went next door to a Thai restaurant. The service there was better - so fantastic, in fact, that we didn't even feel the need to make a big mess. Lunch was served, and Scrib was beginning to get over the initial shock of being caught with drugs.
Things were moving forward again.
:)
Hippie Core
There's not much one can say to console a best friend who'd was been potentially sentenced to jail. He hadn't gone to court yet, but we were pretty sure that whatever drugs had been pawned off on us carried a pretty gnarly sentence with them. I suggested two opens to Scrib:
- Skip the province. Head to Quebec with us. His court date wasn't for another two weeks - plenty of time to escape. This is what a lot of travelers tend to do when they have court dates, skipping from province to province while the number of places in Canada that they're legally allowed to visit dwindles, finally isolating themselves in some back-alley town in the boonies.
- Come for sushi with me and Fernweh. We'd gone last week for all-you-can-eat sushi on Queen and we figured a rendezvous at our tested and true place would be good for Scrib.
After a moment's contemplation, he figured that he'd only get a month or two of jail. This was his first offense in Ontario. Until his court date, he'd go stay with Snooze at her dad's house in Guelph. Solid plan. We kicked back to enjoy one of our last days together.
Observing our surroundings we noticed all the Traincore kids had vacated - save for one. Jorge (whore-hey) remained, a Mexican-Amreican littered with face tattoos with two massive pipes hanging off his torso that served as arms.
"Oh. You kids are still here." His look of disapproval seemed feeble in the absence of his friends. Was he really as much of a douchebag as he claimed to be? Maybe we were on to something..
"My nigga, we were curious: why do you hate hippies?"
"Um, well..." I'd never heard Jorge stutter before - mind you, I'd also never seen him apart from his friends. This really was like high school: these Traincore kids relied on power in numbers. The part certainly is not as powerful as the whole. "I don't really hate hippies."
"So it's just a mask? You're trying to impress your friends?"
"Well, no..." His deep voice, a powerful one at that, had lost its intimidation factor.
"It seems like it."
We'd seen enough. We'd seen through Jorge's thick, confident exterior and prodded the insecurities, we'd discovered a sense of realism that lay deep within. His body language melted as he mumbled "fuck you guys," and wobbled to his feet. He wandered off in search of more booze (probably.)
Our egos had inflated. There was something satisfying about being able to pick apart strong-headed people and reveal, even to them, that there is a person in there. Mind you, we were just as guilty as he was on relying on power in numbers (I doubt the same conversation would have proceeded had it been any of us and him alone.) Either way, we'd seen a new side of things, and there was an added benefit: Scrib's newly acquired confidence assured us that he'd come get lunch with us!
HIPPIE CORE!
Hippie Core
There's not much one can say to console a best friend who'd was been potentially sentenced to jail. He hadn't gone to court yet, but we were pretty sure that whatever drugs had been pawned off on us carried a pretty gnarly sentence with them. I suggested two opens to Scrib:
- Skip the province. Head to Quebec with us. His court date wasn't for another two weeks - plenty of time to escape. This is what a lot of travelers tend to do when they have court dates, skipping from province to province while the number of places in Canada that they're legally allowed to visit dwindles, finally isolating themselves in some back-alley town in the boonies.
- Come for sushi with me and Fernweh. We'd gone last week for all-you-can-eat sushi on Queen and we figured a rendezvous at our tested and true place would be good for Scrib.
After a moment's contemplation, he figured that he'd only get a month or two of jail. This was his first offense in Ontario. Until his court date, he'd go stay with Snooze at her dad's house in Guelph. Solid plan. We kicked back to enjoy one of our last days together.
Observing our surroundings we noticed all the Traincore kids had vacated - save for one. Jorge (whore-hey) remained, a Mexican-Amreican littered with face tattoos with two massive pipes hanging off his torso that served as arms.
"Oh. You kids are still here." His look of disapproval seemed feeble in the absence of his friends. Was he really as much of a douchebag as he claimed to be? Maybe we were on to something..
"My nigga, we were curious: why do you hate hippies?"
"Um, well..." I'd never heard Jorge stutter before - mind you, I'd also never seen him apart from his friends. This really was like high school: these Traincore kids relied on power in numbers. The part certainly is not as powerful as the whole. "I don't really hate hippies."
"So it's just a mask? You're trying to impress your friends?"
"Well, no..." His deep voice, a powerful one at that, had lost its intimidation factor.
"It seems like it."
We'd seen enough. We'd seen through Jorge's thick, confident exterior and prodded the insecurities, we'd discovered a sense of realism that lay deep within. His body language melted as he mumbled "fuck you guys," and wobbled to his feet. He wandered off in search of more booze (probably.)
Our egos had inflated. There was something satisfying about being able to pick apart strong-headed people and reveal, even to them, that there is a person in there. Mind you, we were just as guilty as he was on relying on power in numbers (I doubt the same conversation would have proceeded had it been any of us and him alone.) Either way, we'd seen a new side of things, and there was an added benefit: Scrib's newly acquired confidence assured us that he'd come get lunch with us!
HIPPIE CORE!
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