Wednesday, March 4, 2009
I was playing quarters in a Port Richmond bar after hours while finishing out the final stretch of sad songs on the juke box. Underage, I was watching patrons faces swell and wrinkle with each drag they took. I skipped the 2:30 bus to have a few more drinks with a few less friends than the night started out with. We payed our tabs, and grabbed a few forties and stumbled our way back to Earl's house where I found myself smoking joints in the backyard, and watching Pat devour an 8ball off the dining room table. The wind was frail that summer. The drugs were just the same. They weren't the strongest things we had, but we didn't need them to keep us warm.