It is fall. And I am sitting with n 18 year old girl on the steps of a church across from Macdonald's. We are shareing a cheese burger. It is damp out side and the streets look cold and unforgiving. Even the golden arches look sinister in the mood of the street. which is a shame and a reality.
“you know what I think the best part of getting high is.” says the girl in her customary spaced out way.
“no.” I say with a trying sympathetic tone. “I don’t get high. Really.”
“Well it is not the not eating. And it is not the not sleeping. I love both of that stuff.” and she looks at me, and smiles. I smile back. “it is the act of it. The smoking of it.”
“don’t do it too much.” I say. “puts holes in your brain.”
“lots of things put holes in your brain.” she outlandishly offers. “everyone is so dead set against meth.” she adds in a sarcastic mockery of these people who think crystal meth is an evil—I am one of these people. I am being mocked.
“I was talking to a guy that was a meth head for a long time and he said that he found it hard to talk and shit after he quit—said that his brain started to liquidize or something like that.” she offers me some cheese burger. I take some.
“ever wonder why they call it Jib?” she asks. Thinking she is schooling me.
“because if you do it long enough you only talk gibberish?”
we sit watching the mist of the night come across the park. I blow my nose into a napkin and she nestles her head into my chest. I am thinking the whole time what a sad scene what a sad state of affairs . And the more you dissect and plunge into the depths of the situation the more sad and daunting and mocking and rabid it becomes—gnawing and tearing the city to shreds and turning a generation into a hopped up bunch of dead at 25’s.