Step Up – 1

Dorchester, November

I’m in my coworker’s car with his girlfriend and 2-year old son sitting next to me, and we’re heading from work to Dorchester and Blue Hills Avenue. The conversation was between him and me, sitting right behind him, about work and the people we work with. His girlfriend sat shotgun and their kid sat next to me. F-bombs and judgments enveloped the air, for good and for worse, and I composed myself as best I could while the kid listened blindly looking out the back window.

A Jamaican super-mix was playing track forty-two, and a brief interlude of melodic vocals helped me escape the fact that people live differently out here. “You’re in the hood now,” he said, laughing like he was joking, “Deep in it.”

Why wasn’t I concerned? Why didn’t I care about the kid or the girl, or the three loiterers inside the gas station while I bought a bag of Fritos through bulletproof glass? The company I had, and the randomness of it all… it was too odd for the neighbors.

My coworker is changing his fate with the help of this job.

We sat in his apartment and shared a Dutch over business talk. It reminded me of nights in Rolling Green when I was younger, drinking and philosophizing about all things. Except back then, I didn’t worry about my safety.

By 7pm, I was wishing I was home, and I felt like he felt the same way. He drove, so he had to drive me back. He quickly changed into something more comfortable while I packed my things. From Perry Ellis Portfolio he changes to light blue Levi’s and a flat white sweatshirt. He threw on his winter jacket and completed a fashionable picture. Maybe he knew; he didn’t really notice, or care.

He was thinking about going to Foxwoods. He could have been using that as a cover for more sinister shit, but I’ll never know. I said my goodbyes and waited for him in the hallway as he said bye to his family. It was a sincere picture; in a “last time” sort of way. It had a genuine impression on my memory. He lifted his head to her through the door, said “I’ll be back,” and closed the door behind him as we rolled out of Dorchester.

Toby T hangs out with Ghostface Killah

The following story was dictated, not read.

Story Time with Toby T:
Toby T hangs with Ghostface Killah

Before there was a show, before there was any talk of a show, there was this kid named Downey…

He paints a brief picture of a college friend with Aspergers Syndrome.

…starting a Facebook group called “Bring Ghostface to MCLA,” and he sent me a request to join the group. Now, I’m a big Ghostface Killah fan, but I was like “no way is Ghostface gonna’ come to MCLA.” I just found it too funny a person like Downey would not only listen to Ghostface Killah, but like him enough to start a group to get him to MCLA. He’s like, a random artist for someone like Downey. I thought it was a joke, so I ignored it.

Well, three months later or something like that, I’m driving home from work and on my way home, my buddy, who was still going to MCLA, calls me and says, “Ghostface Killah is gonna’ be at MCLA tonight.” I’m like, “are you serious?” Downey did it. He got Ghostface to MCLA. How random is that shit? This socially-awkward kid who no one really thought much of was able to nail that down.

He started the buzz, and when the MCLA Student Activities Center saw how much people were interested in getting him there, they took steps to make it happen. And when I heard that, I just continued driving on to MCLA. I’m like, “I’m going to this show.” I’m making this.

Being a freshly-graduated alumnus, I got into the show for free, so now I’m at a Ghostface Killah show for free. There’s a big crowd already there so I’m not as close to the stage as I want to be. The show had not started, in fact; the show was late. Word is, the DJ got lost or something trying to find the place, which makes sense because this place is in the middle of the damn mountains.

So an hour goes by and people start leaving. I make my way right up to the front of the stage. An hour and a half goes by, and finally Ghostface Killah comes out on the stage, and is like, “Yo, our fucking, piece of shit fat-ass DJ is late. We’ve been here, you’ve been waiting. When he walks out on stage, boo his ass. Just boo him hard!”

And so this big, fat, white DJ dressed head to toe in fuckin’ Lakers gear walks up on stage, and everyone just goes “BOO! BOO! You fucking piece of shit, BOO!” and he looks all sad and goofy-lookin’. He saw Ghostface and knew he was in the right place.

So they start the show, an hour and a half late (at least), and now I’m right up front, and he starts rocking out, just rolling through a bunch of different pieces, putting his own words on tracks, going through some different solo work and just giving a real solid mix of shit. He brought a bunch of bitches up on stage, and all these chicks I knew from school were grinding up on stage. Shit was cool.

And then I see this little kid, my old weed dealer, get up on stage and he’s like ‘la la-la la la!’ Well, security grabs him up mad-quick, manhandles his ass and just drags him off stage so violently and unnecessarily. Just drags him away. And I heard, after the show, that they handcuffed this dude and brought him outside.

Now where we are on campus, we go outside and there’s a roof of a building, and there are flights of steps that go up around the building’s side. You’re up there. It’s kind of cool architecture. So they take him out there, and he just starts running, up the stairs, in the handcuffs, and he fucking trips and takes the ill tumble, down the steps, just fucking himself up real good on those concrete steps.

I didn’t see that, but I heard about that afterwards. Meanwhile, I’m in the show, just enjoying myself. Ghostface only does like a 45-minute set, and word is he got like 20-Gs to play. Imagine that, you get out on stage to spit some rhymes for 45-minutes and get twenty-thousand dollars. I imagine it had something to do with the DJ being late, but dude’s getting old, his time is valuable.

Show ends, I meet up with my boys and chill out. It was a solid show, not the best concert I ever been to, you know, but I’ve been listening to this stuff forever. Always like Ghostface, but I love it when the gang gets together. In any case, we decide to go to the bar later on that night. My friend and I end up going to the Pitcher’s Mound; I used to bounce there, and it’s right by the school.

We’re walking there, and I see, sitting in the parking lot, this dark green Escalade, and I think to myself, ‘what if Ghostface is in there.’ I was just joking myself. We get there and it’s fucking crowded! Like, crowded for a Thursday (and it is never crowded on a Thursday). I make my way through the crowd, my friend and I are both pretty big guys, you know, kind of pushing our way through. We got right up to the bar, and I sit down. I’m ordering a drink, and I turn to my left, and swear to god, right there, sitting to my left, was Ghostface Killah. Just chillin’, sipping on a drink.

He was drinking some kind of mixed drink and it was red. I don’t know what it was. When I saw that he was next to me, I ordered two shots of tequila and offered him one, and he took a shot with me. Then he asked me what I wanted, and I was like, “you know, I’m fine with beer.” He was like, “get these guys a pitcher of beer.”

We were just drinking and shooting the shit; lots of people were coming up to him and thanking him. There was this one dude who came up to him on some real dick-riding shit. He was like “I’m your biggest fan, I have all your albums, I’m a producer, you should let me get your manager’s number and this and that…” and you could tell Ghost just wanted to be left alone.

We finish our drinks, and before I get up to go I turn to him and say, “Hey dude, if you ain’t trying to go home just yet, I’m about to go to my boy’s apartment. We’re gonna’ pick up some more booze, and we’re gonna’ roll up a blunt, you know.” And so I give him the address on Blackington Street. “If you want!” And he was like “Aight, thanks.” Now in my head I’m thinking, ‘there is no way he’s gonna’ show up.’ He’s not gonna’ fucking show up, but why not?

From there, I go with my friend and pick up a thirty-rack from his house, and then we pick up a blunt, and some pot, and we start walking towards Blackington. As we approach, we look over and see a big green Escalade rolling towards us down the street, parking right on the side of the road, and out pops Ghostface and his posse.

And he had a bunch of older white chicks with him, like in their mid-thirties; you know, like fucking, like it was weird. There were his height men (who were on stage with him) and then his manager, a couple of other dudes and then a few of these older white chicks. All of them there in that Escalade, except the manager who had a Cadillac Deville.

And that kid, the one who was dick-riding Ghostface Killah at the bar, followed them over to where we were and walks up to us and says, “Yo, you guys have to let me smoke with Ghostface Killah. I’m his biggest fan, you have to let me in, like yadda-yah,” and my friend who’s got a mouth on him is just like “Yo, fuck you; you’re a dick-riding bitch. Get your bitch-ass out of here or we fuck you up.”

I wasn’t gonna’ curse the kid out. I was just looking at him like ‘come on, are you serious, dude?’ Like, ‘why are you dick-riding?’ But instead my boy just goes off on this kid, and then the dude runs over to Ghostface Killah and tells him that my friend was calling him a bitch. So Ghostface Killah walks up to my boy, right in his face, and immediately his boys surround my boy and Ghostface is like “what you say about me? What you say?”

It got serious mad quick. It was getting real, so I had to step up and separate my boy and Ghostface Killah, and straight-up get in the middle of that. I’m not gonna’ let my boy get his ass beat. So now I’m breaking up what could be a big ass fight with Ghostface and his crew.

It was just me. I step in, and just pull out the bag of weed, unravel it and say “Listen, no one’s calling anyone a bitch; we’re talking to this stupid mothafucka right here, not you. We came here to smoke this. I got the weed, I got the blunt, just come inside and drop this shit, or you know, just fuckin’ leave. And Ghostface is like “alright, you make a good point. I know this kid, you know; when he was talking with me in the bar, like yadda-yah… let’s go inside.”

So we’re walking up, and that kid tries to follow us in, and Ghost’s boys just put the hand on him and are like “get the fuck out of here,” and sent him on his little bitch-ass way. The rest of us walk up and knock on my friend’s door. Now he looks a little tired. I tell him “I hope you don’t mind if I brought some people over.”

“Are you serious, who’d you bring over?” And Ghostface walks in with his boys. “Oh, Oh! Welcome! This is my place, welcome!” So we walk in and make ourselves comfortable, and I crack the Dutch. I break up some bud and start twistin’ this up. Well, word immediately spreads out (being a small college town in the mountains) that Ghostface Killah is on Blackington. All of a sudden a hundred people show up, and as people are coming in, some are giving me their pot to roll the blunt in.

“Oh shit, is that the blunt you’re gonna’ smoke with Ghostface? Here, take some of mine!” And so this turns into a fucking cannon, and there’s a lot of pressure because there’s only one blunt, and you know I’m twisting this up for Ghost. The pressure was on, but I twist up this massive blunt, and it was perfect. Light it up, pass it around, and we kind of move into the “beer pong” room. Ghostface kinda’ just picks up one of the ping pong balls, and we start playing beer pong.

Smoking blunts and playing beer pong with Ghostface fucking Killah. Everyone is partying and having a good time. Mad people were there, and that motherfucker was not even trying to go anywhere. He fuckin’ straight-up chilled out with us until five in the morning, at least. 5AM. We were hanging out outside, dude didn’t have to be anywhere, he just made 20-Gs. Just taking it easy. The fraternity on campus came over to the party and made Ghostface an honorary brother of the fraternity. Brother Ghost.

The one thing I look back on and regret was not getting a picture. I know throughout the whole night people were coming up to him and getting his picture, trying to dick-ride him and shit, and he really seemed to be bothered by it. I could have talked about my work as well, could have pushed my shit on him too. We talked for a long time about shit, just general shit like girls, joking about this and that, and I was talking about certain albums by him I really liked, certain songs. His music.

I think he was impressed because I was quoting some of his lines and shit. Anyone has to be into real fans, the genuine fans that know his shit and know what material is actually good and bad, because everyone puts out bad songs. Very few don’t put out bad songs. Usually, popular songs are not liked by the artists themselves, you know, and the opposite goes for the ones not usually talked about. It’s good to say “I really like that song,” and have it really mean something to the artist.

So that was quite possibly one of the best concert experiences of my life. I’ve talked about it with other people who’ve been there, and when I do, it’s like reliving the experience all over again. A friend of mine from MCLA who now lives in California came into town and knocked on my door, and it was a whole different story. We both went to MCLA, and bumped into a few people, and the story just came up.

“You remember playing beer pong and smokin’ with Ghostface Killah?”

Yeah, in 2008, if not 2009. I got an autograph and the bag of weed I rolled the blunt out of. Got it in a jewelry box somewhere. His autograph looks like gibberish, but I can’t make that up. I couldn’t make it out the first time; it looked like a scribble, but over time I found the right angle and was like “oh, there it is.”

That was story time, with Toby T. See you next time.

Combination Reasoning

Combination reasoning
Halloween 2010

It was the Halloween party, 2010, out in Somerville, deep in the residential area, among the houses rich enough to build, but too expensive to own. It was fun; the house was a notorious four-bedroom, three-floor brownout that held parties year after year, a tribute of the press company my roommate worked for, exploding into 300+ visitors.

I was a coked-out investment banker in my blue Saks pinstripe, black portfolio pants, Aldo dress shoes and old red tie; a blotch of white face paint covered my nose, and I was considered one of the more original costume ideas of the night. Honest, except for the hot women and men who were too proud to say anything, everyone I introduced myself to was impressed. I was too, on the inside, at all the characters I half-knew amidst the beer and booze.

But I left – combination reasoning. Shit grew weird after the 6th drink, when I ran into some butchers who called themselves “ninja turtles.” It was intolerable; the three of the four I met (Raphael, Donatello, and Leonardo) wore green clothing underneath white smocks with “blood” spattered across them. Different colors, yet they all looked like green Jackson Pollock’s.

Apparently I offended one of them with my costume. I told Donatello what my costume was, and he began to question my intentions. “Why would he be coked-out?” I was caught off-guard, kind of like an awkward come-back from a would-be girl you’re hitting on. I had to defend my intentions, and it gained the interest of more than just the turtles. Raphael was more offended than Donatello. His father was an investment accountant.

The beer and booze did little to solve the problem. Raphael began to ask me who I was, who I came with (to the party), and really made a scene around the ten-odd people in the foyer. I was humiliated at the hands of a bastard ninja turtle; there was no social comeback.

I decided to leave. The keg was finished and I rounded up the remaining booze in a blue solo cup. Believe me when I tell you, the party is over when the booze is all gone. Luckily for me, I spent my last minutes there drinking a combination of Yellow Tail and Jim Bean, provided by a girl dressed like a clown, but claimed she was Elton John. She looked funny, and I thanked her for the help before running into a Frenchman and his companion with a proposition.

“Hey, do you want to smoke some pot?” I was easily swayed, and I quickly forgot about the party inside. The smell of marijuana didn’t seem to bother other people, despite it countering my inebriated self the same way sugar does with coffee. I was in a good place, even after the negative episode minutes earlier, feet away.

I left when I saw the ninja turtles hovering around the front entrance. I didn’t want to cross paths with them again. My roommate would find his own way home; he’s the type to milk a moment until it’s dry, and being only 2am, I knew he would continue his escapades for a while longer. I said my goodbyes to the Frenchman and friend, Gretel and Charlie Brown, along with Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield, Red Riding Hood, Dobby the House Elf, and that dancing banana from that hit “Peanut Butter Jelly Time” by the Buckwheat Boyz.

There were so many others I remember, but I knew there was no opportunity worth trying for to get past the obstinate (and obdurate) ninja turtles. Before heading down the gravel path, I saw them talk and point and stare directly at me, bringing Michelangelo into the mix, making my odds of physical conquest four-times more difficult. I cut my losses and left. It wasn’t worth it.

I had my iPod shuffle. It was somewhere in the middle of a track mix my brother gave me from New York, so I couldn’t tell you what I was listening to. I wasn’t sure where I was going, either, but I was blessed with five seconds to ask a passing cyclist where Highland was. He pointed in the right direction, the general area which led me towards another house party.

Now imagine this scene – you’re out of your mind and in a personal zone, and all of a sudden a character you know and revere is standing outside with a monk and a tennis player smoking a cigarette. Patrick Bateman, the lead character from “American Psycho,” was wearing a poncho over a business suit, just as he did before killing Paul Allen with an ax.

I play off that angle when we first met. I simply asked where Highland was from here, and then asked if I could use his bathroom. “Yeah, go for it. You seem like a nice guy,” he said, and I casually entered the scene. The place was amazing, definitely more expensive than my place on Grand View. He had a bigger foyer with dark brown tiling and windows overlooking the street, and steps leading up into the apartment rather than a hallway turn-around like mine.

The party was still in effect; club girls in skimpy outfits were talking to each other near a billiards table that nobody was using, dudes in cop outfits and spiked Jersey do’s were taking shots of Petron, and a couple or two were making out in distant corners of the lavish apartment. I wandered around, looking for the bathroom, kind of like a fool who didn’t know where he was. The bathroom was in a weird location, and there was a line, but a cop who knew I wasn’t a part of the crowd saw through me and let me jump in line. Nice guy. I enjoyed the relief and thanked him as I left.

I walked back outside just as quickly as I entered. “Thanks Bateman,” I said to the host as he talked to the monk. “No problem,” he said, as if he didn’t notice the name I called him. I told him flat out, “you know, you look just like…” and he flipped out, in a good way. “You know, you’re the first person all night to get my costume. Why don’t you come in and have a drink…”

All the random people who saw me quickly come and go were surprised to see me return with the owner’s arm around my shoulder in smiles and praise. It was a different turn, and I took it. I became one of the dudes taking shots of Petron. I opted for a round of pool with the owner. “You know, it’s been ages since I played this game.” I don’t remember if he or I said that.

I remember we shared quotes and scenes from American Psycho, and the girls with hard bodies revolved around us because we looked like we knew what we were doing. I caught the eye of some blonde who was talking to her friend; they were among the few sitting by the entrance when I first arrived. When the game ended, I shook hands with the owner and thanked him for his hospitality. “Hey man, thank you,” almost competitively gracious; explains the multi-hundred dollar getup he was rocking.

I had to excuse myself, not because it was late, but because I wanted to meet the blonde outside before I left.

“Hey,” she said, “who are you?”

“I’m Alex.” She meant what my costume was, confused by the blotch of white paint on my nose. I told her, and she said “oh, that’s funny.” She didn’t laugh, but smiled. Her teeth were whiter than my face paint. I got her number but didn’t get her name.

I stumbled home the remaining half-mile to the sound of Cate Brothers “Give It All to You.” I still got home before my roommate. 4:30am or so, and he strolls in with some girl he met at the party. She wasn’t fabulous, certainly a couple notches below the blonde I met, but still fun. He brought home a brown paper bag full of beers, and he and I drank more as the girl began to have second thoughts. Within minutes, they left again; he drove her home as I sat in my Eames chair, drafting the first part of this story. At 5:10am, he returned with a smug look on his face. “Man, I did that girl a favor.” I could care less if he got laid that night.

We talked about my shenanigans at the press party, and laughed about the chance encounter with Patrick Bateman and his lavish house apartment over stale pizza and beer. It was near 6am when I went to bed, and my dark empty sleep was interrupted a few hours later when my parents texted me to meet them in Copley for brunch.

Tactics versus Strategy

I had the day to my self. Finally some time alone to do what I wanted after weeks and weeks of catering to others. It is mid Autumn in Manhattan. Back in Boston it had been unusually warm, not so down here. I had most of the afternoon ahead of me after a quick coffee with a few colleagues in the city, the friend I was going to meet for dinner had to work late, so there I was with a good eight hours to kill. I went to Bryant park; the last time I was in the city with time to spare that is where I went, I ended up meeting with a dead end recruiter in the Chrysler building shortly after that, so who knows where this moment of pause in the park would bring me. I wanted Indian food, and of course, being only a few blocks from the tourist traps of the city, every place I looked at was either packed or over priced. I looked online to see where the closest subway was and then saw where that subway would take me; I could go uptown towards Central Park, have some food and then have a cigar (I brought one because I knew I would have time to enjoy it), or I could go downtown to SoHo and Greenwich Village. I opted for the later. I got off at Washington Square and started walking towards the Indian restaurant I picked out in the West Village. I really didn’t want to go into Greenwich Village because of the bad memories of my last time there over the summer, so that guided me towards the Hudson. While I walked I happened to come across this little Mexican restaurant that looked perfect to relax for a few hours and have some tasty food. Just as I hoped the place was empty and it was warm, those were the two requirements I had.


Like I mentioned earlier, the weather in Manhattan was pretty different than Boston’s the day before, it was actually seasonal so I can’t complain, all I can say is that I was sorely mistaken for not wearing a jacket. I had a pretty good burrito at the Mexican place; the ground beef was just spicy enough to warm me up and the guacamole, lettuce, tomatoes cooled my tongue when things got too hot. I wanted a beer, but they wanted too much for one, so I got coffee. The coffee was fantastic; almost like Turkish coffee there was a pleasant sweet aroma and a hint of cane sugar and caramel that worked my palate

like a crisp sauvingon blanc would after having brie and apple in a puff pastry – if that means nothing to you then I highly suggest you try it right now! Anyway, this is not a restaurant review, but this would be an otherwise unsavory account of an ordinary afternoon if I didn’t include the above. After gorging on Mexican goodness I needed that cigar and a good walk. I really had only one objective and that was to find a park were I could enjoy that cigar, as luck would have it, Washington Park was only a few blocks away.


It had gotten dark and I saw that the bums had set up camp in on the benches by the entrance I was approaching. I decided to be bold and invade their territory with hopes of not angering the urban homesteaders with my cigar smoke. It was here where I met Alex. About sixty years old, Alex was dressed like your typical hobo; he had the baseball cap, at least one big puffy winter jacket and probably a few layers of pants on. I actually felt envious for once – I was clearly out of my element in my jeans, cotton button down dress shirt with only a thin cotton v-neck sweater, hardly protecting me from the penetrating cold wind that pushed its way through the trees of the park. Alex was sitting in front of a chess board. I loved chess and I had nothing to do for several hours, I asked him if he charged to play. I knew his time had to be worth something. It only cost me a coffee and donut from the Starbucks up the street.


Alex didn’t say much, but he played chess pretty well. I figured he would be about as good at chess as I would be at making macros given that this must have been somewhat of an occupation outside of his cigarette business. He sold a pack for nine bucks, making a small profit margin, especially in New York, but he still undersold the corner stores by a few bucks. His clients tended to be exclusive though, he knew them on a first name basis like any good proprietor and was flexible with the quantity he sold. I liked this guy, he was smart. I guess even the bums in New York have that drive to achieve that I really haven’t seen in other cities. Alex and I played three games. I lost all three. What I learned though was not just a better way to play chess, but I learned something about my self. In chess, just like in life, I like to make the first move. I guess that is the control freak in me, but what it does is open me up to a vulnerability of being taken by someone who waits for me to make the bad move that inevitably comes. This guy exploited that bad move every time just like a sharp trader on Wall Street would make a quick in and out move on an undervalued stock and get out just before the price hits equilibrium and the gains flatten. So Alex just waited. Even when I tried to change up my playing style in the second game he still got me after about twenty moves. He took me after I had every major piece except a rook and a queen and he took me after I totally shifted from a heavy offense to an almost neutral playing style. The key he told me was not strategy, but tactics, and then it made sense; I had a strategy, but he really didn’t play with a strategy, he would not hold himself to a predictable pattern, but he would use a few clever tactics to put me into a position where I was trapped – trapped by my own strategy as it were since that is what he exploited. It would not have mattered if I played defense or offense I think since he was always just a few moves ahead of me. Alex’s favorite piece was the knight, I hate the knight, but I have now come to respect it just like I respect Alex and will be thankful for the lesson he taught me.


The Writ

“The Writ”

Some people swore that the house was haunted. I didn’t believe them, and neither did John, who by the time we met, was almost finished writing his book “The Writ.” To him, the house was a source of inspiration. To me, it was an excuse to leave town for the weekend.

I wasted few words with John when we first met, like a public defendant first meeting his client. We knew what the score was, and took things pretty seriously until it was all said and done with. My story didn’t start at the house, like John’s perhaps, but it did end there, wrapping up a three-day visit in regards to his upcoming novel.

Arriving forty minutes late to his pre-release party, I drove up the long stretch of gravel driveway to find John talking to an attractive couple on the porch, laughing about something out of earshot. His antics humored me as I waited for an opportune time to interrupt.


“Fred, you made it! Marsha, Todd, this is Fred Deblin, an old friend of mine from Mississippi State.” He checked his watch and soured his face. “What happened, Fred? Did you get lost again?”

“Sadly, yes. For some reason, my Garmin doesn’t think this place exists.”

“That’s not surprising. This area has been off the grid for years.”

“Yeah, it’s too bad,” said Marsha, who looked like a young Nancy Pelosi, “this land has real potential.”

“Farmers could make a lot of money here,” said Todd.

“Criminals could do even better if you ask me,” said John to a bout of laughter.

“You really think so?” I wasn’t convinced.

“Oh yeah, think about it!” And we did think about it, the lucrative rackets that could make use of a run-down mansion like this in the middle of nowhere. The other guests revolved around our conversation, and everyone had their say.

By the time the party ended, it was after one in the morning. Most of the other guests had left by this point, and John was outside seeing off the rest. I was left to my own devices, and decided to explore the run-down house that John had fancied so much. When I was in the kitchen earlier, I didn’t notice a peculiar smell that now overpowered my senses. With drunken curiosity, I searched out the source, thinking it was some sort of spoiled food or laundry hamper.

When I found the marijuana plants in his pantry, John had already returned to the house. He saw me in the kitchen, staring slack-jawed and still, but I had yet to notice him. He casually walked towards me, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Does this bother you?”

“No, it doesn’t bother me. I’m just surprised.”

“These things can do that. Do you want to hang out?”

“Sure.” And before we retired to the now-empty living room, John plucked two grape-sized buds from one of the plants. The stereo was playing “Susie Q” by Creedence Clearwater Revival, and we proceeded to write the epilogue of my human interest piece over a joint, shedding red light on an author I had a profound level of respect for.

We easily spent the next hour and a half talking about the future of literature in modern society, and despite our mutual lack in confidence, we were humbled by the thought of more intellectual generations to come. Any rumors that came to pass about John and his habits would stay unconfirmed. Between him and me, however, nothing was ever the same again after that.