A Tale of Two Wise Fools

By Arin Keshishian

Set in early-1970s Los Angeles, a 19-year old French expat named Adrian is trying to get over his first true love. He's keeping his passion for music alive and starts spending time with his newly acquainted American companion, a solitary 70-year old lifelong alcoholic named Max. It's at the bar where the two lost souls discuss life over beers. Both men must decide what to do when presented with newfound hope.

Max's excessive drinking takes Adrian along for the ride as both men open up about their past and outlook on life, pushing them to discover more about themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781543991314

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© 2019 Arin Keshishian. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 978-1-54399-130-7 eBook 978-1-54399-131-4

"Say it is the wine that leads me on,

the wild wine

that sets the wisest man to sing

at the top of his lungs,

laugh like a fool – it drives the man to dancing...

it even tempts him to blurt out stories

better never told."

– Homer, The Odyssey

"Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where

every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed."

– Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PREFACE

A Bad Case of Seventiesitis

April 1970

An Awaiting Island

April 1970

Work Beckons

June 1970

The Great Liberator

June 1970

A Change of Heart

July 1970

The Lonesome Struggle

September 1970

An Unexpected Bluesy End

September 1970

The Grace of Gratitude

October 1970

The Big Bang

October 1970

Reaching Out

October 1970

A Stroll Down Memory Lane

November 1970

A Passing Opportunity

February 1971

The Flight of Birds

March 1971

The Fight of Men

April 1971

The Harvest of Memories

June 1971

Cutting Back

June 1971

People Move On

July 1971

A Fresh Vision

September 1971

All About Lisa and I

October 1971

Reminiscence

November 1971

Thankless-Giving Day

December 1971

Where Do We Go From Here?

December 1971

A French Sort of Day

December 1971

A Surrealistic Time for the Harvest

December 1971

Happy Max, Happier New Year, Happiest Birthday

April 1972

Revolving Perspectives

May 1972

Facing Mortality

July 1972

A Long Overdue Visit

September 1972

A Sincere Disclosure

September 1972

How Can You Mend a Broken Heart

December 1972

Family

February 1973

A Familiar Grave from the Past

October 1973

The Great Musical Shift

November 1973

An Unexpected Proposition

November 1973

A Found Fondness

November 1973

The Tides and Currents Within

November 1973

A Majestic Foundation

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A very special thanks to Susanne Ault, Nina, Elaine Le Scanlan, and Sisterella.

Edited by Kay Solo

PREFACE

A Bad Case of Seventiesitis

Sometime in 1966, I dreamed I went in for a checkup at a hospital. I met up with the doctor in the waiting room, and he raised an eyebrow at the sight of me. He looked mighty puzzled and quickly left the room. A few minutes later, he came back with another doctor who’d brought a tape measure with him, and they asked me to step into an examination room. They eagerly measured everything from the length of my hair to the width, length, and thickness of my sideburns, the size of my collar, the width of my sports jacket lapels, the size of my pants’ flared bottom openings, the width of the chalk stripes on my pants, as well as the width of my belt, the dimensions of its buckle, and finally, the height of my boot heels.

The doctors glanced at each other, then over to me. One of them told me to come back in a week.

When that week passed, I went back and met with the same doctors again. They took me into an office, and one of them told me to sit down while a concerned expression slowly formed on his face. He scratched his head, and then, after a pause, he finally spoke.

Adrian, there’s no easy way to say this.

What is it? I asked.

"I’m afraid you’re suffering from what seems to be the early stages of seventiesitis."

What do you mean, ‘seems to be’?

It’s a good thing we caught it early, since it spreads like wildflowers, uh... I mean wildfire.

The other doctor cut in.

"Look, what my colleague here’s trying to say is that it’s severely contagious. But here’s what we can do. Here’s a prescription for a barber, and one for a tailor. Groovy – er, sorry, I mean grooming is just the thing you need. The old ways and order must be maintained to keep America productive by protecting our citizens and making sure that they continue to be responsible taxpayers as well as diligent workers. Come back if the symptoms persist."

The doctors then proceeded to give me my list of symptoms – or, rather, the list of all the measurements they took the week before. I watched them point at a chart as they carefully went over the details.

See these? These numbers are too big and fall outside of conformity of the social norms, one said as he pointed to the measurements. We’ll need to bring these numbers down, and I mean way down. You know, trim them considerably. It’s painless. I assure you.

I was almost speechless, especially since wide lapels on coats, wide ties, lengthy spearpoint collars on shirts, wide-legged pants, and even wider-brimmed fedora hats were all the rage in the thirties and forties. But I didn’t bother pointing this out because I knew that the older generations somehow always found convenient ways to justify that they were indeed far more righteous in their heyday than the young men of today. Though I did manage to ask, How exactly is this contagious? You and your colleague didn’t exactly wear a mask on the day of my examination, nor for today’s consultation.

Well, it’s mainly spread through the exchanges of socialist and communist ideas, as well as rock and protest music, which we did neither of.

Don’t forget the use of hallucinogenic drugs such as marijuana, psilocybin mushrooms, peyote cactus, and LSD, added the second doctor.

Adrian, have you been in contact with such radical ideas, music, and possibly even drugs?

Well, you’re the ones with the numbers. So suppose numbers don’t lie, right?

Right...

And what would happen if I don’t take action?

You’ll be doomed to a life of anti-capitalism and anti-establishment. There will be no place for you in society, and you will experience constant loneliness. Even the likes of you will turn on you for not being radical enough. So you’ll turn so radical that your mind will give way to a continuous miserable existence of criminal life until you land and stay in prison.

It’ll be that or end up dying as a young man from a drug overdose or suicide, said the other doctor.

Sounds lovely, I said.

The doctors weren’t amused. I thanked them, took the prescriptions, and walked out of the hospital. Who the hell were those guys? Doctors working for and reporting to the FBI? Or FBI agents disguised as doctors? Who knew. Anyway, I felt better already. I suppose I was glad there was so much wrong with me. I had some massive measurements, and I can’t say I felt like it was something to complain about. According to those doctors, the seventies were about to reel in even greater numbers, which would mean we were headed toward a decade of sartorial disaster as radical leftist ideas and rock music were being regularly exchanged with even more people. Oh, and joints and acid, too, of course. Little did they know that what they feared was already taking shape in far greater ways than they could possibly predict. The counterculture has been well underway…

Dedicated to my father; a true maverick from whom I’ve learned far more from his silence than from his words, despite always being there.

April 1970

An Awaiting Island

The little voice of confidence in my head said I could do it. I took another sip of my beer and moved toward her. An awaiting island she was. I’ve been gazing at her for some time now, knowing full well that I still needed a few more sips of my drink to work up the courage necessary to do something, but the voice of confidence was growing stronger. Or so I thought. As I got closer, that small degree of courage quickly dissipated, and so I found myself going back to the bar, where I anchored myself to my safe harbor. My beer might be a better companion for now, but not for long.

Something about beer always resonated with me. I didn’t quite know why. I remembered my father telling me about the first time he had introduced me to beer. He tried giving me a little sip when I was a helpless one-year-old. But he had no idea I didn’t want to stop at just one sip. So I quickly put my hand behind the beer bottle and pulled it closer to my mouth with such a force that caught my father off guard to the point where he had to fight me for it. It was perhaps my first real fight with my father, but only my second real fight in life. My first one was refusing to come out of the womb. My mother had always told me that she’d suffered enough just from my birth alone, so I’d better not make her life any more difficult from that point on. Oh, but poor mother dear, she still had to endure some more pain dealing with all my drinking with friends and coming home late. The little money I’d earned doing work for my father went into booze. I did this so much so that I had briefly forgotten about women altogether.

Non, mais c’est pas possible! Il n’est pas Français! C’est un Anglais ou un Allemand celui-là avec toutes les bières qu’il boit! Ou pire encore – un Belge! My mother would shout. In other words, No, it’s not possible! He’s not French! He’s English or German this one, with all the beers he drinks! Or worse – a Belgian! As if it had anything to do with my excessive ways.

I call this the self-conditioning period of my life. For a Frenchman, I took beer more seriously than wine. Why? Because my grandfather drank wine like he breathed air, probably because his mother had been too busy nursing her hangovers rather than having had spent time nursing him as an infant. Things were usually all right when he stuck to the red; he left us all alone and was occasionally able to crack a smile. But as soon as he turned his thirst to the white or the rosé, he’d become one raging son of a bitch who’d unleash all Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse at once and grant no quarter. Let’s just say that he was very generous with his rage and that he knew no greed nor boundaries in that department. My mother used to warn him: "Pas le blanc, papa. Le blanc attaque le cerveau. Prends du rouge à sa place. That is, "Not the white wine, dad. The white wine attacks the brain. Take the red wine instead." And that is why wine will have to wait for now.

Being excessive with drinking has always been a taboo in countries like France and Italy, where alcoholic beverages are considered food accompaniments and not to be drunk without meals or some type of appetizer. It’s all hunky-dory if you drink every day, just make sure to refrain from intoxicating quantities. Moderation is king there. It’s about drinking alcohol for taste rather than its full effect. Who knows? It must be a Catholic thing – with the exception of Ireland.

Another lager, please. But a bit more foam this time.

Okay, acknowledged the German barmaid.

Americans think I’m crazy, that I’m being cheated out of more beer because I insist that a healthy amount of foam be present. Perhaps it’s the European way of enjoying a beer. But I sincerely believe in foam. It’s like a sky with crisp white clouds, giving proper texture to a giant blue sea on canvas. It’s not just visually satisfying, for it provides that extra layer of taste, something for the eyes to hold on to – to embrace. Like whipped cream on top of a sundae, or a piece of pie. It’s a sacred union. Except that the foam disappears within a minute, so you have to seize the opportunity to taste it. But being in America means your personal freedom of choice is welcomed, no matter how silly, strange, or impractical your requests may seem to others.

Here you go, she said nonchalantly.

Right on.

I paid her plus a tip and went back to examining the young lady from the safety of the counter. Holding at bay by the bar made me feel safe. But I knew as soon as I left, I’d be out at sea, sailing onward with butterflies in my stomach, and where imaginary waves would intimidate me and fictitious winds would try to push me away and discourage me. But push me away from what? From the lady? What was it about her? It was time to go find out.

I flared out my invisible sails, and they caught some of the confidence blowing by. Before I knew it, I was at sea, and this lady was a mysterious island in my sights. She was alone, but she wouldn’t wait around too long for me. Her friends had only left her for a moment. And this moment would soon disappear like fading clouds. Carpe noctem; time to seize the night.

How you doing? I finally said as I approached.

Great, how about you?

Well, slowly feeling better. I gave her a faint smile, and she reciprocated it more vibrantly. Her hair was a wavy light brown, down to her mid-back. I like wavy-haired women, but somehow I’ve been wary of the curly haired ones; they often prove to be too spunky and feisty for my nature. I know this isn’t always the case, but it’s been my personal experience, regardless of ethnicity. I suppose attitude speaks in volumes, even when deliberately permed.

What are you drinking? I continued. Her glass was at low tide.

A gin and tonic.

Wait right here.

Okay.

I went to the bar and ordered her the drink as I listened to Traffic’s Shanghai Noodle Factory in the background. I enjoyed the blare of Stevie Winwood’s Hammond organ taking off while the psychedelic jazzy flute soloed itself to some unknown destination. Meanwhile, the drummer worked the ride cymbal and snare drum with impeccable timing while the bass line helped hold everything together, anchoring the core of the song just enough without holding back its jazzy spirit. I paid for the drink, and when I went back, the girl was gone. I looked around quickly and saw her walking back from a small crowd of people nearby.

Sorry about that. I went to tell my friends that I was going to spend time with you, she said as I handed her the drink. Thank you.

So, what’s your name?

Laura.

I’m Adrian. Our glasses met. I tried hard to keep the Italian Renaissance poet’s name Petrarch in mind to help me remember her name. I once read somewhere that Petrarch’s true love was named Laura.

So, Adrian, where you from? You got a real groovy accent.

I’m from a land where romance plays a popular role to the world.

Romance, huh? In this day in age? Okay, I know of two romantic countries: France and Italy. Which is it?

There are others, I smiled.

She let out a little laugh. So, you won’t tell me?

I brought myself closer to her, but only slightly. She responded well to it.

What’s so special about a country with a fancy tower?

Hmm... both France and Italy have famous towers.

Ours stands still because it’s always sober. The other’s a bit tipsy.

France! I knew it. Your French accent isn’t too obvious, though.

I did my best trying to get rid of it, but somehow a little bit of it still clings on, never letting go no matter how hard I try, I smiled.

So, what brought you here?

Most Americans picture Paris and its glorious Eiffel Tower when they think of France. Even our national flag has Paris’ colors, blue and red, on each side of the monarch’s color of white. It’s hardly representative of our whole country, unlike the UK or US, whose flags represent their entire kingdoms or states. But I’ve never been to Paris myself. I just know my small southern French town where everybody knows each other, and where many of its habitants’ favorite pastime was to stick their noses in everyone else’s business if they weren’t already busy drinking Pastis and playing a game of pétanque. If you happened to stay mysterious, not to worry; they’d make up things about you to compensate for their lack of knowledge about your life. Some people’s imaginations are toxic.

That said, I was born just a few years shy from the end of the Second World War, which meant that when I was growing up, most of the villagers in town knew exactly who all of the former collaborators who had sided with the Germans were. Worse, they made sure to point out the post-war children who came from families directly affiliated with the Vichy Milice. That was the French Militia who helped the Germans capture many of the French Resistance members and also contributed to the deportation of the French Jews. "Ah, lui, c’est le fils du collabo! Or, Ah, him, he’s the collaborator’s son!" a middle-aged lady would whisper to another while I’d wait in line at the local boulangerie. Yes, it was a typical French village stuck in its ancestral past, where people’s unsurfaced secrets were at the tip of everyone else’s tongue even decades later – a simple town like many other French towns that had previously been under German occupation.

In the few years before I was born, enough had happened to last five lifetimes. Enough to plague the "collabo" families for ages (despite the fact their kids had no clue as to what had happened in those days). There was enough passed down for everyone else to idealize the families who’d lost a Resistance member, thus giving birth to an eternal martyr of the French Republic. Even years after the war, deadly feuds and brutal vendettas between the two sides went on and on. More of the old stuff brought into the new. Old corrupted blood spilled before new, clueless lives, absorbing into the fabric of their existence, staining them by force without pity.

Planning my own departure was a decision I had pondered for some time. This was only solidified after seeing The Great Escape at some worn-out theater back when it first came out. Somehow, going to the States was going to be my great escape, and it was going to happen; I just didn’t know when, and I didn’t know how. All I knew is that I was going to get myself over there and never come back – until recently.

I never gave the idea of being an expatriate much thought. With my native town still living in the past, all I wanted to do was to leave that past behind and go witness a progressive world that was moving on with some sort of bright future ahead. I left France when it was still brewing in deep shame, and perpetual blame... oh, and the girl was still waiting for her answer. I decided to give her the easy answer, the kind most people can digest.

Because I wanted to try something new with my life. I just had to get away from the comforts of my culture and experience another. It helps you get to know yourself better, too, I finally said.

I think I know what you mean.

It was a deep calling within. Not just a necessity but a yearning to go, so I could find out more about who the hell I really am, you know? Maybe even allow myself to undergo some kind of transformation in the process of living abroad. Ironically enough, I just couldn’t grow mentally where I grew up physically in the town I came from.

By this point, the alcohol had climbed on top of my short-term memory and had conquered it by planting its black flag on the summit. I was doomed. Worst yet, I had already forgotten her name. Shame on me. I should surrender with a white handkerchief while I’m at it, but I don’t even have that handy. Tomorrow, that black flag will turn memories of tonight into a black hole of amnesia.

I feel the same way. But I love LA too much. How long have you been here?

I traveled to San Francisco in the spring of ‘66, then came down to LA recently to look for work.

How do you like it here?

It’s got its moments. If it wasn’t for work, I don’t think I’d be here. Personally, it’s hard to connect to... LA’s more about its neighborhoods than it is about its city center. Being European, we’re more used to city centers and town squares. San Francisco reminded me more of a European city with all its charming architecture and its center, so I naturally understood it. But LA has always been much harder to understand. It’s challenging. It forces you to keep exploring it in the hopes of discovering something worthwhile you can identify with.

I’ve never left, so I wouldn’t know. I find it fun. But I would’ve killed to live in San Francisco when it was all fresh and exciting.

When I arrived in San Francisco, I made immediate connections with all sorts of people. It was magical. I never experienced that in my life before. It made it easier to stay because I didn’t feel lonely at all. So many of us came from so many different places, and that made bonding easier. I felt instantly accepted even though people didn’t know a damn thing about me. You got to know strangers, then strangers became friends, and you got to know their stories. They got to know yours. People were so generous with their time and sharing their experiences, no matter how dark or delightful they were.

I bet. How exciting. Was it hard finding stable work in LA?

Yeah, at first. Until I ran into a French manager of a French restaurant called Taix, and he hired me on the spot.

That’s real luck right there.

More like French solidarity.

You think you might keep working there?

I think I might actually be going back home soon. I’ve already packed my bags.

Really? You’ve already had enough?

I feel I’ve experienced what I needed to experience, and that now it’s time to pay the family a long overdue visit, I sighed.

You bought your ticket yet?

Not at all.

You packed your bags before even buying your ticket?

Yeah. I suppose it’s one way to get my mind ready for the next big step.

I understand.

I also have to get ready for all of the complaining I’ll be hearing daily.

Complaining about what?

Oh, about everything. About little trivial things, about the slight inconveniences of everyday life, that sort of thing. Commiserating. It’s deeply instilled in French culture, I can assure you. Here in the States, we tend to be more amazed by the little things than annoyed about the small bumps. It’s the opposite in France; we criticize far more than we let ourselves be amazed. It took me some time to re-wire my brain into a more positive way of thinking.

Oh, yeah?

Yeah, I mean, I don’t know a single French person who’s grateful about life – at least, not any that I’ve met. I honestly think optimism is taboo in France. You’re seen as either crazy or dumb if you express your happiness with your life to the French. I don’t think they realize how lucky they are to be living for the length of time they’ve got. The chance they’ve been given to still be alive and breathing after the war, you know? I continued. No, they never even ponder the fact that they’re lucky before going to bed at night, or waking up in the mornings, they don’t feel amazed to be alive another day under the sun. Or under the clouds, or whatever. Well, France popularized existentialism after all. What’s one to expect? We’re very self-critical, opposite of Americans who are more self-aggrandizing. I shook my head. Oh yeah, it’s gonna be difficult to get used to that again. Especially after being constantly amazed for the past four years.

Four years, she said. That’s the time it takes to graduate high school.

And college, I added. Both of which I’ve never completed.

It sounds like it’s gonna be a big adjustment once you go back. But aren’t you guys like known for celebrating life and taking super long lunches and all?

Yeah, we need to do that to maintain our sanity. If it weren’t for long lunches and dinners to balance out our lives, we’d all be super depressed. We are a very fussy type of people with extreme melodramatic tendencies, so great food and amazing wines make up for it all. This made Laura laugh. I was glad she could find all of this funny, even if I were exaggerating.

You don’t seem to really like France all that much. Why go back?

Well, I didn’t say that. I care about France. I’m just concerned about the country, you know? If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t say anything.

I see your point. But if you really cared about it, wouldn’t you go back over there and try to fix it?

I smiled because I had nothing to say. Not only because her response was a very American one but also because I didn’t know where I belonged anymore. It wasn’t fair for me to pour out my frustration all over France. All I knew is that I longed for friendship. It was great just talking to people, but I wanted more than just banal conversation and laughter. I changed the subject. We were both just trying to make conversation, so whatever we said had to have an amiable tone and sound positive. I continued with that strategy.

So, what about you? Where are you from? I asked after a brief silence.

Oh, I’m from here. Born and raised. I have Irish roots, though, she clarified.

I could’ve made a connection between her freckles and her Irish roots, but I refrained from blurting out such a cliché.

Where do you live now? she continued.

Right here in Silver Lake. Not far from my temple, I said, throwing my hand up above my shoulder in the Red Lion Tavern’s direction.

I guess you’ve got it made then, she smiled. Oh! Speaking of you being French, I’ve heard Anaïs Nin actually lives around here.

Really? Who’s that?

You’re joking, right?

I’ve read about her, just not what she’s written. I’ve been so busy listening to music. I should probably start reading again like I used to, but with all the great music coming out these days, it’s hard to go back to reading novels.

I always find time to read. Anaïs is great, though. You should read her work! She had such an interesting life.

A spark of eroticism came over me like a fresh gust of springtime wind – the kind which transported with it the subtle aromas of the trees and the rich scents emitted by malfunctioning American exhaust pipes. I didn’t pay much mind to the latter.

We walked around some more outside of the Red Lion Tavern and ended up walking to her car, a blue 1960 Studebaker. It was parked on the street a couple of blocks down, most probably because there never was much room at the tavern’s parking lot.

Come on, get in, she said, unlocking her car.

We got in, and she started the ignition. Just being beside her awakened melodies within me. A symphonic young lady she had turned out to be. The symphony was everything from her sound figure, her soft features, her long light brown hair, her palm-tree-patterned green dress, her tan, leather fringed purse, and everything else all the way down to her cream-colored, heeled shoes, all expressing pure balance and harmony – a remarkable composition of womanhood. She radiated music and didn’t even know it. I wouldn’t tell her, though. It would be my secret.

On the radio, talks of Paul McCartney leaving The Beatles and ultimately causing their break-up was rampant.

I guess today’s the day music died. It’s the end of an era, she commentated.

It was their time. Let’s face it, they had a good run.

We can commemorate this evening together. One day when we get older, your children will ask where you were when The Beatles broke up. And lucky for us, I got just what’s needed to make that memory a special one.

What do you have in mind?

Go into my purse and look for a folded napkin tied with a rubber band.

I did as she said.

I found it.

Okay, open it.

She gave me a quick glance. I opened it, and wrapped inside were four tabs of acid. I brought the napkin to her. She took a hit, and I took one as well.

I hate to sound so typical, but I took acid for the first time while listening to the Sgt. Pepper album, she said, looking at me and smiling. Such a suburban white girl thing to do, huh?

We ended up going to her place in Glendale; a quiet, conservative white middle-class town just north of LA with a marvelous view of the San Gabriel mountains. She opened the door and showed me around her studio apartment. Everything about it was saturated with pure femininity, from the flowery wallpaper to the lacy tablecloth. All of it was groomed with the cutesy innocence of an American girl who was living out the last moments of a fading flower-power era.

She walked over to her vinyl collection and pulled out Joni Mitchell’s Ladies Of The Canyon and skipped to the album’s title track. I stood next to her and inspected her collection. She had Bob Dylan, Donovan, Leonard Cohen, John B. Sebastian, James Taylor, Crosby Stills & Nash, Buffalo Springfield, The Byrds, The Mamas & The Papas, Simon & Garfunkel, Joan Baez, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Laura Nyro, just to name a few. I even caught a glimpse of The Incredible String Band and Fairport Convention. The folk scene was her musical landscape. To be fair, she also had some teenage guilty pleasure records including The Strawberry Alarm Clock, The Turtles, The Association, and The Monkees, all of which were cleverly shoved away out of reach. Then there was Tommy James & The Shondells... ha! Tommy James, I thought, Lord, women used to go crazy for that groovy cat.

I left her record collection alone and moved closer to her. She turned and looked me in the eyes, grabbed me by the hand, and slowly brought me to her bed. We kissed passionately. I held her face, and her cool hand wandered to my waist. She untucked my shirt, and I grabbed her hand.

You have really warm hands. Mine are always so unapologetically cold, she said, holding my hand close to her chest.

My feet are the ones always freezing. As soon as their temperature drops, I start sneezing and get a runny nose. It’s never any fun.

Maybe, you’re just scared.

Scared?

Yeah, because you’ve got cold feet, she said and glanced up at me with a smile.

I think it’s just from poor circulation ever since I stopped being a wanderer. I should really start moving again.

But she was right. I was scared. I’d been scared ever since I found myself alone in this city after having known so many people back in San Francisco. I was afraid of aging as a French waiter halfway across the world from childhood friends and family. I was scared of having to depend on a job which could quickly end without warning, which would mean that finding another, as an illegal alien, could prove to be a full-time job in itself. I learned to find comfort in music and in the momentary company of acquaintances, people I would probably never see again. I missed what it meant to have a friend. Not just a friend, but a best friend.

The acid slowly began to display its magic. Amusement emerged, and a variety of sensations began to take hold. We both laughed at each other and at ourselves. We took a trip