This chapter has some use of the n-word. Hopefully it doesn't come across the wrong way. It's meant to be factual because this is based an actual event that I witnessed as a teenager. I'm interested in feedback on this, i.e. if people are finding it personally upsetting. Thanks -Rick

In August Jen and I were enjoying a mid-summer heat wave. The marigolds in my mom's balcony flowerbox were wilting in the steam. The park across the street was deserted, except for the local Jamaicans, who seemed used to sitting outside in the heat. At night a different set of Jamaicans would come out and deal drugs in the same park.

The Toronto Police never put in much effort in Saint James Town. I remember one night I was watching the dealers from my balcony, and I could clearly see money being exchanged for small packages. That night, as I was watching the action, what caught my eye was a very drunk, white-trash, down-and-out sort of fellow. He walked up to a group of them.

The drunk was clothed in tatters. His shoe laces were untied and his shirt was not tucked in. He was wobbly, with a very wide stagger, almost on the verge of falling over. Well, he went right up to those Jamaicans, and he began to swear at them, right in their faces.

"F-f-fuckin' niggers!" he slurred, as he hollered from only a few inches away.

The Jamaicans surprised me when what they did was laugh.

"Don't laugh at me," said the confused drunk, "F-f-fuck you!"

"Go home, mon," said one of the Jamaicans, "you're talkin' crazy, drunk!" They laughed and made jokes among themselves.

He looked at them for a while, then muttered, "niggerssss," and began to stumble away. I thought that was the end of it.

Maybe he heard the laughter, because after he had gone a short distance, he turned around and shuffled back toward them, calling out "You f-f-fuckin' niggerssss," as he pushed right into the midst of them.

One of the Jamaicans proceeded to rip a branch away from a young birch tree, and yielding the branch like a nun's yard stick, swung it across the drunk's back. The drunk whined in pain and stagger-ran away, while the Jamaicans all got a big laugh about it. I admired those Jamaicans – even if they were drug dealers – for their leniency and understanding. I can't say that I would have been any nicer if I were dealing with that senseless, racist bastard.

So, as I said, it was one of those hot heat-wave days, and the two of us sat on the balcony, overlooking the park. The bamboo shades were rolled down to keep out the sun. They allowed in some 'fresh' air. Some slivers of light passed through the shades, covering us in thin horizontal stripes of light and shadow. We looked like Zebras.

Jen was wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts. She sat peeking through the blinds, observing the action in the park.

"Wow, it's sweltering today," Jen said.

I watched the zebra stripe that ran across her eyes.

"It's totally deserted outside," she said.

I looked at her slightly curved nose.

"I don't know how they do it," she said.

Jen refocused her view on the park, and mentioned how crazy the immigrants were for sitting in the sun during such hot weather.

"Tell me about it," I said. "Want a drink?"

"Sure."

I opened the cooler and pulled out two bottled lemonades, handing one to Jen. The bottle hissed quietly when she opened it. She wiped a drop of lemonade from her mouth, smiled and said, "That's better."

"Yeah, it's so hot."

"Seriously," she said.

We talked like this for an hour or two. During heat waves like this one, most people don't have enough energy to do more than sit down and complain about the heat, which is what we did, until my mother announced that she was going to her friend's place. That one particular friend with an air-conditioned bedroom.

"Looks like we have the place to ourselves," Jen said.

I smiled at her absently, and said, "Yep." Jen frowned slightly, probably at my lack of understanding. I followed this by saying, "Boy, it sure is hot!"

"Yeah, it's hot," she said, pausing to look at me. "So what do you want to do?"

"I don't know," I said, digging myself deeper into my hole of cluelessness. "Umm, what do you want to do?"

"Hmmm," she said in a thoughtful way. Jen sat and contemplated for a few moments. She reached into her pocket, and carefully pulled out a small hand-rolled cigarette. "Want to smoke some weed?" she asked quietly.

I felt fear well up from inside me. I had seen the pain that drugs caused in this neighbourhood – people murdering other people to steal their money, and so on. But I looked at Jen, and I felt her beauty, and all I heard myself say was, "Okay."

"Cool!" said Jen with youthful excitement. She pulled a matchbook from her pocket and lit the joint. She puffed on it until the heat made the end glow red. She handed it to me. I held it uncertainly, and I tensely set it to my lips.

"Draw it deep," she said with a smile, "and hold it in your lungs for a few seconds." I drew on the joint until my lungs were full, and my eyes went crossed as I watched the head of the joint burn away.

"Wow! That was a huge drag!" exclaimed Jen. I think she took delight in my contorted face. Suddenly I felt like my throat was on fire, and my lungs burned amidst violent hacking and choking.

"You okay?" Jen asked.

"I think so," I said, wheezing. I realized that I was not going to choke to death. But I felt like every single strand of hair on my head was standing up on its end.

"Man you're so stoned!" Jen said before taking another drag.

"I don't feel stoned," I commented objectively – or so I thought.

"You're so stoned," she asserted before taking a final drag on the rapidly shrinking joint. "So am I."

"Man it's so hot out," I said, as if it were a profound revelation.

"Yeah man," Jen said in affirmation.

"So now what?" I asked, unaware of the usual activities of a stoned person.

"I don't know, but if you start to get paranoid, let me know, because that's the effect of the weed."

I told her that I wasn't paranoid, and that I would tell her if I got paranoid. Meanwhile in my head I was wondering, 'what if I get paranoid, what will I do? Oh man I hope I don't get paranoid...'

"Do you think we have a purpose on earth?" Jen asked.

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Yeah man, seriously."

"Well I wonder," I began cautiously. "I mean, it's so tough to figure out, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah I know."

"I think about it a lot, like what's the meaning of life, and stuff like that," I said, trying to sound philosophical.

"Yeah, what's the meaning of life," echoed Jen.

"I mean in church you ask a priest why babies die," I said emphatically. "Because it's really unfair. And a priest will say because God needed the baby in heaven."

Jen shook her head, "that's just fucked up, man."

"Yeah, I know!"

"I think sometimes that we have no purpose. That there really isn't any reason for us to be here."

"Yeah," I said, rocking back and forth in my chair. "It's like the meaning of life is that there is no meaning."

"Exactly!" she yelled. She jumped out of her chair. "That's it!"

"Wow," I said, as I looked up at Jen, who, with her flush face and red eyes, looked a little scarier than usual. "Wow, I never thought of it that way before," I said. Jen sat back down and closed her eyes. "What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm just listening to everything," she said in an almost-whisper.

"What are you listening for?"

Jen opened her eyes, made an indignant expression, and said, "Everything," and closed her eyes again.

"But, like what?" I asked.

"Like you for one thing."

Jen smiled, and with her eyes still closed, said "and the sound of the wind."

There was no wind on that day.

"And the sound of the sun," she said so profoundly.

"What?"

Jen sighed, and tried to explain it to me: "Haven't you ever just slowed down and experienced life? Just try it. Close your eyes, okay?"

"Okay," I said. I tried it, and I experienced life for a minute or two. Then I realized that I was getting hungry. "Man, I have to get some food."

"Bring me some," Jen said.

I went inside and came back with some munchies. We stuffed our faces, out there on the balcony, on potato chips and lemonade. About twenty minutes later I felt my stomach turn, and I bent over the balcony railing, and puked up the chips and lemonade. Then we both watched it fall sixteen stories.

"Wow that was cool," Jen said. "It took so long to make it down to the ground."

I told her that I didn't feel very well.

She helped me to sit back down. She pulled another joint from her pocket.

"It'll calm your stomach," she said as she lit it up. I took a lung full and held it as long as I could. The taste of vomit mixed with marijuana left a very distinct impression. Jen finished the rest of the joint, then asked me if I felt better.

At first I contributed nothing. I just sat there trying to decide if I felt better. Finally, after Jen had poked my arm several times to see if I was conscious, I said, "yeah, I'm okay." I began to giggle.

"What's so funny?" Jen asked. She was smirking.

"Huh?" I asked absently. "Nothing," I said. Then I realized that I was staring at Jen's chest. I became embarrassed. But I blankly stared at her breasts instead of looking away. Her chest seemed funny, somehow, and I resumed my giggling.

Jen looked down at herself, and seeing that there was nothing out of place, said enthusiastically, "Hey man, you've got the giggles!"

"No I don't," I asserted while I stared at a spot just above her boobs.

"It's just –" I began to say.

"Just what?" Jen asked.

"It's just so –" I said as I struggled to speak through a cotton-filled giggling mouth.

"Just what?" Jen asked again.

"It's just so –" I said, and finally, feeling the words burst out from within, "so funny!!!"

I punctuated my assessment of Jen's chest with a chorus of hearty laughter, which sounded like 'ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!'

It is a well known fact that no woman enjoys having her breasts be the subject of uncontrollable laughter. And Jen was no exception. But she took it well.

"You think it's funny?" she asked sternly.

I answered that it was "definitely not funny." I followed that with snorting and chortling.

"Yeah right," she said. She came closer and knelt in front of me. From up close I could see the intense redness in her eyes. "Do you think my breasts are funny?" she asked with a nervous quiver in her voice.

Unsure of what to say in my giggly state, I did not answer her. I tried to suppress my giggles. Then Jen, always so beautiful when she got pissed off, pulled off her tank-top. "Do you like them?" she asked, as she peeked up at me from beneath the edges of her eyebrows.

I gazed at her small breasts, and giggled out the word "Yes!" She took my hand and placed it on her chest.

"Do you like how they feel? Because sometimes I feel bad about them." I could feel her shaking under the touch of my hand. Or maybe it was my hand that was shaking. I looked at her. Tears were running down her cheeks. "Oh, I shouldn't cry. I'm just so stoned."

"So am I."

Jen locked her gaze with mine, and brushed my face with the back of her hand.

"I..." she said between shaky breaths.

"I..." she said voicelessly as she began to kiss me. Her lips were soft, very soft, just like the last time we kissed. But now her kisses were less delicate, and more pressed, as if she was playing against lost time. She tugged at my hair, and pressed my lips harder against hers.

"I..." she said, as she pulled down my jogging pants, and took me in her hand.

"I..." she said, pulling, and pushing, and scratching at me like a desperately starved feral dog.

"I..." she said, while obliviously pulling my hair out. And then she was on top of me, and I, still in my chair, and still being stoned, sat dumbfounded and in shock.

Her eyes were closed, squeezed tightly shut as she moved delicately around me like a floating angel. The strips of light were now painted across her back and neck, and they moved up and down – they way they move when a Zebra changes its stripes.

And this floating angelic Zebra made soft animal sounds. Quiet moaning sounds. And her breath came in sharp shallow pants, and her skin shimmered with sweat. Moisture dripped from her open mouth and landed softly on my face, and the sensation caused a change within me. I lost myself to the world, and for a few seconds I existed only within her and within my own mind. Jen embraced me, and there we remained, in that exact position until we began to worry if people might be spying on us.

Our pot-induced paranoia eventually gave way to more rational thoughts. And more rational thoughts soon gave way to concerns of another sort.

"What if my mom smells it when she gets home?"

"But we smoked outside," Jen said.

"What about our clothes?"

"I don't know."

"Smell me," I said, raising my arm toward her face. She leaned in and sampled the aroma. "Well?" I asked.

"I think we should have a shower."

"Together?"

"Yes," she said.

"Okay. Maybe we should put our clothes in the dryer, to air them out?"

"Yeah," Jen said. She went inside the apartment. We had one of those miniature washer-dryer setups in the kitchen. We stripped down to our underwear, as if we should have been modest in each others presence. We put the smelly clothes in the dryer and headed to the shower.

The bathroom mirror soon became opaque with hot steam. I kicked off my underwear. Both of us got in at the same time and took turns getting wet underneath the shower-head. I was suddenly comfortable in her presence; I felt like the falling water was clothing me and I wasn't really naked. Somehow we ended up washing each others bodies.

Well, one thing led to another, and... well, it happened again. There's not much to say about it, except that Jen had a desperate and rushed feeling about her. I can't say much about what happened, except that the steam was so thick that my breathing became difficult. Instead of being trapped in a chair like I was fifteen minutes earlier, I was pinned against the wall. The shower was not a shower – it became a torture chamber wherein my body was raked, flayed, twisted, crushed and beaten by an over-eager Barbie doll gone all Torture Mistress over Ken.

Any evidence of our youthful and awkward transgression was completely washed away by the water. We got our freshly spun clothes out of the dryer. We had just finished getting dressed when my mother walked in the front door. She sniffed the air, looked at Jen and I standing there all innocent-like, and went about her business. I think my mother must have smelled the lingering stink and noticed the guilt written all over our faces. At the time I was surprised that she didn't say anything. A few years later I realized that mom also smoked pot, and therefore was not in a position to pontificate.