Freedom in Summer
To be free, ah, to be out and about, with a cool summer breeze, and the scent of the low lying smog along the urban fabric of Manhattan.
Along the streets of the Island, zipping along in cars on the Gowanus, along West Street, and along Spring, and Sixth Avenue, people moved about, chatting, yelling, laughing, sitting quietly, and jumping around. At Ear Bar, groups of scantily clad lookers, whores, and skanks, as well as ladies and fugly friends, stood, walked, ran, strolled along with counterparts who either matched them exactly, or were out of their league. Men are feeble creatures, attracted to pussy scented heavily with perfume, or exhibiting the slightest bit of cleavage.
It was the end of June, the straight up beginning of the first weekend of summer. This was life in the New York Metropolitan Area, unfurling its petals and opening its womb to the fateful few hoping to find love in the warm air.
“Yo, take this.” Kris said with his breath held tight, and I looked down in the direction of the shifter, where Kris’s hand was cupped around the berry flavor Phillie blunt, rolled with the finest haze two swinging stoners like ourselves could muster on the streets of the island at 9:00 on a Friday evening. As we rolled slowly through the tunnel, Kris made his move under the cover of the Brooklyn Battery, and rolled the blunt with no suspicion whatsoever. We now smoked it with subterfuge, along the police controlled streets of downtown Manhattan.
We had exchanged the warm air of the summer for the grey, smokey haze which matched the interior of my 2003 Saturn Ion quite well.
“So, yo, you gonna chill for a bit?”
He said, as he pulled a Newport out of the community box we both chipped in the purchase. I slapped his hand.
“You fiend! Are we gonna have more to smoke later??”
“Yo, I got Waves at home.”
“Dude, Waves totally suck ass. You can’t chip in to get a new box?”
“Yeah, I got some cash at home.”
“Then have a stog.”
“Don’t slap my hand again.”
“I’m sorry, dude, I had to. It made it more dramatic.”
“Clip that, you gonna chill?”
“Ya, what you wanna do?”
“Open bar between 11 and 12 at this place my brother is DJing at. It’s called the Shady Beaver. ”
“Shady Beaver, eh? Well, I guess the best kept secrets are for the shady.”
“Aint nothing shadier than me.”
11:01pm. Friday.
“Yo, Jay.”
My mind had been focused on watching my favorite channel, Nickelodeon GAS. Finders Keepers was on.
“Dude, this fat bitch is getting every fucking answer right. The lil black kid just riding her coattails to that trip to Space Camp!”
“We gonna be out soon?” he said as he finished up the blunt and put it into his mouth to ignite it.
“How long is your brother on for?”
“He’s on till 12.”
“And when’s open bar?”
“11 to 12.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
“So, what if we get there at 12:30?”
“Then I guess we have to buy our beer and listen to shitty dance music.”
