A True Story.

A True Story



            I was hanging out with a friend of mine who was (and probably still is) homeless and who smoked (and probably still does) a lot of weed.



            At first, I had romanticised him, calling him, somewhat pretentiously, an ‘aristocratic bum’, to which he had to take a moment to think and discern that it was a complement.

            ‘Thanks, bro.’



            I then told him about the computer game I had been designing the first time I saw him that semester.

            ‘Bro, no offence, but I think you waste a lot of time with things that you could be using more constructively.’



            My companion ultimately disappointed me, however, which is a turn of events that I always admit with embarassment. I tried reading my most confessional poetry to him, towards which he replied, at one point, ‘Bro, I appreciate your taste in poetry, but I just want to smoke weed and watch South Park.’



            At around 1 o’clock in the morning, we got into an argument because I wanted another swig from his water bottle, which I needed only for a few seconds so that I could fill it up at the water faucett he had shown me, a few yards from where he was lying.

            He, however, was upset that I wouldn’t go out to 7-eleven to get him a lighter, and insisted that he could not ‘nurture my dependency’.

            Somehow, I ultimately talked him into letting me have the damn container. I think that I pointed out that he was doing the kind of thing that the Ruling Elite would do. That clicked something into place in his brain.



            At around 2 o’clock in the morning, he requested that I sneak onto the Palomar College campus so as to retrivee some wire cutters that he had left there whilst fully living up to the title of the crime ‘Illegal Camping’.

            He had a whole plan laid out for this. He showed it to me on a bird’s-eye-view satellite map on his phone.

            He had a good deal of zeal in orchestrating this heist, as you can imagine.

            Well, around the time that I made it to my designated point of entry, located conveniently under a street light, a police car passed me by, and I was like, ‘screw this.’

            I walked off, past my companion’s hiding place, and waited for the 4:40 train on San Marcos plaza. Of the few people whom I saw there, no one said anything to me.

            At around 3 o’clock A.M., I made the mistake of falling asleep at one of the tables outside the Pat and Oscar’s.

            Twenty minutes later, I woke up, and I was Freezing.



            I told myself, ‘screw you and your weed, ---- (the name of my acquaintence)’ and proceeded to withdraw from my back pack a pen and note book.

            I began to write a poem addressed to my crush.

            Practically the moment that I set the pen to the paper, two things happened: Time disappeared Entirely as an entity, and I felt a Gush of warm blood from my heart permeate my entire being.



            I got into that train thrilled.





            The next time I saw my companion, he held little against me for flaking out on him, although he preferred that I do not mention it.

            I asked him if he would like to hear a poem.

            ‘No, thanks, bro,’ he said quickly and definitely.

            I then began to tell him about what happened to me that night. He tried to hush me up and cut me off, as though he had an appointment he just remembered.
            I persisted. I told him about the poem that I wrote, and how it affected me. He paused, staring analytically and ponderously into space, and then said, ‘that’s pretty trippy, dude.’

dm.A.A.