was six o'clock in the morning, Friday. I did not know what to do with Josh sprawled on the couch and a minefield of cigarette butts instead of the floor.
I often wished that someone had come looking for me. Chess ... my parents or my sister.
They did not like, neither I nor Josh. We considered only the toxic waste of the company, misfits, a plaque in the system inflexible.
Yeah, that shit for the system which was worth so much worth living. It 's true. Everyone says not care, they say that just the minimum to get by. We know that is bullshit, but we pretend not to understand. Josh
To fake it is not complicated: the coca actually devoured the neurons to the point where it made an underwater plant.
lived with another type, who had moved here from San Francisco to Portland. His name was Trip. Yes, as travel Trip that was. It was also published by Yale, with praise coming from a wealthy family with a subspecies of the yacht.
"Why, what are you doing here, brother?" San Francisco is ...!" I told him, but he had not responded.
Only now I understand that, after all, none of us is 'something' here in Portland, Oregon.
It 's a vicious cycle of boredom, hitchhiking and evictions.
At least for us, we live in this way, without a real home.
Every day she left the room with a newspaper (taken from somewhere) in his hand and muttered, "You must seek a new roommate. I moved to Chicago."
one month now had never packed.
But the worst days, after those in which the owner threatened us with the door waving his stubby hands sweaty, were those of abstinence.
Nobody understands it. No one knows what it's doing cocaine for five years and find that you no longer have money to buy it. And then you start to sell because it is the only contact you have with the drug: you get the good bags and sell the flour, gypsum, cement ... what you find.
Josh, before we met (at the concert by Sonic Youth), was in jail for a long time '.
Now is affixed with the law, as far as I know. The fact is that not much is said, me and him.
that day that gave us an appointment to test the car he wanted to sell us a used Mustang '76. Eleven thousand bucks, too much about me.
If Josh wanted the Mustang, the Mustang would be our four wheels. We had that money from, we had earned honestly. The year before I had even looked for a job at fast food restaurants, Johnny Rockets (the original hamburger, hooray). The pay was low for 8 hours a day, but I had other things to do. At least no better.
"Josh, come on! Josh you gotta wake up! No, not Trip"
"What ... what are you doing? Stupid hippies, those are my socks"
"What the hell are you talking about? Hello! The Mustang, eleven thousand dollars ... hello! " We were then
sling guide. The owner was very proprietariesco. After having launched
anxious glances told him that we would scrap the Treaty in a respectful manner. However
that old Elvis Presley went on to mutter "Cash, cash ...!"
"Where to now?" Josh asked, keeping his hands firmly on the steering wheel.
And as the sun was shining on Portland, because our life was hanging by a thread, that morning of Friday, take Route 30 towards the infinite.
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