Can we talk about something else? Can we talk about something else? The The Welcome to Dark Toe.

Dark Toe. When I was 14 I knew this older guy named Jeff I lived in a small apartment near my house. Jeff was 20 in a mystery. He dropped out of high school in grade 10 like a 1930s farm kid except there was no farm. Regardless, most everyone knew him as a pleasant enough guy, though weird and dumb I guess.

Jeff was big around 6-4 and had to be pushing 300 pounds.

He did odd jobs like mowed lawns and shoveled snow.

Word was that he collected some sort of disability.

If you needed to do some unraised drinking,

Jeff was your guy.

Cigarettes?

It cost you a few smokes, but Jeff would do it no problem.

He'd even have weed on occasion.

All the kids knew Jeff.

Jeff was cool.

I had a group of friends with which I'd spend my days hanging around a local convenience store, trying to get weed or smokes or booze to pass the time.

It seemed to be all that we talked about. We were bored. We wanted to get fucked up constantly.

Usually what we do is pile together our little coins and try to get enough for a pack of smokes or a gram of pot to split between about eight people.

I live further away from the store than most of my friends. They all lived in houses that sat on courts that could be accessed by a nearby park. I live closer to the downtown portion of town, over a hill and past Jeff's apartment.

About a 10 minute ride in my questionable 10 speed.

Word had hit her group that Jeff had some weed.

Since I was the only one with a bike that day, I was nominated to ask him if we could pick up.

Everybody handed over their tunies and loonies, about 20 bucks worth, and I dropped them into my oversized homie pants.

They were a dark pastel blue with VCR sized pockets on the back.

I had to tuck the bottoms into my socks to avoid getting a ganked up in the bike chain.

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