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Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three
Glossary of Drugs, Drug Terms, and Slang
The seed of death grows slowly within me. Painlessly, whispering to me in tiny, choking breaths.
I'm not listening.
All I want to do is get high.
Shoving the glass nasal dropper up my nose I take a hit, inhaling the sweet brown, sticky resin that I scooped out of my pipe with a tangled wire once so carefully machine- designed into a perfect oval. A paper clip. I feel a sharp pain shoot up my nose as I inhale the chiva residue and feel the black tar of the poppy plant hitting the pulsating veins inside my nostrils. The rush of the heroin slams into my brain and amps through my veins with intensity, filling me up with a burst of power before I toss away the abused paper clip with regret, wishing I wasn't crouched in the grass behind a tree, wishing I had more than back-door residue to feed my head, wishing I didn't have to take a leak. I need a bigger rush. Tweek. Crystal meth. I gotta feel alive, move fast. Mash out.
First I gotta piss.
I unzip my pants and let the pent-up pressure go, hitting the side of the tree like liquid lightning. I panic when I hear sirens blasting and rubber screeching.
They've found me. I crouch down, cover my head, try to hide, but it's no use.
Light. White, glaring. Moonlight so strong it seems to crack open the cold ground as it hits the earth around me, marking me. When I look up I see only the belly of a giant mechanical fly pushing down on me, its whirring blades whipping through the night sky. A police chopper. A different kind of rush strikes me, whipping at my heels.
Fear.
I run, heart pumping wildly, amping, pulse racing, chest screaming with pain. It's no use. I can't escape the lasso, the cord of light encircling me in its grasp. It follows me everywhere.
I kick into high gear, feeling the sting of the spotlight branding me as the helicopter holds steady in mid-air, already booking me in its computer brain. I can see myself prone on the ground, then handcuffed against the wall and spread-eagled over the hood of a police car. No way. I'm too cool for that. Man, I work at being cool and now I feel like I can fly. Like a balloon my bod seems to take flight, my white-boy feet flying over the ground in my Air Jordan shoes. No one can catch me.
I know the moves. Feel the rush. Snap, crackle, pop.
The game is on.
Somewhere in the distance I hear the barking of the canine unit, their chubby, flat- footed paws hitting the soft mounds of earth. A bug crawls down my legs. Whattup? I'm all lit up from that last hit, but this is totally freaking me out. I remember another night on the run surrounded by Five-Os. Cops. Big ones, short ones. All with the same smile that looks good on the tube, like in Miami Vice re-runs. A smile that is really a sneer when you're 3-D with a cop-in-your-face. I remember the silky, wet pink tongue of the police dog, his nose sniffing me everywhere. I woulda been a goner that night if it hadn't been for Pauly. He grabbed the feed bag outta my hand and threw it away. A plastic pouch of herb with less than a dime left, a sixteenth ounce of marijuana. Pauly saved me then, but now the perfume of my drug habit clings to me like a chick's scent. If I'm caught tonight there's no escape from landing in the grey bar hotel.
I smile. No way. I'm not going to get caught, no matter what. I've got back-up. Where is Geo? I told that foolio to wait for me. Pauly never would have left me. He was my best bud, a bro to the end. Like me, he came from a divorced home. We would often rap about our feelings: How we were caught up in a world without hope or security or identity. The age of confusion, we called it. Pauly and me, we figured it out. We weren't into all that lame stuff 'bout Q.T. with our parents. They got the quality time, we agreed. Got married, got promoted, bought a BMW or a Lexus, got divorced. We got crap.
We often talked 'bout how we were dealing with a more uncertain and unfriendly world than our 'rents. Talked 'bout it many nights when we were surfing under a black moon. Nights filled with krippies, blue acid, brown bombers, and beer. Staying up until daybreak, talking 'bout how we were going to face the future together. But it ain't never gonna happen.
Pauly is dead.
Cocaine and whiskey don't mix, I told him. 'Specially when you add that cheap heroin the Mexican dealers push on you. A Belushi, we call it. I told him to wait for a good lick. Better drugs. But you couldn't tell Pauly anything, not when he was aching to hitch up the reindeer. Cocaine was his drug of choice. He did one line, then another and another.
His last.
I strain my ears for the sound of Geo's sleek black Camaro, but it's not happening. Where is he? I said I'd only be a couple of secs. Two six-packs of beer ain't much and I would have had them in my hand and bailed if that Korean store clerk hadn't been so curious. My buds and I usually pimp for beer. You know, ask someone getting Miller in the liquor store to buy it for us. Tonight was diff. Tonight I tried out my fake I.D. So what if I don't look like the photo? I said. Like, why was I surprised when the clerk looked too close at my picture? It was the best I could get from the Mexican veterano with the thick mustache who sold it to me. Go figure.
I can't think about that now. Pain hits my chest, a heaviness that cuts deep, but my legs keep running, dancing, hip-hopping under the bright light from the chopper overhead. I hear the bullhorn and the big-man in the sky warning me to stop. I can't. Won't. Look, man, I didn't cop the lousy beer. I left it on the counter when I saw the clerk pick up the phone and give me that "you -- stupid -- kid" look. I know better. Stealing is for dummies who think they won't get caught and end up boxed in behind concrete walls. Not me. I'm too smart. So back off. Chill out. Later, dude. Gotta go.
I feel a chill cut through me. A cold, sweaty tremor. The kind you get when you're cruisin' through a bummer trip. Whattup? I haven't done boomers for awhile. No acid or blue moons either. So why am I shaking? Can't be the drugs. Drugs don't interfere with my life. Man, they make it better. Aren't I graduating from Marin High School this year with honors as a distinguished scholar?
I shiver, my teeth rattling like loaded dice. I can't shake this fearsome wind blowing right through me. It's always cool here at night along the Southern California coast, but this feels diff. I feel a strong ocean breeze blowing in from the west. Where did it come from? The air was still a moment ago. I hear the rustling of the trees but I can't see through the white-dotted veil of light surrounding me, blinding me. The dirt whipping up into my face stings.
Lungs bursting. I can't keep running much longer. The piercing, snow-white light from the chopper follows me like a shadow. I can't shake it. I put my hands up to block out the light, but I can't see through the white haze. I've never felt a night so freaky, so heavy with movement. That's like, all weird, seeing how nothing ever happens up here. I've haunted these old, abandoned bunkers from a long-ago-war since I was a kid, kicking up rusty metal, corrugated siding, and empty shell casings, then tearing through the winding paths on my skateboard, taking the shortcut to the ocean less than a mile from here. How many times have I sat on the stoop of what was once a Quonset hut and charred herb?
Instinct made me run here tonight, down the amber-lighted street leading away from the strip mall through the tract of staccato-shaped houses not more than a few blocks from the expensive homes with ocean views in Sunset Harbour. Yeah, that's where I live. The Harbour, we call it. It's a cozy enclave where high school kids like me drive expensive hot cars, spend our allowance on beer, and keep our drug use on the D.L. Nothing bad ever happens here and our 'rents want to keep it that way. So we hang out around the bunkers, doing drips, and drinking beer --
Beep, beep. Someone hit me on the hip. My beeper. I gotta laugh. My mom got me an electronic leash last semester so she could spy on me. Cool. Little does she know it's an ultrafast, convenient way to communicate with my buds.
My pager display screen reads 187. One eight seven is the California Penal Code number for murder. Got to be Geo trying to warn me that someone is out to get me. I snicker, then turn off my beeper. I need him to tell me that my butt is about to get kicked?
Keep running. Running. Sweat drips onto my lips, but I can't taste the salt. Only the fear. Oh man, this is a bad scene. Any sec I'll be surrounded by an army of Don Johnsons from the Fx channel reaching out to snatch me, the silver butt of a police special pressed up against my head, playing Russian roulette with my brain.
"Get your hands up!" I hear. "This is your last warning."
I look up. It's that faceless jerk on the bullhorn again. I can't see him through the blinding spotlight holding me imprisoned but I can hear the shouts. The yells. I hear the squad cars pulling out their engines' guts, their sirens screaming with their red-and-blue lights flashing as they rip over the uneven dirt road, looking for me. The cruddy road is the only thing slowing them down, keeping them from finding me and slamming me to the ground, then slashing their anger out at me. They think they can alpha chimp me.
I laugh.
"I didn't take the beer," I shout. I'm cool. I'm not some dweeb from the wrong side of town. I'm a Harbour kid. I believe in God, do volunteer work, and pay taxes on my summer job.
I'll never get the chance to tell'em, though. I hear the scream of tires screeching to a halt all around me.
There's no way out.
I toss away the phony I.D. into the basket of air holding the night. Then I empty my pockets, kissing my favorite steamroller good-bye, my pipe worn and smooth where it hugs the familiar shape of my lips. I pray the cops shove me into the back seat of the patrol car before the dogs get me. My insides are rumbling violently, like I'm ate up. Wasted.
A sudden fury hits me then, right between the eyes, knocking me off my feet. A smack of wind as hard as a fist. I hit the ground, my hands shooting up to my head. I've never felt such a wind before, slashing across my face, tearing through my jacket. I expect to feel a hole in my face with blood gushing out of it, like a Pac-Man throwing up. But my face is smooth. I'm untouched.
But something awesome happened.
I'm free from the white light prison surrounding me. The night has become my friend again.
Showered in blackness, I look up and I'm surprised to see the chopper tossing about overhead like a sinking ship, its hull light wavering across the sky in a sketched- out pattern of white, ghostlike streakings. Like acid tracings. I figure a sudden updraft musta knocked the chopper off course, whipping its blades around in a frenzy. I hear the chopper buzzing and grumbling like a giant insect caught in a web. I'm not waiting around to see what happens next.
I run like hell, wrapping the night around me like a bat creature's cloak, hoping my escape isn't a short-lived high. I run through the maze of abandoned bunkers, my light airy legs flashing beneath me, my arms propelling me as I dodge tall trees overgrown with long branches. I can hear the sing-songing whir of the helicopter in the sky overhead but I don't stop when I see the chopper get back on course and its shooting starlight crash-lands around me, illuminating everything in front of me like blazing daylight. Man, it's awesome. I see trees, dirt. Gray buildings caught in its glare and -- and --
A choking sound rips from my throat, erupting from my gut. No. It can't be. Over there. Running through the trees, running ahead of me. Caught in the light for a sec. I thought I saw someone with surfer-brown hair, shorn uneven around his neck and -- damn, it looks like Pauly!
Yeah, Pauly. My closest bro. Running like a gangsta rapper in a torn T-shirt, ragged jeans, and bare feet. His face wide-eyed and laughing. Laughing? What's happening? Pauly is dead, man, OD'd seven months ago in his sleep, his heart stopped like a wound-down clock with a dead battery. His mom found him face-down in his bed. Blue, stiff, and cold. Two grams of coke were found near his body.
I remember he was barely in his grave, his friends torching up during the ceremony, nobody believing he was really dead, when the whispering started: How'd he OD? Like, when? What was he using?
Like most Harbour kids, there was a secret side to Pauly that his 'rents never knew about and nobody's gonna tell them. Why risk it? Every kid I know is a burner, smokes marijuana, and uses other drugs.
'Course, I don't have a drug prob. I can handle it.
I keep running, keeping him in my sights. It ain't ez. He's running totally fast. Then Pauly turns around and looks at me. I see him cock his head to the side as if to say, "Follow me."
I hesitate a sec, thinking I'm losin' it. Then I race off in that direction, still following Pauly, still covered in the night's embrace. When I reach the small ravine, I slow down, look around. He's gone. Disappeared. I curse my hazy brain for tricking me. Seeing Pauly was an hallucination, I tell myself. Who knows what crap I got in that last batch of crip. A bad go. Yeah, sure. That's it. A bad reaction to the drug.
I keep running, but the pile of dead, fallen trees forms a gauntlet to my freedom, trying to stop me. I shoot my head from side to side, knowing that I've never explored this area before, always been leery of snakes nesting here, but I have no choice if I want to escape.
The air at my back suddenly seems warmer, as if a humid breath has been expelled against the back of my neck...
Pauly.
"Where are you, Pauly?" I shoot my head around, looking for him, but I see nothing. Tricks. Nothing but tricks. The muscles in my arms and legs ache. It's a struggle to keep running.
"Over here, Dean."
I freeze. I'm going into a major panic mode. The dream demon knows my name. Is it Pauly? Yeah, it's him. I can't see him, but I can smell him. The sweet, fruity smell of bud clings to the air like a spider's droppings to a web.
"Pauly, is that you?"
"Go down to the ravine, bro. Down to the ravine -- "
I know his voice must be like, cruisin' inside my head, seducing me into a new prison, but I go for it. I've got no choice. If the cops find me, it's hasta la vista, baby.
I slide down the hill, scratching at the ground, trying to break my fall, breaking my nails, ripping my pants, until my butt hits something hard. I'm pushed on by the screech of the police bird of prey overhead, the cops closing in around me, their lights and voices searching for me. I can't give up.
Finally I feel the smooth touch of a latch fold into my palm, the splinters from the wooden door attacking my fingers. Pulling, pulling, pulling, then the latch gives way and I fling open what must be a cellar door in a leveled bunker. All I can see down there is a dark hole. I pull back. What if I'm trapped down there? Suffocated? Yeah, what if? The non-stop barking of the dogs filters through the other sounds of the night, telling me that I have no choice.
I ease myself down, down into the hole. My heart is pounding, amping. This is way scary, but I relax a little when I see a tunnel large enough for me to crawl through. I touch the sides of the wall and I feel the moistness of damp earth crumbling in my fingers like the krippies you cram into a bong to smoke. The ground feels smooth. No rocks. I'm goin' for it.
I get down on my hands and knees and start crawling through the tunnel. All I can hear is my own heavy breathing, keeping me company. It's dark in here, way dark, and freaky. After a few minutes, a soundless void hits the echo chambers of my ears with the peace I usually find with snow cones, when I toot the purest cocaine and inhale it straight to my brain. I want to stop, to rest, but I don't. I'm wiggin'. I've been running for what feels like hours and the hit I took is wearing off. I'm comin' down and it ain't Chuck- E-Cheese time. I've got to get home, unpack my stash, when --
-- an incredible shot of light hits me in the face, freezing me in an unnatural pose with my arms outstretched, my knee smashed into my groin. Where is that light coming from? The end of the tunnel? Yeah. Yeah. I can feel the fresh ocean breeze inviting itself inside. It's a curious breeze, giving me hope.
Slowly I crane my neck forward, fearful that when I poke my head outside I'll feel the hard slam of a cop's baton across the back of my head, the curse of his prayer shoved into my ears.
A shudder goes through me as I climb out of the tunnel. I sweat with relief.
No squad cars.
No megatall cops.
No chopper.
Only crunchy, sparkling sand waits for me on the other side.
I take a deep breath and walk out into the fresh air, the early-bird hand of the day high-fiving me. I look around. The beach is deserted. All I see is a lifeguard jeep patrol moving away from where I'm standing, rambling down the beach and scattering the pot- bellied, gray-white birds pecking the wet shore like billiard balls. I smile. Tight. The sharp light of the jeep's headlights passed me by, never knowing I was there.
I stand up tall, sucking in the salt and smell of the sea deep into my lungs. A new, pink dawn slices open the sky, welcoming me home.
I'm flying again. Keyed.
The night has given up the chase.
I win.
I pull her close to me and I almost freak when the thin silk strap on her long, white dress falls off her shoulder. Before I can do anything -- grab her anywhere, kiss her, whatever -- she starts nibbling on my earlobe. I moan as I feel her hot breath blowing in my ear, turning me on, but I can't see her pretty face or kiss her lips as a moving ocean of night crashes against the windshield of the limo, black and heartless, keeping me in the dark and totally frustrating me.
Bummer.
I want to know how much this chick is turned on, groovin' with the happ, before I tap some. I'm cruisin' in new territory, seeing how I've never gotten this close to her before tonight, but I figure that as long as I promise to feed her need and supply her with tweek, Katrina Buckingham is mine.
Well, almost. I'm not there yet.
She lets out a deep sigh, then shifts her bod on the soft, leather seat. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. This is it. My moment, man. I've got to make my move before she goes all postal on me. Fast and quick I'm holding her closer, rubbing her thigh, mumbling something about her being the most perfect female I have ever seen. She sighs again, reinforcing her modern woman-as-possessed-sex-kitten act that she plays with unrelenting vigor.
Man, I'm psyched on this chick with her crimped, blond hair, her honey-stained lips, and smokified eyes. She's got me tied to her love box with invisible strings. I'd do anything to make her like me, even ditch my buds in a nanosecond. 'Course, I'd never let her know that.
I sniff the air, smelling her scent mixed with weed. Sweet. We've been sharing a pipe, charring herb, taking deep drags and exhaling smoke at each other like two little kids blowing bubbles and getting high. I warble words of my desire into her ear and she giggles. I wet my lips with my tongue. I can almost taste her lips as the drug hits our brains, all intense-like. Nearly an OZ of the stuff, but it's not enough for her. Katrina wants something else. Something light and airy.
"Not yet," I tell her, sweating this chick, trying not to look like a lou, trying to get something going with her, but it ain't ez. We're not alone in the limo.
I feel uptight vibes as I hear Michelle and Geo going at it in the backseat behind us. Man, what a scene they're making. He wants her to char herb with him. She won't. He jams outta the limo, leaving the door hanging open. She tells him to take it down as an L. Take it as a loss. He calls her a ho. She calls him a biznoch. A loser.
I never would have agreed to double with them to the Sunset Harbour Deb Ball in the past, but I've been hanging with Geo 24/7 since Pauly died. And Geo's stoked on Michelle, but Michelle's got some kind of weird thing for me. But if you ask her, she'll tell you that is so not true.
Like, whatever, Michelle.
Anyway, tonight started out as a cool thing, getting wired and strung out on crank, beer, then getting in on some stretch action. We all convinced our parents that being chauffeured to the dance in a hundred-dollar-an-hour limo would keeps us safe and dry.
Yeah, right. The limo driver was more than accommodating to drive us out here to the beach after the dance so we could get high. He's got a bottle of aborts, that's vodka and wine mixed together, stashed under the front seat. He gave us some capfuls earlier mixed with Scoop and meth so we'd stay out later and rack up a higher bill. It's so unreal. The GHB hits your nervous system fast, sending you up the stairway to heaven and back down in a nose-dive before you can raise your foot to take the first step. It makes you feel so awesome.
I look over at my date and drool. But even the best designer drug can't compare to how I feel around Katrina. She's superfly. My fantasy chick. She's dressed all in white, long and tight. She looks like a love goddess. I've been thinking 'bout messing around with her in the back of the limo since we picked her up from the front driveway of her house. She's always been a babe, but she has turned into one fine woman now. A guy magnet. Always in control, always the center of attention and part of the wonderful people, she's a supermodel clone who redefines cool with her bad-girl dark roots and finger-splotched eyeshadow ringing her eyes. She's not like most girls, though, who want guys to say they love them three hundred times a day or be together 24/7. She cares only about getting blasted. Like me. I smile. She's awesome.
"I'm cold, Dean," Katrina says, all innocent-like. "I need it, 'k?"
I gotta laugh. Can you believe? She's in her own little universe and never pays any attention to anything going on around her unless it is her. I doubt she's even clued in that Michelle is sitting behind us, alone. Hanging onto every word she says. And do I groove on the way Katrina uptalks, ending her sentences like questions.
"You mean now, Kat?" I ask her.
With Michelle watching?
"Yes, Dean, now..." she whispers, all breathy-like.
I take a big breath, get my happening on. I'm diggin' it. There's more behind her loopy tones than uptalk. She wants me. I know it. Am I ready, 'specially since I've been sweating and sliding since the other night when I nearly got nailed by the local cops. I decided to lay low for a few days after that, skipping class, making sure Geo wouldn't open his big mouth about what happened that night and tell everyone. I don't want to look like a lou in front of the guys. Right?
And can you believe I'm back at that same spot on the beach
where I almost got busted? Yeah, where the secret tunnel from the old, abandoned bunker opens into the side of the cliff near the Mesa Chica wetlands and the Sunset Beach surf lives up to its rep. I don't know why I told the driver to come here. I musta gone loony tunes. I'm chillin' now, remembering how I felt that night with my back to the wall when I saw Pauly, heard him. As if. I musta been so booted on blanks that night that I took a killer ride to a place where no one has ever been before.
I look over at Katrina, looking so fine. Chasing after a ghost isn't on my mind now. Not when I have so cool a chick cruisin' in my orbit. As I lean over toward her, I hear a shuffling sound coming from the seat behind us. It's Michelle. I forgot about her.
I clear my throat, turn around, and stare straight at her. Give her my famous half- smile. Like, go blow, my eyes tell her. Michelle gives me this skanky look as if to say, "Do you think?" Like I'm zig zagging or something. I gotta give her credit, though, she's not totally clueless. She shakes her head in disapproval, then gathers up her pink frilly skirt and bails, taking her weirded out look with her.
And the limo driver? No prob. He's taking in some Zzzs in the front seat, trippin' out to his own private CD sounds.
"I'm ready, Dean," Katrina says, turning me on with her sexy uptones. "Are you?"
She takes a deep breath, holds out her arms, palms up, the tips of her long, lavender nails flashing in the dark like tongue-licked dabs of hard candy.
"You want me to tie you up or something?" I ask, snickering. I never knew she was into that kind of stuff. Freaky.
She giggles. "Then how could I do it?"
"You don't have to do anything. I do all the work."
"Don't be a total dork, Dean Summers. You know what I need -- what I've got to have." She's angry with me now. I know that nervous stutter, that dizzy pattern of speech betraying her insecurity. She's coming down from the bomber she smoked earlier.
"Hold on, Katrina," I say, sweating it. "I'll give you whatever you need -- "
She puts me in a funk when she says, "I want some tweek, Dean. Like, the pink stuff? Strawberry?"
So that's it. She doesn't want me. She wants more drugs. I feel a wall. I want to smash it, rip apart anything in my way. This is lame. My heart is racing, but it's not from the drugs. I know what the deal is. Katrina's teasing me. Pretending that she's into me when all she really wants from me is tweek. I shoulda known.
I try to smile, try not to sweat it. We'll get it on after she jags, keeps her high going, I tell myself, so why not tweak with her first? I pull out a small vial, silver and bullet-sized, heavy in my palm, and pour out a small amount of strawberry tweek into my hand. I smile. With crystal meth we can mess around all night. A real bender.
The limo is filled with the steady sound of sniffing for several long minutes. Quick, short snorts. I'm stoked just watching her in action. Even the way Katrina tweaks is diff from other chicks: She sniffs it right off the tips of her long nails. Me, I do it right off the back of my hand. Always have. Since junior high.
Minutes later, she's still sniffing. Me, I'm coasting, keeping my eyes on this babe, waitin', wantin' her. What's she doin'? How long does it take her to get it on?
Frustrated, I open a window, breathe in some fresh air. It doesn't do any good. The boom-boom rap sounds coming out of the limo CD player are jeebin' with my brain, messin' with my head. I gotta do something, anything while I wait for this chick, so I take a hit from a miniature tank of nitrous oxide. Then another. And another. Three, maybe four minutes, then I'm cool again, tuning into the sound of the sea. I close my eyes. I can hear the surf raping the beach with intensity, swallowing up the sand with orgasmic frenzy. It turns me on. Sometimes I get high just listening to the ocean breathe.
I open my eyes and look over at Katrina. She's breathing heavy, her heart is amping, but she's in her own world. She doesn't even know that I'm sitting here, next to her. This is getting weird, weirder yet when I touch her cheek and wipe drops of sweat off her pretty face with my fingertips. She grabs my wrist, sputtering out her need in choppy bursts of syllables. Gone is her uptalk 'tude. I can see that she's hurtin'. I'm not diggin' this. She doesn't look like a chick ready to enter a chemical paradise.
"I need more, Dean," she says. "More."
"Chill, woman. I've got all that you need."
Something tells me not to do it, that it's a loser move on my part, but I don't listen. I lay down more tweek, adding white crystal meth to the pink. A strawberry swirl. She sniffs it up in one greedy snort, then she lays her head back on the seat, breathing like a puppy in heat. She's on a jag finally, but it sure took her long enough. Man, this is clouding my brain. It used to take only a small amount of tweek to get her coasting. Katrina is a Scooby-doo -- she uses tweek to keep her weight down instead of throwing up her food like a lot of chicks do.
I shake my head. This is getting expensive. I'll have to dip into my college savings to keep this chick happy. Get my connect, Bruce, to cut me some slack.
Hang a sec while I tell you 'bout Bruce. He's not a zoomer like some dealers I know who sell fake crack or other drugs, then bail. He's cool. He's a senior like me and on the surf team at Marin High. A dealer, you ask? Hey, I gotta get my drugs from somebody. I can trust him.
I'm cruisin' now, seeing how Katrina is all turned on. I move closer to her, hold her around the waist, feel her tremble. I brush her lips with my mouth and I can taste the strawberry-mango flavored lip jell that she uses. She's peaking. I'm in a sweat over this chick. I can't wait any longer.
I reach over to pull her close to me, pucker up to kiss her, when suddenly I feel a brutal chill mainline through me and totally evaporate my energy into melting microcubes. I'm shaking, like ice is oozing down my back in a slow crawl. I feel my forehead. It's blazing hot and my stomach is turning cartwheels, like a cosmic explosion is busting through me.
What is it? I know.
I'm going to vomit.
I jump out of the limo. Not a sec too soon. Before I can take another breath, I get all sweaty. Totally, like how you get during class when you've been staring at the teacher's perfect bod all period and she catches on and assigns you extra homework. I bend over and let'er rip, my stomach steamrolling over and over as I chuck up my insides all over the ground. This wouldn't have happened if I hadn't gotten a heart on -- too much N2 O -- waiting to bond with this chick. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve, trying to get the sucky taste off my lips.
"Get any, Dean?"
Who said that?
I whip my head around. That icy feeling drizzling down my spine just got colder. I know somebody's there. I can feel'em in my bones even if I can't see'em, seeing how the night is dark, like someone cut out the moon from the cardboard sky and tossed it away.
"Cut the wise-ass stuff," I say in a loud voice, trying to sound tuff. "Who's out there?"
"Don't you know me, bro?" I hear. The voice sounds freaky, disguised, like someone's trying to piss me off. Is it Geo? I wonder a sec, then toss out that idea. Nah, he's too wasted to play dumb tricks like that on me. Who, then?
I listen, straining my ears, trying to shake out the weird things going on in my head. A creepy, crawly feeling is pushing my sanity button, making me think things that can't be happening. Then I hear laughter and the sound of rocks crunching under running feet. Whoever it is, I can hear him racing down the cliff, running toward the beach, down to the sand.
So what do I do? Run after him and beat the crap outta him? Nah, I stand there, holding my stomach, wishing there was more garbage in my guts so I could throw up again 'cause what I heard, at least, what I think I heard, ain't sitting right with me. You see, when I get my brain on and I hear the voice again in my mind, I weird out. I know who it was.
"Don't you know me, bro?" he said, taunting me, teasing my cool exterior with words that poke at my insides like a hot load.
Yeah, I know you, I answer back in my head, knowing that if it is him, he can read my mind.
It's Pauly.
C'mon, my supercool head jives with me, this ain't happening. You're wasted, man, your whole bod is mucked up. What with Kat messin' with your head and all that garbage you've ingested tonight, you're spun.
I swallow hard, wondering where my head is. Sure, I heard Pauly, but only in my mind. That's not so weird. When he OD'd I stressed about it, but I couldn't unload my feelings on anyone. I was mad at Pauly for dying, for committing a serious screw-up. I didn't understand it, didn't know why I was feelin' what I did. Then I cried. I'd never admit to anyone that I did. No way.
My cool head forgot one thing, though. Forgot that I'm a guy who shoots off his mouth about everything, but would give anything to be accepted for who he is, especially with chicks like Katrina. Forgot that I'm still a guy who lost his best bud.
And that is why, so totally why, I run after him, scaling down the cliff twenty, maybe thirty feet. I want to see if it is Pauly, the only guy who hung with me no matter what.
I hear the dirt crumbling beneath my shoes, feel a sharp rock tag my pants leg. I can't see in the dark but I keep going. I'll bust my butt if I miss a step, but I know these cliffs. This point is one of the best surfing spots along the coast, where the waves break perfect, great rights, glassy all day.
"Where are you, Pauly?" I call out, getting to the bottom of the cliff, looking around, knowing I must be looped to think I'll get an answer.
I do.
"I'm over here, Dean."
I look out and I don't believe it. I see Pauly wading in the surf, the evening ocean crests glistening around his bare ankles like liquid LSD, all sparkling and twinkling. I look up at the moon, curious moon, providing a light for the occasion as it eavesdrops on us. Then I drag my sightballs back to Pauly.
"Good to see you, bro," he says, high-fiving me.
Without stopping to think how totally weird this is, I raise up my hand to meet his palm but my hand goes right through his. I shake the tweek outta my nose. What did I expect? Protoplasmic bonding?
"Whattup, Pauly?" I say, breathing a little slower. That was easy. Talking to him, I mean.
"Whattup, Dean?"
"Where have you been, Pauly?" I ask him, even if I don't believe this is happening.
"Hell, Dean."
His voice is hard and he never cracks a smile, like he's glad to see me. That bums me out.
"Yeah, sure," I answer stupidly, wondering if this is some new tuff guy image Pauly's laying on me. Hell, he said, like I'm gonna believe him. Man, can you believe this crap coming from a guy who used to obsess over popping his zits? I shake my head loose, trying not to freak. I don't get it. We used to crack up just looking at each other. Why is he acting so serious-like?
"You know, Dean, I used to totally dig coming down here just before dawn and hitting a few waves before school," he says, all sad-like. "Now it's all over."
Pauly turns and looks out at the ocean, staring hard into that beautiful, moving swirl that was our heaven when the surf was up. I shake my head, workin' up a sweat over this convo. Big-time.
"If you're trying to make me feel bad, Pauly, it ain't workin'," I toss back at him. "I'm not buying into this happ. So quit it, will you?"
My throat tightens even before I get the last word outta my mouth. I gotta keep denying what I'm seeing is real. Blame it on a bad go, I tell myself, 'cause if it ain't, then I'm in more trouble than I thought. This kind of weird stuff only happens to other people. Not me. Sure, I use drugs. Haveta. It's a way of life in the Harbour if you want to fit in. What other way is there for a kid like me who's never been smart enough or cool
enough?
I shift my weight back and forth on my feet, trying to forget that I'm sinking in wet sand. This weird convo is going nowhere, I decide, turning away from him. Maybe if I ignore him, this screwed-up version of the X-Files will go back to where he came from.
Yeah, right.
"You can't surf in hell, Dean," Pauly says, calling after me. "You can't char herb, blow snow. Man, you can't do nothing."
"C'mon, Pauly, lighten up," I throw back at him. "You're just trying to scare me 'cause I inhaled too much nitrate. Well, it won't work. I'm not listening to you," I finish, making my stand, thinking I'm the biggest jerk this side of the planet for going along with this happ. Then I take a deep breath, ready to continue my speech when I hear a sound close-by, like somebody running away. I shoot around. I don't see anybody. I shrug it off, laugh to myself. Man, I must be zoning out, standing here, believin' that I'm rapping with a ghost.
Then another thought hits my all-star brain. What if the impossible is true? What if there is a way to bond with the universe so you can cross over to the other side? Like if you're really tuned in, totally 'n sync with yourself, that your hurtin' for certin' pain can bring back the most important thing in your life?
Bring back Pauly?
"Listen, Pauly, I'm not buying your weird story about hell and all, but I believe you're here, rapping with me," I say, my heart racing so fast that it feels like it's going to jump out of my chest. I walk toward him. He's standing on the sleek, shiny shore where the waves lay down their seductive magic carpet ride, pulling me in. I stop. My heart's amping. I'm peaking.
"Cool, Dean. Because it's way important that you do."
I say without thinking, "I miss you, bro."
"I miss you, too," he says, hitting me hard in the gut with a feeling of pain I've haven't felt since he died, then he lets go with a funny speech, like he's rehearsed it a zillion times and he has to say it. "Believe me, Dean, it is hell, walking the beaches, checking out the waves 4-Ever, never stopping, never resting."
So I ask this next Q, knowing it sounds dumb, but I ask it anyway. "Why, Pauly? Why are you here?"
"It's my destiny, man. I got busted for my sins."
"What sins?" I shout back, ready to defend my bud. "You OD'd, man. It wasn't your fault."
"It was my fault, Dean. We make our own choices. I chose to get blasted, slam crank, burn chronic. It was a major bummer trip."
"Listen, Pauly, be straight with me," I say. "Why'd you come back?"
"Simple, bro. When I saw you the other night running and scared outta your mind, knowing you were gonna get busted, I couldn't let it happen. I had to connect with you, let you know what it's like if you keep using drugs, 'cause you still have a chance to change."
"Whaddaya mean, I have a chance?" I yell, letting my anger uproot itself in my chilled-out brain. I shoulda known. This isn't Pauly. It's some deep-seeded subconscious garbage in my brain talking to me. Like when you're about to run a red light or push too hard with a chick.
I'm bailin'.
Cold water splashes around my ankles as I wade through the surf, the waves lapping around my shoes as a deeper chill inches up behind my eyeballs. I've gone loony tunes, over the edge. Like the time Pauly and I did candy flips. One hit of Ecstasy with three hits of LSD. We finished it off with crack coolers and were buzzed for a week afterward. I'm not so lucky this time. Now I've got a ghost giving me major agro. I've got to get outta here, put this nightmare into my back pocket and sleep it off.
Pauly won't let me.
"I came back to warn you, Dean," I hear him calling out to me. He sounds desperate. I almost expect to feel a clammy hand on my shoulder.
"Warn me?" I call back to him, shooting around and challenging him with: "What kind of cheap cess are you laying on me, Pauly?"
"You're next, bro."
I laugh nervously. "Ah, c'mon, Pauly. Cut me some slack. Nothing's gonna happen to me. I keep my drug use on the D.L."
"Don't blow me off, Dean," he says quietly. "I know about these things."
"How do you know?" I'm deep freaked.
"It's part of the deal, Dean."
"Deal? What deal?"
"The deal you make when you sell your soul. When you use, man."
He shoots me a look that says he's feelin' something I can't feel. But I can see it in his eyes and it scares me.
"C'mon, Pauly, give."
"We all pay in different ways, Dean. I messed with alcohol and coke and my brain scrambled and I couldn't breathe. Airgo, it was over. That quick." He stops and I swear I hear him breathing. That's impossible. Ghosts don't breathe. It must be the ocean I hear. "Yours won't be so quick, Dean," he says quietly. "You'll find out."
I lose it then, tell him what I think. "Up in da grill, Pauly. Nothing's buggin' me."
"Remember what I said, Dean," Pauly says, walking out to sea, the waves smashing through his translucent form. It's a hella freaky scene, but I can't take my eyes off him.
"Nothing's going to happen to me," I yell out at him, shaking my fist, "get it, dude?"
I feel a familiar shiver wiggle up and down my spine, scaring me bad, like when I was a dumb kid watching alien goo monsters at a Saturday matinee and stuffing my mouth with popcorn. I watch as Pauly keeps walking, walking, unstopped by the powerful force of the ocean. Man, I swear, he looks like he's floating on air.
Then he turns around and I hear Pauly call out to me, "Later, bro."
"Pauly, wait..." I yell, suddenly needing him to stay, talk this out. "I believe you, man. Just don't leave me, okay?"
But I know it ain't gonna happen. He disappears quickly, like frothy foam, and my words are lost in a roar, the power of the ocean grinding out the waves in a synchronized show of power, daring me to disbelieve what I saw.
I did see Pauly, I tell myself. I know I did. And I've never felt such a brain drain, like blowing up and taking one bong hit after another until I'm burned.
This sucks, man. I've just seen a ghost, my best friend's ghost. And he bailed on me. I feel like a gutter junkie. Stoned, wet, and scared. His words continue to taunt me, ribbing me in my brain, speeding it up and racing through my skull like a hundred motor engines revving up all at once. Your turn is next,
he said. My turn? What's he jabbering about?
I can't think clearly. I'm amped out, strung out to the max, and I must be permafried to believe what just happened, but I do. And I'm scared. Totally scared. Deep down inside I always knew that one day Pauly would go too far with his drugs. It was only a question of when. But Pauly's death wasn't my fault, I'm telling you, I tried to warn him --
Bang-o!
It hits me. Hard. I tried to warn him like he's warning me. No way, I don't believe it. I'm not gonna die. It's a total nonreality I'm not buying into. Can't. Won't. So forget it. But what if what I saw was for real?
What if?
"Who were you talking to, Dean?"
I spin around, my heart beating outside my chest. Who said that? I calm down a little when I see Michelle standing on the sand, holding her pink pumps in her hand. She's shaking, her face all shiny and sweaty, her lower lip trembling. She looks like she's just seen a ghost.
Did she?
Did she see Pauly?
"Nobody, Michelle."
"Yes, you were. I heard you. You called him Pauly." A nanosec of silence, then she says real quiet-like, "Pauly's dead, Dean."
"Yeah, sure, Michelle, Pauly's dead," I answer, then I give her some lame excuse 'bout getting sick on nitrates and she kinda buys it. I think. Anyway, she keeps her mouth shut as we take the long way up the stairs back up the cliff. I'm grateful for her silence. This is one time I'm glad it was Michelle who found me and not Katrina. Michelle is the kind of chick who's there when you don't want her to be, but sometimes you do. Like now.
When we get back to the limo the driver is going ballistic, yelling that he's taking us at home at once. Geo is sulking in the back seat, and Katrina's passed out, her beautiful bod curled up in the corner of the limo. Not even a strawberry crystal dot left. I don't care. She's not on my mind now. It's Pauly that I'm obsessin' over. His words hit me hard.
You're next, bro, he said.
Sure, as if I believe him.
I don't.
Do I?
7:30 a.m. Dawn patrol. Surf's up.
I stand on the sand with my surfboard tucked under my arm and check out the waves. It's a ritual I do every morning, but today it's way important. Our surf team is aching to go to the state championships and if we win today, we're in.
Dark clouds, curling and twisting in the sky above me like bong smoke, cast a gray shadow over the beach. Everything I see is shaded in gray. The dudes in wetsuits, hanging onto their surfboards as if it's an extra hand or leg. The faceless judges, breathing in the fumes of hot coffee in Styrofoam cups. Even the waves are gray this morning, the smooth, jade color of the ocean swallowed up by the moving, colorless sands sifting underneath the crests. Like a sea monster, slithering slowly on its belly. Not me. I feel pumped, ready for some wave action. I connect with the ocean. Always have.
"You going out, Dean?" I hear someone ask me.
I keep my eyes on the ocean, concentrating hard. "Got to. I have one wave left."
"Go out there and charge it, bro," Chet says, slapping me on the back for luck. I turn around and smile at him. That was cool of him to say that. Chet is one of the best surfers on the Marin High School surf team, but he had screwed-up luck this morning and wiped out in the heat. We both know it's up to me to pull this off for our team.
I suck in the salt air, then check the direction of the wind. Offshore. A storm is coming and the waves are rolling in continuously with no lull between sets. I'm totally psyched. A south swell is coming in, whipping up the swirls in a spin. The surf is breaking overhead and holding, up to ten to twelve feet. Totally wicked. I grin big. I gotta shred.
I turn and see the guys on the other team packing up their boards and loading them into their cars. Contest or no contest, they're all saying that only a porpoise would go out. Screw them and call me Flipper, 'cause I'm going out. Why? you're askin'. Coz I need to be cool, prove that I'm somebody. Slashing and ripping over the waves, I am cool. I can already see myself jetting off to the state championships and winning that trophy. Yeah, if I pull this off, I could get a shot at competing in a professional contest this summer. The trophies are cool, but the chickies hanging all over you make it cooler yet. I can already see Katrina draping her gorgeous bod all over me. Tight.
I ignore the warning bell ringing in my head, telling me that a dude can get totally worked out there. I ain't listening. I want to win this contest for my team. But mostly for Pauly. He woulda been here with me if he hadn't OD'd. Yeah. A frosty chill comes over me. I ignore it. Whatever I saw the other night, whether it was Pauly or not, he was my best bro and this is for him. We often went out when the beach was blackballed, shooting the pier at night and surfing under a black moon when the ocean is cold and uncivilized. It fills your head with a buzz. The sounds, the smell, the dark color of the water moving around you -- they all send you cruisin' into your own zone of non-being. A serenity that you can't believe. It's like, my soul. Whoa, that reminds me. What Pauly said about selling your soul if you use. Freaky. I shrug, 'cause I don't believe it. Can't.
I blow it off.
I look around and see my surf buds hanging, waiting to see what I'm gonna do. You're judged on your three best waves. Everybody knows that whoever takes this last sucker in can win. I'm stoked. I see my coach talking to the judges, pointing at me and nodding his head up and down. I don't have to hear what they're saying to know what's buggin' him. He's freaking out 'cause I bet the judges want to postpone the contest until the surf isn't overhead. Can you believe they've got this lame rule about our safety and all? Screw that.
Ignoring the coach calling my name, I begin paddling out in six to eight feet, feeling the rush of surf in my ears. The wave is alive, pushing me on. It's like I can hear the ocean breathe.
Holding onto my board tighter, knowing what's at stake, I see a slight rising in the horizon in an uneven line. Tight. Swells are coming, one after another. Man, this is epic surf. Good, hollow waves. Tasty waves that can drill you into the bottom. Smokin'. There's no turning back.
As the incoming swell lifts my board up in the air, I crane my neck to take a fast look to see what's coming. The wave looks good. Big. I blow off any fear in me, although I know waves this size can go from really deep to shallow megafast with sudden drops. I can't let that stop me. I wipe the spray outta my eyes. I decide to go for it.
Scrambling to my feet, I make my start, and turn. I catch the wave before it peaks up and spills over, and before you can say stokabaka, I'm shredding, zipping through the water fast and smooth. I've always believed that surfing is a high, a mystical sport with a distinct rhythm to the swell. Each wave has a personality all its own, like you're groovin' with the universe in a cool music video and it's never the same song.
I totally dig this feeling. There's something awesome about ripping through the water, going fast at the mercy of the ocean. Surfing is about endurance and will, as if the wave represents my life and is trying to swallow me up. Yet I feel like I'm in control.
I haveta admit, though, paddling hard into the maw of a big wave is no easy score and the grind of big waves wears on you. That's why I pumped myself up earlier and smoked a godfather -- marijuana laced with cocaine -- then sported the sweet stuff by doing lines before heading out to the beach this morning. Hey, everybody uses. Keeps you alert, sharp, and adds to the spiritual feeling you get. It's kinda like a ritual, though I don't totally need drugs to surf. Lotsa times I don't use before I go out, but I tell everybody I do. You know how guys are, always egging each other on, trying to be cool to impress chicks.
Forget that for now. I'm coming into a section of the wave, hollow and fast. The roar and the noise hit me. It's awesome as I ride far inside the tube of water. I feel so much energy around me. Crouched down, I move my feet back and forth on my board to keep my balance as a wall of shiny, clear water curls over me, forming a perfect tunnel around me and sheltering me from the world outside. I totally dig it. I feel safe, as if the tube of cold water forming around me is as hard as glass. Even time slows down when you're riding in a tube, and although the ride lasts only about five seconds, every detail is slammed into my brain.
I feel reborn.
Then without warning, the jitters take hold of me. I start shakin' all over. Fast, quick, like hundreds of little disgusting bugs are popping out of my pores and crawling all over me. Seawater drips down over my face, forming water beads on my nose, my chin. My hair jells onto my forehead, and the high collar of my wetsuit presses up against my neck, rubbing against it something awful. That's not the real bummer. Chest pains shoot into me, making me weak. Man, I'm losin' it. Whattup? I did five...six rails, but I never felt this bad before. I'm having a total anxiety attack, hotfooting all over the fiberglass as if little pin pricks are sticking out of my board and poking through the tender skin on the bottoms of my feet.
I am cold to my bones.
I shudder, tuning into a new fear. My ears are filling up with a troubling roar, a rumble from the bottom of the ocean that seems to vibrate through me. I shake my head, trying to clear out the bone-crushing crescendo but it intensifies, making me shiver, shake all over, like my body is running on Energizer batteries. I hear musical notes spraying their sounds into my head, bouncing off my inner ears like an echo chamber. Tweaky, weird sounds warbling through my brain, hissing and whispering. It's making me freak. There's something unreal going on here. You're ripping, Dean, I hear a voice all saying in my head. Hang on and you'll win this sucker.
I know it's weird and totally freaky but I know I heard Pauly. It was his voice coming at me inside the tube. I want to believe it, so I do. Hearing him calms me down, helps me get my confidence back on. It's what I need to shake off the jitters, get my act together and pull off some totally rad maneuvers.
I'm gliding over the waves fast and cool. I can't feel the board beneath my feet as I ride the wave in, nice and smooth. I've never surfed like that before, all intense and acrobatic-like. I can usually pull off strong, consistent moves, but this ride was ultracool. I know in my bones it's the best of the heat. It was awesome. Just like Pauly said.
Thanks, bro.
"We won, Dean!" I hear Chet calling out to me as I hit shore.
"Yeah? For sure?" I say, not totally believing it.
"The state championships are next," Bruce says, high-fiving me. He's like, all telling me we're going to have a blow-out celebration at his 'rents' house on the beach. I nod, saying I'll be there. Then I hear the coach giving me his big "You did it" speech loud and clear.
I can't smile big enough. Everybody's congratulating me. I haveta admit it feels good. Yeah, it was an awesome ride, I say, like you wouldn't believe. I keep repeating myself, trying to be cool, but something's buggin' me. I can't shake what happened out there. I start saying stupid stuff, like how cold the water is, and how I need a new board and all. I'm still freaking. Man, I thought I could shake off that weird scene 'bout seeing Pauly again, but it ain't happening.
I'm zoned out.
I look back at the ocean, full-on expecting to see Pauly riding a wave and smiling big at me. But the ocean is calm now, the clouds overhead casting deep shadows over the water, reflecting their fat, milky bods.
This whole happ is affecting me more than I realized. Bringing back the loneliness I feel without him around. Pauly was like family to me, seeing how he was the only person I could talk to 'bout stuff, like shaving what you haven't got on your face and smelling bad, and why is it so hard to talk to your parents 'bout everything. My 'rents and I, well, we don't connect. Haven't for years. It's the same old, same old.
I try to shake off the weird vibe and go back to what's happening around me. It starts to rain and everybody scrambles to their cars, still jabbering about how we won and all. A different feeling settles in me as I load my board onto the racks on top of my car. Totally sad. I wish Pauly were here to share this happ with me. Yeah, I wish.
I wipe the wet stuff outta my eyes, my mouth.
I taste my lips. They're salty.
Geez, it ain't rain I'm tasting.
***
I wish my life was like the "Wonder Years," I type on my computer, tapping in time to a kicky Sublime tune as I stare at the cold, ocean-blue on my screen. That TV show is old and stony, but everything about that time makes you feel rad. Like, how everybody had a mom and a dad, an old car, a black-and-white television set, and man, they even eat dinner at the same time. Can you believe? Even the old guy's voice who does all the talking on the show doesn't bother me anymore. I dig it. Wouldn't it be cool if you had someone in your head to tell you stuff?
I feel weird, thinking about voices in my head. I can't help it. I'm sure it was Pauly's voice I heard in the tube. I can't even do my homework without thinking about him. I finish my bottled water in one gulp. I gotta get my brain on, not let him bum me out, and finish this essay for English class.
I need someone to help me deal with life in the Harbour, what with our 'rents trying to make us into future yuppies and all. Like how our lives are planned for us. Every kid I know gets a hot new car at sixteen, Billabong and Stussy clothes, a custom- made surfboard, snowboard, whatever. 'Course, it's expected that you go to college, date a Harbour chick, get a "little" job (that's what my mom calls it), and, this is the dopest part, keep your parents guessing about your drug use. They're in complete self-denial. They figure if they don't hear about it, don't see it, then it doesn't exist. What they don't know is that smoking dope is as much a part of growing up as beer drinking and cigarettes.
Supercool.
I re-read the last part, 'bout the drugs and stuff, and smile. I wonder what my English teacher will say when she reads it. I snicker. Miss Stevens may be cool and all, but she's not that cool. Sure, I know she wants me, but somehow I have the feeling she'd put aside her womanly needs and rat on me to the principal if I leave the drug part in.
I hang ten on the ole delete key and watch the words disappear like specks of snow up my nose. Cocaine. Yeah, I've done coke a few times 'cause...'cause, well, I don't know. 'Cause Pauly said it made him feel like Superman 24/7. Yeah, that's why I do it. 'Cause Pauly did it.
Back to my essay. I write some more cool stuff 'bout my generation, like how Star Wars defined who we are and where we're going, then finish up with: I want to be a businessman like my father and make mad scrilla. 'Course, he calls me and my buds "The Lost Generation." Sure, we're lost. What does he expect when you never see your parents except between board meetings? "You're not trying hard enough," he always says when he comes to town to check up on me, giving me what he calls Q.T., quality time, while he rants 'bout the slacker mentality of my generation. It's hard to get by on my lame allowance, I tell him. I've got affluenza, he says, wanting everything for nothing. I have no values, no initiative. Hey, I don't want his money. I want...well, I'm not sure what I want from him because I like, never had it.
Don't get me wrong. I don't blame him or my mom for my screwed-up, kaleidoscope view of the universe. To my way of thinking, my buds and I are dealing with a different world, where nothing is for sure, nothing is stable, and it sure is dangerous out there on the streets. Our parents never had to face half the things we do. Guns are everywhere, especially at school. Every day I see hardware tripping through lockers and backpacks as easily as cigarettes or drugs.
Then we've got AIDS to worry 'bout, not to mention overcrowded colleges. Have you ever tried to get into a prestigious university? Man, acing the SATs is only the beginning. You need connects and plenty of dollars. And if you aren't on the fast track to law or medical school, you can be sure your starting income when you graduate won't even buy a down payment on a used CD, let alone a used beemer. The truth is I don't want to be a businessman like my father sitting behind a desk, taking your cell phone with you everywhere, even when you gotta take a leak. That's not me. I'm into writing, but my father says that's for dorks who don't want to work at a real job. He says I'll end up homeless. Hey, I'm not dissin' the homeless, but I'm not a lou with a plastic bag to pee in and a supermarket cart to crash in. I'm an honor student and I plan on going to college.
I wipe the sweat off my face. Writing is hard work. I don't know where my father's head is. Miss Stevens says there are 6,000 adjectives in the English language. Do you know how much work it is trying to find the right one?
I pop open another Crystal Geyser, slurping the water down like a 40. I've got another page to fill up. Adjectives, get ready, 'cause here I come.
One thing I know for certin', I type, it's my life and it's all I've got. So here's the b.s. -- that's backstory. I caught my first wave at ten and ran away from home at twelve when my 'rents got divorced. I spent the night in the dirty, sandy bathroom on the beach. Since then, I hang at the beach 24/7. Hey, I even had my first chick in lifeguard tower number eighteen when I was a sophomore in high school. Cool, but kids' stuff. Like watching Schoolhouse Rock on TV and waiting for someone to say "Conjunction Junction" so you could yell back "What's your function?"
Who said being a senior would be any diff? I'm still making it with chicks on the beach, I'm still surfing, and my parents are still divorced.
So much for my Wonder Years.
After a quick spell check, I save to file and print it out. I gotta get this sucker perfect, and not just because I need this class for college. I've got a better reason. Miss Stevens promised me that we'd hang out if I get an A. Yeah, totally. Well, she didn't 'xactly sputter those words to me, but her eyes did. And the way she moves her bod, all slim and fine. I start salivating, just thinkin' about it.
I lay down on my bed, staring up at the paper stars on my ceiling, dreaming about makin' it with my English teacher. I breathe out, real slow. I'm feelin' oh so fine, the soothing sound of my superfast, superquiet printer printing out the words that are going to take me on magic carpet ride with Miss Stevens. I can see it now. We'll talk 'bout college and stuff while I'm ogling her. Then I'll move closer to her, smelling her perfume, getting all turned on --
I roll over and my sightballs bug out at the sight of my poster of the sexy Barbi Twins. I gotta smile. Got that poster when I was a kid. Back then we lived in a house across the street from the beach and my 'rents were upwardly mobile professionals with their twin beemer convertibles. And me? I wasn't using drugs then. Weird, but I can't remember what it was like without my daily feel-good fix.
My mom comes into my room, asks me if I finished my homework. I say yes, just wanting her to leave so I can get high. She bails, never knowing what's cruisin' through my mind.
Lying on my bed in a techno-trance, I listen to my compact disc player oozing soft, sonic sounds into my paper, starlit night. I dig the way the iridescent, white paper stars sticking onto the ceiling shine in the dark. Make me feel connected to the universe, like that megabig black void out there isn't so big after all. Like I can deal. I'm sure gonna miss my room when I go away to college next year. I'm taking my surfing posters with cool autographs by Tom Curren and Kelly Slater with me, but I'll leave my trophies and baseball card collection at home where they're safe. My baseball cards are way important to me. I started my collection when I was a little grommet. Back then I spent my allowance on cards, not drugs. Weird, how things change.
I'm not obsessin' about it now. I wanna hide in my secret place behind the music, where I can leave the fears of this world behind. That's why I use drugs, but I only do them when I want to. Drugs don't control me. Sure, they make me feel more confident, help me deal with some sort of test of coolness that you go through everyday at school. Like, how sometimes I get serious pangs of self-doubt -- that I'll screw-up when I get to college, get kicked out. Drugs give me power, increase my creativity. Help my writing.
I lay out the white powder on a round, silver platter CD. Slowly, carefully, I cut the coke into four long rails with my razor. Then I roll up a dollar bill into a tightly-coiled straw and sniff the snow, one line at a time. I jerk my head back. It stings a little, but I'm cruisin'. The butterflies in my stomach start to border on comatose as the white, odorless, fluffy powder hits my nervous system like a speeding bullet. Intense excitement slams through me, firing up every nerve in my body, zero to sixty in secs, taking me on a ride up, then down, then up again to a place in the universe where the cold is colder, the hot hotter.
I feel all powerful, like a super being.
I'm seeing the other side.
And I don't want to come back.
aborts -- Absolut vodka and port wine, mixed together; often taken in conjunction with drug use.
acid -- LSD
acid freak -- someone who uses LSD on a frequent basis.
acid tracings -- visual effects of hallucinogenics.
Adam X -- ecstasy.
airhead -- drug user; under the influence of marijuana; also, someone with little intelligence.
all lit up -- high on drugs
amped out -- fatigue after using amphetamines
amping -- accelerated heartbeat caused by ingestion of a drug.
amp joint -- a marijuana cigarette laced with some form of narcotic.
angel tears -- liquid LSD.
ate up -- high on drugs
backbreakers -- LSD and strychnine
back-door -- residue left in a pipe.
bad go -- bad reaction to a drug.
beat artist -- drug dealer who sells fake or bogus drugs.
bender -- a drug party.
Belushi - cocaine and heroin; named after the comedian who died from an overdose of these drugs.
binger -- bong hit.
black beauties -- amphetamines.
blasted -- under the influence of drugs.
blow snow -- snort cocaine.
blue acid, blue liquid acid -- LSD.
blue moons -- LSD.
Bogarting a joint -- smoking a marijuana cigarette; refuse to share.
bombers -- marijuana cigarettes.
bong -- pipe used to smoke marijuana.
boomers -- psilocybin/psilocin; hallucinogenics. [see "psilocybin"]
booted on blanks -- under the influence of low quality drugs.
booting heroin -- injecting heroin into a vein with a hypodermic needle.
bridge up -- ready a vein for injection.
bud -- marijuana.
bummer trip -- bad experience under the influence of drugs.
bump -- small dose of crystal meth; also crack; fake crack; boost a high.
bunk -- fake drugs.
burner -- a person who smokes marijuana.
burn chronic -- smoke a high grade marijuana.
burned -- impairment from ingestion of drugs; also, buying fake drugs.
busted -- arrested; getting caught.
buzzed -- high on drugs.
buzzing -- high on drugs.
candy flips -- one hit ecstasy per three hits LSD.
cartucho -- a package of marijuana cigarettes
cess -- cheap marijuana.
C-dust -- cocaine.
charged up -- high on drugs.
char herb -- smoke a marijuana cigarette.
charlie -- cocaine.
chemical paradise -- high on drugs; existing in a unreal world while on illegal drugs without thinking about the down side of drugs.
Cherry Bomb -- ecstasy with a cherry color or flavor.
chiva -- black tar heroin available most often in the western and southwestern U.S. This heroin, which is only produced in Mexico, may be sticky like roofing tar or hard like coal, and its color may vary from dark brown to black. The color and consistency of this type of heroin result from the crude processing methods used to illicitly manufacture this substance. [see "heroin"]
chronic -- incredibly potent marijuana, it started out as weed laced with coke.
coastin', coasting -- high on drugs.
cocaine -- addictive stimulant extracted from the coca plant in a powder that is smoked, snorted or melted into a liquid that is injected with a needle. It was first used in the 1880s as a local anesthetic in eye, nose, and throat surgeries because of its ability to provide anesthesia as well as to constrict blood vessels and limit bleeding.
coke -- cocaine, crack.
connect -- short for "connection," as in drug connection or dealer.
copping spots -- known places to a user where they can buy drugs.
crack coolers -- crack soaked in wine coolers.
crack house -- a place where a user can buy crack and get high.
crack -- cocaine that has been processed from cocaine hydrochloride to a free base for smoking. Crack cocaine is processed with ammonia or sodium bicarbonate (baking soda) and water. It is then heated to remove the hydrochloride producing a form of cocaine that can be smoked. [see "cocaine"]
crank -- methamphetamine.
creeperbud -- marijuana.
crip -- methamphetamine.
crypto -- methamphetamine.
crystal -- methamphetamine.
crystal meth -- methamphetamine.
designer drug -- man-made, synthetic drugs such as MDMA, Rohypnol, GHB, and methcathinone. [see aforementioned drugs for specific information]
detox -- short for detoxification, usually from an addictive drug such as alcohol or heroin. A detox center is designed to promote the recovery of a person from an addiction.
diggity -- heroin.
digie -- electronic scale used to weigh drugs.
dime -- 1/16 ounce of marijuana; also $10 worth of crack.
ditch weed -- a low grade Mexican marijuana.
doobie -- marijuana.
drips -- heroin.
drogas (las) -- Spanish for "drugs."
drop -- to ingest LSD.
E -- ecstasy
ecstasy -- a man-made chemical (MDMA) that acts as a stimulant and hallucinogen, usually taken in pill form; the hug drug; the love drug. [see "MDMA"]
eightball -- crack and heroin.
feed bag -- container for marijuana.
fix -- needing more drugs after the effects wear off.
Florida snow - cocaine
fuete -- Spanish for a hypodermic needle, used to inject drugs.
flying -- high on drugs.
garbage -- inferior quality drugs.
gel caps, gels -- soft, pliable, edible tiny receptacles containing liquid LSD.
GHB -- gamma hydroxybutrate; also known as the "date rape" drug because of its abilities to render a person immobile. It is available in an odorless, colorless liquid form or as a white powder. It is taken orally, frequently being combined with alcohol.
godfather -- cigar filled with marijuana or other type drug.
God's drug -- morphine.
Golden Dragon -- LSD.
golden seal -- a tonic, laxative, and detergent. It is a valuable remedy for conditions of the digestion and has a special action on the mucous membrane, making it of value as a local remedy for various forms of chronic inflammation of the colon and rectum. It contains an alkaloid called Hydrastine, which has an astringent action.
good lick -- high quality drugs.
grifas -- Spanish for "marijuana."
grogged -- high on drugs.
ground control -- a person who guides a user through the hallucinogenic experiences of an LSD trip.
gutter junkie -- addict who relies on others to obtain drugs.
happy dust -- cocaine.
heart on -- high on N2 O (nitrous oxide); inhalant.
herb -- marijuana.
heroin -- addictive depressant extracted from the poppy flower. Users smoke, snort or inject what starts as a white powder with a bitter taste. It is rarely sold on the streets. Most illicit heroin is a powder varying in color from white to dark brown. The differences in color are due to impurities that have been left from the manufacturing process or the presence of additives. [see "chiva"].
heroina -- Spanish for "heroin."
hitch up the reindeer -- use cocaine.
hit -- smoke, snort, or otherwise ingest a drug.
hopped up -- high on drugs.
hype sticks -- hypodermic needles used to inject drugs.
ice -- smokable methamphetamine; also cocaine, MDMA, PCP.
jag -- when a user keeps a high going by ingesting more drugs.
jives -- from "jive" [marijuana, heroin, drugs]; messes with your inner spirit.
juggle -- sell drugs to another addict to support a habit.
junk -- heroin; cocaine.
ketamine -- a powerful anesthetic used for major surgery on the battlefields of Vietnam; a chemical cousin to PCP [see "PCP"]; used by veterinarians to sedate animals, it has a mix of stimulant, sedative, anesthetic, and hallucinogenic properties.
kind bud -- marijuana.
krippies -- moist marijuana only to be smoked out of a bowl or bong.
L -- LSD.
legal speed -- asthma drugs or any over-the-counter drug that contains ma huang, a natural plant containing ephedrine that when ingested produces a "high."
Lemon Drop -- ecstasy.
liquid LSD -- original form of the manufactured chemical. [see "LSD"]
Liquid X -- ecstasy crushed into powder form and mixed with a liquid.
looped -- under the influence of drugs.
LSD -- one of the most potent mood-changing chemicals. It is manufactured from lysergic acid, which is found in ergot, a fungus that grows on rye and other grains and causes hallucinations. It starts as a liquid and is usually sold in "tabs" on pieces of paper.
LSD tracers -- visual effects of hallucinogenics.
marijuana -- dried leaves of the cannabis plant containing the chemical THC [see "THC"], which alters perception. Usually smoked, sometimes eaten or brewed into tea. Short-term effects of marijuana use include problems with memory and learning; distorted perception; difficulty in thinking and problem- solving; loss of coordination; and increased heart rate, anxiety, and panic attacks.
MDMA -- known as "ecstasy," it is a synthetic hallucinogen with speed-like properties which makes your emotions feel more intense. Your skin tingles, your heart beat is faster, and your body temp rises. It enables party-goers to dance and remain active for long periods of time. This substance is usually ingested in tablet form, but can also be crushed and snorted, injected, or used in suppository form. MDMA means: methylenedioxy-methamphetamine.
methamphetamine -- man-made, highly addictive central nervous stimulant that is smoked, snorted, shot up or taken in pills. Users feel a short yet intense "rush" when the drug is initially administered. The effects of methamphetamine include increased activity, decreased appetite, and a sense of well being that can last 6 to 8 hours. It is closely related chemically to amphetamine, but the effects of methamphetamine on the central nervous system are greater.
methcathinone -- a dangerous addictive drug that is cheap and easy to manufacture. The drug is a white or off-white crystalline powder and is made from a mixture of battery acid, Drano, and over-the-counter asthma medication and can be manufactured in home kitchens.
meth -- methamphetamine.
morphine -- obtained from the opium poppy. It is a "downer" that affects the brain's pleasure systems and interferes with the brain's ability to perceive pain.
nickel bag -- $5 worth of drugs; heroin.
nitrates -- considered a special class of inhalants. Unlike most other inhalants, which act directly on the central nervous system (CNS), nitrites act primarily to dilate blood vessels and relax the muscles. Nitrates are used primarily as sexual enhancers. Nitrites include cyclohexyl nitrite, isoamyl (amyl) nitrite, and isobutyl (butyl) nitrite.
nitrous oxide -- nitrous; the most abused of these gases and can be found in whipped cream dispensers and products that boost octane levels in racing cars. Household or commercial products containing gases include butane lighters, propane tanks, whipped cream dispensers, and refrigerants.
Orange Rush -- ecstasy.
OZ -- an ounce of a drug.
PCP -- phencyclidine was developed in the 1950s as an intravenous anesthetic. The use of PCP in humans was discontinued in 1965, because it was found that patients often became agitated, delusional, and irrational while recovering from its anesthetic.
peaking -- when a user reaches a high point during the drug experience.
permafried -- high all the time.
peyote -- a small, spineless cactus (the sacred cactus of the Huichols in Mexico) the peyotl grows in the deserts of Mexico and the American Southwest. When the crown is sliced off and dried, it forms a hard, brownish disc known as a "button," which is chewed for its hallucinogenic properties. It contains mescaline, a strong hallucinogen whose effects, when taken in a dose of around 400 mg, are equivalent to those of LSD.
piedras -- Spanish for "crack."
pitillo -- Spanish for a "marijuana cigarette."
poppers -- isobutyl nitrite; amyl nitrite.
psilocybin -- the main active ingredient in so-called 'magic mushrooms'. It has hallucinogenic properties, and is closely related to mescaline in structure.
Purple Rain -- PCP.
quartz -- smokable speed.
quick flush tea -- tea that claims to flush out THC (the chemical ingredient of marijuana).
raves -- parties designed to enhance a hallucinogenic experience through music and behavior.
ravers -- people who attend raves on a regular basis.
roach -- stub of a marijuana cigarette; also slang for Rohypnol, the brand name for a drug called Flunitrazepam, which is a powerful sedative.
Rohypnol -- a tasteless and odorless depressant, often used in the commission of sexual assaults due to its ability to sedate and intoxicate unsuspecting victims. Although usually taken orally in pill form, users are also grinding it into a powder and snorting the drug.
roasting a joint -- smoking a marijuana cigarette.
roller-coaster experience -- mixing different kinds of drugs, e.g. barbiturates with speed, that give the user a bad experience and can end in death.
Scooby-doo -- a girl who used methamphetamine to lose or control her weight.
Scoop -- Gamma hydroxybutrate (GHB).
shooting gallery -- a place where a user can rent a hypodermic needle, cotton balls, spoons, alcohol, matches, so they can inject drugs, usually heroin.
sketching -- coming down from a speed induced high.
sketch out -- a bad reaction to LSD or marijuana.
skin popping a drug -- injecting drugs under the skin.
slam crank -- shooting methamphetamine into a vein with a needle.
slanging dope -- selling illegal drugs.
smoking a J -- smoking a joint (marijuana cigarette).
Special K -- ketamine.
spun -- high on drugs.
stash -- a supply of drugs.
steamroller -- pipe used to smoke drugs.
stimey -- dime bag [see "dime"].
stoned -- high on drugs.
stuff -- drugs.
take a rip -- smoke a marijuana cigarette.
tecate -- Spanish for "heroin."
tecato -- Spanish for "heroin addict."
THC -- delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol [see "marijuana"].
things for your head -- term used to describe drug paraphernalia.
toke -- smoke a marijuana cigarette.
tooting snowcones -- snorting cocaine.
torching up -- lighting up a cigarette.
tracers -- the leftover special effects images seen by the user after ingesting LSD.
trails -- ditto images seen by a user who has ingested LSD.
travel agent -- LSD supplier, drug dealer.
tripping out -- under the influence of drugs.
tweak, tweek -- methamphetamine-like substance.
tweaking -- drug-induced paranoia; peaking on speed.
UA -- urine analysis.
waffles -- hits of LSD.
wasted -- high on drugs; out of touch with reality.
wastoid -- someone who has lost touch with reality; someone who is high all the time.
water pipe -- a free-standing large water-cooled pipe shaped like a vase, used to smoke illegal drugs; often called a "hookah".
weed -- marijuana.
white junk -- heroin.
white lightning -- LSD.
wiggin' or wiggin' out -- becoming extremely upset and losing control, usually while under the influence of drugs.
wired -- strung out on drugs; high.
works -- the apparatus a user needs to inject drugs (hypodermic needles, alcohol, cotton balls, spoons, matches.)
xtc -- ecstasy
X -- ecstasy
yen sleep -- the restless, drowsy state that comes over a user after ingesting LSD.
yeyo -- Spanish for "cocaine."
zig zaggin' -- cruisin' on a drug high.
Zig Zag papers -- thin, tissue-like square papers used to roll marijuana cigarettes.
zoomer(s) -- pills, amphetamines, uppers; also, people who sell fake crack and then flee.
187 -- California penal code section for murder; pager code for "someone's out to get you."
24/7 or 24/7/365 -- twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three- hundred sixty-five days a year; all the time.
40 -- bottle of beer containing forty ounces.
411 -- information, after dialing "411" for information on the telephone.
64 -- bottle of beer containing sixty-four ounces.
affluenza -- combination of the words "affluent" and "influenza," meaning someone who is "sick with affluence."
airgo -- play on word "ergo"; whaddaya know; consequently.
alpha chimp -- take advantage of someone in an aggressive manner.
aquiacute; -- Spanish for "here."
atmos -- short for "atmosphere."
awesome -- very, very cool.
babe fave -- favorite guy; boyfriend.
bail(s) -- leave, usually in a hurry.
ballistic -- going wild, crazy.
beemer -- BMW.
beeswax -- business.
biznoch -- loser.
blackballed -- surf term: when the lifeguards put up a banner or sign with a "black ball," it means that part of the beach is off limits to surfers.
booty -- the bill, the cost of something.
bro -- short for "brother," meaning a good friend.
bucked up -- nervous, not in a good way.
buds -- short for "buddies, friends."
buenas noches -- Spanish for good night.
bummer -- not good.
buzzkill -- making up excuses.
buzzy -- cool.
charge it, bro -- surf term: go for it, as in pulling off rad maneuvers on a wave.
chill out -- don't take anything so seriously.
chillin' -- kickin' back; not taking things seriously.
cholos -- pimp(s); also someone of mixed race (Mexican and Puerto Rican slang).
churros -- long, slender Mexican doughnuts, usually covered with cinnamon sugar.
Coolio -- a popular rapper.
cool quotient -- popularity.
cop -- to take something.
creeped out -- very uptight; uneasy over the situation.
crush -- to have romantic feelings toward someone; the object of romantic feelings.
crustie -- something distasteful.
dawn patrol -- surf term: checking out the waves as the sun is coming up.
deep freaked -- really upset over something.
diff -- short for "different."
digits -- numbers, as in a telephone number.
digs -- where you live.
dissing -- short for "disrespecting" (rap slang).
donde -- Spanish for "where?"
Don Johnsons -- police; refers to actor of the same name in Miami Vice TV show.
dope -- cool.
dopest -- very cool.
down with -- something that pleases you a lot (rap slang).
dork -- dumb, stupid kid.
dweeb -- dumb, stupid kid.
electronic leash -- pager.
emo-core -- short for "emotional" core; your center of emotions.
epic -- surf term: very high, but surfable waves.
Five-Os -- East L.A. gang term for police officer from the TV series "Hawaii Five-O." Also comes from the police vehicle 5.0 Ford Mustang (rap slang).
flava -- flavor (rap slang).
flossin' -- very cool, stylin' (rap slang).
flying -- high on drugs.
foolio -- foolish person.
freaking -- outta control.
freak -- to get totally upset over something.
freaking me out -- making me go crazy.
freaky -- weird; scary.
frontin' -- putting on a front; trying to impress (rap slang).
funk -- in a downer mood.
geek -- loser-type guy.
gangsta rapper -- gangster rapper (rap slang)...
getting Miller -- buying beer (Miller beer).
get your brain on -- use your head to solve a problem (rap slang).
get your groove on -- get in sync with your inner self.
get your sex on -- becoming sexually aroused (males) (rap slang).
get your strut on -- walking in a cool manner (rap slang).
go blow -- get outta here.
going postal -- losing control, going crazy.
Goths -- short for "Gothics," teens who dress in black and unusual clothing, smoke methamphetamine, and worship the supernatural.
'G-rents -- short for "grandparents."
grey bar hotel -- jail.
gringos -- Spanish slang for someone who's not from their turf; someone who's out of their element.
grommet -- surf term used to describe young surfers, usually pre-teen boys.
guy magnet -- a girl who's irresistible to guys.
happ -- short for happening.
hardware -- guns, knives, etc.
heat -- surf term: a surfing contest is divided into "heats," where several surfers compete to catch the best waves to show off their skills during a round.
hella -- a hell of a lot (rap slang)
hipster 'tude -- someone with a hip or trendy attitude.
herb -- a wimp.
hola -- a greeting in Spanish.
homie, homeboy -- someone from your home turf; friend.
'hood -- short for "neighborhood" (rap slang).
hottie -- a totally cute guy
I don't make the fries -- I don't control things; fries also mean crack.
incrediberry -- play on the word "incredible."
jacked -- gang term for robbed.
jeebin' -- messing with.
keep drug use on the D.L. -- keep drug use on the "down low" (rap slang).
keyed -- excited, happy.
kicks -- shoes.
killer -- totally cool
'k -- short for "okay."
lame, lame-o -- dumb, stupid.
lighten up -- don't be so serious (rap slang).
loony tunes -- crazy, weird, after the cartoons of the same name.
lou -- short for "loser".
love box -- heart, in a romantic sense.
love glove -- condom.
maddest -- the best.
mad flava -- something that is very appealing; good-tasting (rap slang).
mad scrilla -- a lot of money (rap slang).
mad skillz -- very talented (rap slang).
major agro -- short for "major aggravation."
major 'tude -- a lot of attitude.
mash out -- leave in a hurry.
mojo -- something inside of you that revs up your good, positive energy.
mosh pit -- where the action is at a rave; the center of the dancing area; usually associated with heavy metal music.
mucked up -- in a bad way; a slang version of an expletive that sounds similar.
mugs -- friends.
[no] (not); sancocho -- literally, this is a popular Latin chicken stew; also, a Latin recording artist. As used here: to steal (Spanish slang).
no diggity -- without a doubt.
nanosecond, nanosec -- a very short period of time.
one little come-upon -- gang term for a street victim.
perma-like -- short for permanent.
pimp for beer -- when an underage drinker tries to talk an adult into buying alcohol for them.
piss off -- make someone angry.
prob -- short for problem
props -- short for "propers," meaning proper respect.
psyched -- pumped up, happy about something.
Q -- short for "question."
Q.T. -- short for "quality time."
rad -- short for "radical"; cool.
rah-rah -- high school cheerleader
ralphed -- vomited.
'rents -- short for "parents."
rep -- short for "reputation."
ripping -- surf term, which means surfing the waves at a fast and furious speed with great style.
sec -- short for "second," a measure of time.
serious screw-up -- handling a situation in an unsuccessful manner.
shred -- surf term, which means showing off extremely good skill riding the waves.
shooting the pier -- surf term, which means surfing through the pilings holding up the pier without slamming into them; very dangerous.
sightballs -- eyes.
skanky -- stinky, bad.
smokin' -- surf term, which means surfing really well in a wild, but stylish, manner.
sport a raincoat -- use a condom during sex.
stokabaka -- old surf term from the word "stoked" that has regained popularity, meaning the raddest of the rad; totally awesome.
stoked -- totally excited about something.
straight -- tell someone the truth (rap slang).
strap -- gang term for "hidden gun."
stretch action -- a limousine.
stylin' -- fashionable; groovin' with your happening.
strung out -- totally worried about something; going over the edge.
superfly -- from "fly" meaning very cool; supercool (rap slang).
sweat sesh -- sweat session
sweatster -- someone under pressure; someone who sweats a lot.
sweet -- cool.
take it down as an L -- take a loss.
tap some -- making out, have sexual relations.
tasty -- surf term: well formed, as in the size of the waves
tight -- cool (Southern California slang).
toxic 'tude -- short for "toxic attitude"; bad attitude.
trip-hop -- never ending, ceaselessly.
trippin' out -- losing control of the situation.
up in da grill -- shove it up in your face (rap slang).
vacay -- short for "vacation."
vegging, veggin out -- short for "vegetating;" not doing anything worthwhile.
venga con migo -- Spanish for "come with me."
veterano -- literally, Spanish for "veteran"; a dealer or gang member who's been dealing drugs for a long period of time.
weirded out -- not digging the situation.
Whattup -- short for greeting: "What's up?"
wicked -- very; totally.
wipe-out -- surf term: falling off your surfboard and getting pulled under the wave by power of the ocean; losing control of a situation.
zip it -- shut up.
zip -- zero.
zoning out -- tuning out the real world.