The Park
by Allen Bell
Sometimes, we’d sit in the park on the picnic table.
Literally on the table, our feet flat on the part you sit on. None of us
teenage boys worked because it was the early eighties, and unemployment was
hovering around eleven percent. Interest rates were eighteen percent, and
in our neighbourhood, welfare was the average income. The system was fucked, we
agreed amongst ourselves to fuck the system. We’d talk about how we couldn’t
wait to turn eighteen and collect our first welfare cheque, but mostly, we’d just
make fun of each other. Cut each other deep so when you were lying in bed
alone, you’d contemplate how much truth there was to the insult. Then you’d
stay up all night thinking about what you should have said and how you’d cut
them back even deeper. If you were unfortunate, like Sticky Phil, the cut would
be deep enough to scar you with a nickname for life.
The Canucks were up against the Islanders for the Stanley
Cup Finals, and Phil’s mom said we could watch the game in her basement. Her
house always had a skunky odor to it because she sold weed. We felt being
a dealer was a respectable way to make a living, and she was the wealthiest of
all the single moms. We never gave much thought to the fact that she sold drugs
to high school kids.
Sticky Phil got his nickname because his deepest secret was
exposed during that final hockey game. Gary, AKA Salty, walked out of Phil’s
washroom with a girly magazine Phil left on the toilet tank and called out to
everyone, “Looky here, sticky pages.”
From there, Sticky Phil was born. Salty had a way of
taking your humiliating situation and turning it into everyone else's most
hilarious. It was always better to laugh at than be laughed at.
Salty, Sticky Phil, and I had been going down to Kwi’s Judo
club three days a week for the last two years. It was twenty-five bucks a
month, but Kwi let us train for free. Maybe he felt sorry for us, or maybe he
saw some potential. We never stayed around long enough to find out.
After judo, if we had a quarter, we’d go down to Laser Illusions
arcade at the Chinook Centre. That’s also where you could score weed,
mushrooms, acid—pretty much anything to enhance your entertainment
experience.
As we walked around the arcade, the smell of fresh,
buttered popcorn floated in the air. Red, white, and blue lights flashed like
emergency vehicles at a homicide crime scene.
We passed a stringy, greasy-haired guy who whispered,
“Acid?”
We kept walking through the barrage of pings, pangs, and
animated electronic voices demanding, “Play again.”
Suddenly, Salty said, “Stop for a second.” We turned to him
as he continued. “I’m going to try to get that greasy guy into the can; when he
hands me the acid, I’ll pretend to be a cop.” Salty smiled. “Then let him think
he slipped away, and we’ll keep the stash.”
“You think you look like a cop?” I said. “With all those
zits.”
“I better be convincing then,” Salty said. “Hold my gym
bag,” He walked back towards the greasy guy. We watched Salty say something to
the dealer, and the two walked into the bathroom.
Sticky and I stood outside the bathroom door, ensuring no
one went in.
From outside, we heard Salty yell, “Police!” and then there
was a crash inside, and Salty yelled, “Fuck!”
As we rushed into the washroom, we let the greasy guy run
past us.
Salty said, “He swallowed it.”
“Let’s get outta here!” I said in a loud whisper, and we
ran out the back fire exit. We saw the dealer running in one direction, so we
ran in the opposite.
After a few blocks, we slowed down to a walk.
“I only got two hits,” Salty said.
“How many did he swallow?” I asked.
“It must have been eight,” Salty said.
“He took eight hits of acid?” Sticky said, “He’s gonna be
fucked up.”
“I’m doing one,” Salty said. “you guys can split this one.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “I don’t feel like getting high.” I
hadn’t tried acid, nor did I desire to.
“Perfect,” Sticky said, and Salty handed him the hit. They
dropped it, and we walked for about an hour back to the park.
When we got to the park, Salty ran his hand in front of his
face, laughing hysterically. All he could say was, “Trails, I see rainbow
trails.”
Sticky was having a bit of a freakout. He kept looking
behind him, worried the dealer had followed us.
I sat around with them for a couple of hours as they got
higher, talking nonsense. It was getting late, and they were getting weird, so
I bailed and went home.
The next morning, I went back to the park, and they were
still sitting on the bench ten hours later. Sticky’s mom came down looking for
him and saw he was messed up. She tried to get him to go home, but he just made
strange faces and laughed at her. Salty didn’t even notice us and stared up at
the clouds.
I was concerned; they’d been high for a long time now. I’d
seen them on acid before, and usually, it only lasted a few hours, and then
they’d start to come down.
Sticky’s mom went home and called an ambulance to come and
check on them. The police showed up first. I’d already told Sticky’s mom what
happened and didn’t want to talk to the cops, so I left before they got to the
picnic table.
Sticky and Salty were sent for a twenty-four-hour
psychiatric evaluation, which turned into a week. When they got out, they
weren’t really the same. After that, we never went back to judo or Laser
Illusions, but we still hung out for a year or so.
No one called Phil Sticky anymore, and Salty, he’s Gary
again.
We’ve lost touch over the years. I drive by the park every
once in a while. The old wooden picnic table has been exchanged for some new
recycled plastic job. I sat on it once, just for nostalgia purposes, and you
know, it just didn’t feel like it used to.
Sometimes, I wonder what happened to that greasy dealer who
ruined my friends’ minds, if he’s spaced out somewhere.
If he died, would that be considered murder?
