Met a dude on the Boardwalk in 1973. He had long hair and wore jeans, as did I.
I leaned against the sea wall and played few gasping notes on a harmonica I pulled from my back pocket. It had candy wrappers and clods of hair crammed all through the reeds, and the metal cover plates were crushed. It sounded like a robot death rattle.
"Bad shit, bro" said this dude, "I mean, Paul Fucking Butterfie
ld gonna shit his pants when you step up."
"Thanks" I said, "smoke a joint?"
"Fuckin A right on with your shit".
Without a word we ducked into an alley and fired up a doobie. It was a rainy day, the sky was grey and two story apartment houses in Mission Beach seemed to sag like wet bags of French bread left on a back porch in the dampest days of April.
We never saw each other again. I never thought it worth mentioning.