How depressing it is...Cyndy e-mailed, and she's not having a good day either. Isn't that funny. It's been 30 years since I last saw Scott Simpkins and yet his face and lanky form and long blond disheveled hair come immediately to mind. And that coffee cup with the nipple on it. "My mom gave it to me," he said.
That's the thing about Scott. His humor was so dry, so esoteric, so intellectual. No wonder I felt dorky around him. He intimidated the less enlightened and less well read.
"Come one, let's do one before class!"
"I've never smoked pot before."
Scott glances over at me, disgusted and dismissive.
"Everyone knows you're one of the biggest potheads around. C[mon."
So Pat Geoghan and Scott Simpkins and I crowd into a film-loading room, close the door. It is claustrophobic. Scott or Pat pull out a single hitter, pack it, and then light it. They offer it to me. I inhale and hold my breath like I've seen stoners do.
I'm laughing to myself. I'll never get high. You never do the first time. At least that's what I heard. Minutes later, Scott and Pat hustle out of the room and out of the darkroom, on their way to class or the Cabin, or the Davies Center. Who knows.
I went back to my print developing tray. And then, everything gets really slow. Mellow. Crap, I think. I am high. How the hell am I going to get home? I can't even find my way out of the darkroom.
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