Somehow I went out the wrong entrance for the mall, and wandered around the outside of the building until I found the bike rack where my BMX bike was parked.
Reaching down to unlock it, I realized that the chain was still wrapped around the seat post. Whoa! Once again I'd forgotten to lock it up! Good thing no one had noticed, or I might've been out a bike. Shaking my head, I clumsily put on my helmet and climbed on.
The ride to the park was kind of interesting, seeing as how I was already baked. Cars, trucks, buses, and other vehicle streamed past, in a confusing mixture. I got lost a couple times, since the streets seemed to look a lot alike. By the time I reached the large, iron gates of the park I'd started to come down. Rolling to a stop, I remembered to chain up my bike in the rack near the rest rooms.
I broke out in some more giggles when I nearly walked into the door labeled "Women." Entering the door labeled "Men" (hey! I was a kid, not a man!) I took a piss, then splashed some water on my face. Pulling my shaggy, long black hair out of my eyes-- blue surrounded by red. No hint of whiskers, or even fuzz, yet. No acne. I was kind of short and young looking for my age... One of the guys wondered if somehow weed did that to a guy. He was kind of small for his age too... Maybe the smoke reduced the amount of oxygen and that retarded growth. At the word "retarded" I giggled again, and left with a dopey, goofy smile on my face.
My group of early middle school stoners would meet at 4:20PM around bush choked, mostly unmaintained, base of some statue of some soldier from some ancient war. I couldn't recall who the original 4:20 statue was supposed to be of, or where it was supposed to be located. It probably didn't really matter, but sometimes I wondered.
Pushing my way through the undergrowth, I entered the more or less hallowed out heart of the bushes, where the ground was littered with the butts of joints and sprouting ditch weed. I sat down on a rock and pulled out my pipe. I preferred a pipe, since all one needed to do was put the screen in place, place some weed in the bowl, flick a lighter and inhale. No stoned fumbling trying to roll a joint, which was better for spontaneous lighting up.
Pulling out my baggy, I found to to be pretty much empty-- only the few shredded remains of leaves were inside. Damn! I felt my other pockets and finally started rooting through my backpack. Pausing to finish off the remains of my lunch and to eat some "emergency munchies food," I finally found a baggie I'd purchased a couple days ago from Trent, who had a cousin or something who lived on the Big Island in Hawaii, and grew pot in some steep valley which had once been the "breadbasket" of the islands. Supposedly he'd been experimenting with some of the chemicals which were the active ingredient in "synthetic pot"-- the legal stuff which was sold in gas stations and head shops in some places. Those places generally didn't sell, at least not openly, to minors like me. Then again, the stuff in the bag was the real thing, purchased from a guy only a year or so older than me, made more powerful by the license-plate-like-named chemical which made the synthetic stuff work.
I tried, and failed, to remember what the exact name was of the stuff on the weed, and finally shrugged. There was supposed to be some difference between the various chemicals, but I had not idea which had which differences. I pressed a fresh screen into the bowl of my pipe, and put a generous pinch of the weed into the bowl. Taking out my lighter with the pot leaves and smiley faces decorating it, I brought a flame up to the bowl and inhaled deeply.
Even before I started the breath-holding phase of smoking, I felt the stuff working. It felt kind of like my head was going up like a helium balloon. The air seemed filled with a golden glow, and I took another puff or two, and felt my consciousness going down like an express elevator.