I’m walking home alone at dusk, through suburban military housing, lost in thought, wondering what that guy was going on about, telling me Mark stole his bike. He was wrong, but I don’t know if he knew he was wrong and was trying to mess with my head or if he believed it. But then I hear a ‘splat’ and look down to see a hole in the concrete beside my sandal covered foot. The hole just landed there like in a cartoon and the ‘splat’ echoes in my head. It’s noticeably darker now, the sky gone deep grey. And I feel like Opey Taylor from Mayberry R.F.D, barefoot in the woods, walking to a fishing hole in black and white, whistling a tune. And this vision persists, that I’m simultaneously a tenth grader heading home and a character from an ancient sitcom I used to watch on TV. And suddenly I realize this is what being stoned is.