Maurice was driving and we were doing a slow roll through the back boulevards of east Vancouver just off The Drive. We were looking for somebody’s house, probably trying to score a little weed from some side entrance garden suite with a prominent lava lamp and a Peter Tosh flag thumbtacked to the ceiling.

The August air hung thick and motionless with no breeze running east from the ocean. Often that breeze, crisp in the mornings before the sun squatted in the sky like a toddler ablaze with petulance, was the only relief we’d see before jumping in the ocean then seeking shelter under the big trees of Stanley Park.

I was in the back seat of the car and doing my best to keep my eyes from rolling right out of my skull and onto the sun blazed vinyl backseat where they’d dry up and decompose instantly leaving me permanently blinded and sure that would suck but at least I wouldn’t have to see the back of Maurice’s head tilt slightly to the right as he stole little glances at Jordyn who was playing navigator his hair still wet and smelling of lavender from his morning shower.

Maurice turned a corner onto Semlin and slowed a little. He flipped down the visor above his head to reveal a cd holder velcro’d in place with a bunch of burned discs, silver with black writing, slotted like a spill of coins left to right. He plucked a disc from the overhead holder and slid it into the CD player set into the dashboard.

Jordyn gave Maurice the side eye then met my gaze in the rearview mirror. He had a big grin going and I braced for the worst.

I don’t think that I could say that Whole Lotta Love is the worst fucking song that I’ve ever heard in my life but it definitely sucks and I do not understand why anybody listens to it anymore. I just looked out the window and said nothing. I knew Jordyn was watching me in the rearview and laughing. | image @jaimeruiz___