And so began my littoral life on that sopping November day. The sputtering VW bug's balding tires crunching wet gravel, slowing to let me out on the side of the road. Its driver, only known to me as Kurt "No last names, man", rolled joints the whole way up using a grungy dollar bill while his jean-covered legs worked double-time hugging a can of Miller Hi-Life between them while keeping his knee jutted against the wheel, sole captain of the vessel. He griped the end of a joint with his lips, hands coming to meet it with a light from a matchbook advertising a strip club 50 miles south known for their loose moral standards and even looser quality standards. Out the side of his mouth he asked if I wanted a hit, never loosing a beat to seemingly inhale as he spoke. He reminded me of those didgeridoo players, inhaling while exhaling. Which makes me think of shitting while eating -- just unnatural synchronization. "Didgeridoo" is a derivative from a word meaning variously 'trumpeter, constant smoker and/or puffer' which seemed to fit here, a modern twist on an ancient art. Introducing Kurt: The didgeridooist of dope.

"No thanks, man," I passed.

Not from distaste for the stuff, but more a desire to keep at least one set of open eyes peering ahead into the rain. The Bug's wipers were busted -- though this didn't cause much problem; the lack of surface disruption caused the rain to merge into one solid and semi-transparent sheet of water, void of any rivulet distortion. The only distortion was in me at the moment. And maybe--ok probably--in Kurt's high.

The car rolled to a final stop and seemed to sigh though I may have projected my relief onto the hunk of battered steel. Or maybe it was a second-hand smoke effect. I leaned over into the back seat and pulled my sack out of the swamp of empty beer cans and Hostess Pie wrappers it'd settle into. My goodbye barely broke through the Canned Heat tape blaring over the crackly speakers; I'm not sure Kurt, eyes shut and head moving in time to the music, even saw me exit the car. I shoved off with my right foot, out of the door and into the black, the lyrics trailing at my heels.

...I'm going, I'm going where the water tastes like wine
I'm going where the water tastes like wine;
We can jump in the water, stay drunk all the time...

"Benthic" - abyss, relating to ocean depths
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