7-11 on the fourth of July, 1989. It was so bright and packed at 2 a.m., including, I had just noticed as I entered, a cop. Fuck. I had managed my first acid trip pretty well, so far, but I was in over my head. Sonny and I had rehearsed out front before I went in and we had a few rules...

1. Don't look at anyone's face. I had no reason to, so don't fucking do it. I wasn't really a people person, but the acid gave me the ability to really connect with people, as long as their way of expressing love was to smile at me as I laughed at them and, occasionally, fainted like I was going to punch them... No, wait, that was Sonny.

2. Get chocolate in all forms not to exceed $20 in cost. Because the Gods had communicated the need for chocolate.

3. Don't look anyone in the face. This is important.

It had been my turn, since Sonny had gone in the last place. We had really peaked not too long before, blasting through the city on our expensive BMX bikes, grinding, flatlanding, jumping and avoiding Mexicans with knives. Oh, and cops. We didn't want to talk to cops. Big no-no.

Sonny pumped up my confidence outside and I headed in. I had gathered many chocolatey items and was getting in line when I noticed the cop car parked out front. I was smart, I didn't look around. I didn't look at anyone. I was managing my shit and the wave was looming over my head as I outran the peeling doom... Mentally.

Nobody spoke to me, I didn't speak. I was really focused on the cop, though. When it was my turn, I just handed the guy behind the counter my $20 bill and took a casual look around, not at any faces, just shirts, etc. The cop was four behind me in line. The cashier, about three or four years older than me, white, frumpy his 7-11 blazer a little too big for him said something to me and I looked at him.

Yeah, I had been doing so good, too. I must have spaced off for a second or something, I mean, was I just standing there? Suddenly, I couldn't remember whether or not I had paid. I looked at my hand and I had money in it, so I handed it to the cashier.

He was looking at me with a mix of mockery and envy, with a touch of understanding. When I raised the hand holding the money he had just handed me, he looked at it, then back at me. About that moment, I realized I had already paid.

I froze. Fuck, I was stuck in a loop or something. Fuck. don't turn around and look for the cop, don't turn ...

The cashier shrugged, looked at me with a grin as he took the money out of my hand and said, "Right on." He didn't look away as he shoved it all in his pocket and pointed to the door, as if giving me a secret doorway.

There is a place within our bodies where true laughter comes from, a place of enormous power. A single giggle bursting forth from this place shortens our lives by hours. It gives no warning, seeks no permission and does not give a shit about decorum.

I shaved about two weeks of my life as I walked briskly to the door, my long hair in my face. As I came through the door, the look of disappointed horror on his face as he looked away from me towards the officer in the police cruiser parked right in front of him, he moved into action, handing me the handle bars to my bike.

I managed a, "I just gave that fucker a $15 tip."

"Why?," he asked, clearly overwhelmed.

"No fucking idea!"

We sped away as fast as we could, taking turns and attempting as confusing an escape as we felt capable of.

Into a night, ticking away, ears waiting to accept screams, skidding tires, bitching sirens and scratching lighters. Was it ever really that good again?