The Bird had recommended the Elmwood J.C. Penney store as a place to find clothes not only for his job at the Prospector, but also clothes for school; plain pocket jeans and ordinary shirts. On one of his shopping trips he had wandered over to the music section out of curiosity. But just like that fateful encounter with the Beatles in music appreciation class, anxiety crawled up his neck as he gazed over the meaningless names on the album covers.

But now he had a name, KISS, (which came on good authority - a dozen sophomores and their hero status)and he had Kansas and Pink Money? Moon? Lloyd? He would go to J.C. Penney, buy KISS, and play it in his room.

One problem: Play it on what?

On the final day of school, Bob approached his friend the Bird.

"8-Tracks. Just like I have in the Falcon. You can get a home 8 track player a lot cheaper than a full stereo system. Everybody's going to 8 tracks, pretty soon you won't see any more albums. 8-tracks are gonna be around forever."

For bob it was pretty high tech information to absorb.

"Oh, and you gotta get a good set of headphones." He dragged out the word "gooood."

"Now we're talking about $80 total here. How long is it gonna take you to save up all that dough?"

Bob had $127.14 in his pocket. He had no bank account, not even a wallet. Each of his prospect hole paychecks the last six weeks had been cashed and stuffed into his jeans. Other than a few shirts, three pair of plain pockets and one bag of peanut M & M's, he hadn't spent a dime of his earnings.

"I have enough." He pulled out the wad as proof.

"Jesus!" You could get a set of Sennheisers!" The Bird was truly impressed.

"Also, how much does it cost to buy po-uhmm, bob?"

The Bird reflected and then preambled. "First, you're gonna need something to smoke it in." Bob hadn't thought of that. "But with school out now, we could make a quick run over to Mankato. They've got a cool head shop and you could pick out what you like."

Bob didn't know what a head shop was but figured he would find out soon enough.

"With bob, there are different prices for how good it is and how much you want."

"Well" Bob struggled. "Like that kind we had..." "Columbian Gold" the Bird beamed. "I guess maybe..." He took a shot in the dark. "Two pounds?"

The Bird staggered comically. "Are you fucking shitting me? That's like $2,000!" He laughed at the absurdity.

"Oh, sorry." Bob had to laugh a little himself. "How much then..." he left the question dangling for the street savvy Bird. "An ounce will run you eighty. Forty for a half. But I don't think there's much gold left in the Elm. There's always plenty of Mexican" the Bird made a sour face. "You can get that for half the price."

It worked out perfectly. $80 for music. $40 for gold. Certainly the head shop wouldn't be more than $7.14.

"Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, music, half an ounce, and the head...um place." Then he appealed: "Can you help me?"

The next day, the first day of summer vacation, Bob and the Bird went shopping.

2.

Bob sat in the Falcon rolling the plastic baggie in his hands. Inside he could see that the pot had a golden brownish look to it. Ergo the name, Columbian gold.

"He had some other halves already packaged, but it was bottom of the barrel stuff, seedy and full of sticks. He's been happy with the business I've brought him so he took a full ounce bag of the good stuff, cut in half, and there you go." The Bird prided himself on getting a good deal for his passenger, then came a straightforward warning. "Hide it good, and if you get caught, just say you found it."

"Can we try it?" Bob asked the question as if he were a customer wanting to test drive a new car.

"Thought you'd never ask!" the Bird chirped. "Let's find a spot to load up."

The spot, ended up being Johnson Park. A poorly designed area that was no more than a hill sloping into the banks of the Minnesota river. They pulled into the parking lot and the Bird retrieved his pipe from under the seat. "Load it up." He handed the pipe over.

Honest, and embarrassed: "I don't know how."

"Here, let me show you." The Bird demonstrated and Bob observed. "You don't need much, remember, this is gold." Bob reflected on his statement the previous day and said: "And I wanted 2 pounds." This cracked up the Bird and got Bob to smiling. They weren't even stoned and already they were laughing. The social magic that is weed.

They toked. Again Bob felt that floating feeling and the world began to morph. As the ember dimmed, the Bird rummaged for music, finally settling on Ted Nugent. He popped in the cartridge and they listened as uncle Ted sang of sweet poon tang.

"Let's go man." The Bird tapped out the pipe and fired up the Falcon.

Being stoned during the day was much different than night. The world was alive! Trees, signs, houses, colors, things that bob had never noticed before were three dimensionally radiant.

He looked at the Bird in awestruck wonder. How did he know where he was going? Bob could have been in a foreign country for all he knew, not the city that he had lived his whole life in.

They pulled into the JC Penney lot and the Bird cut the engine. "You remember to bring your money?" Bob was stunned. He had no idea. He reached into his pants pocket and discovered something very strange. He pulled it out. A fat sack of weed.

"Jesus! Be careful" the Bird hissed whipping his head around frantically. Bob labored mightily with the simple task of re-pocketing the contraband. Then he tried the other pocket. Yes, cash.

"Okay, let's score some music."

The process of navigating the store, selecting the home 8 track player and headphones was all in the hands of the Bird. Bob could only do his best to follow. The Bird recommended a player. The picture on the box looked like a single slice toaster laying on its side. He then identified the headphones. "Man I wish I could afford Sennheiser's" the Bird said enviously. In the adjoining aisle, the music section, Bob took his first lead. "KISS" he said.

"Oh, KISS fucking rocks" the Bird opined. The 'f' word caught the ear of a prune-faced saleswoman who hissed at the boys.

"Oops!" The Bird whispered. This got both boys to laughing. The Bird good naturedly, bob uncontrollably. The prune faced lady disappeared and a minute later a young suit approached them. "Something we can help you boys with?"

""Nope, we be good." The Bird quipped and shot bob a shit eating grin. At the sight of the manager-type bob sobered quickly. The world's guiltiest expression crossed his face. "You know we have a zero tolerance policy for theft." The suit shot without provocation. "You wouldn't have anything in your pockets I would want to know about." Bob felt panic-stricken. The Bird came to the rescue.

"Yes we do, my friend has over $100 in his pocket that we planned to spend here." He pointed to the shopping cart with the 8 track player and high end headphones. "Go on, show him your cash." Bob reached for one pocket, blushed when he realized he had chosen wrong, and then from the other extracted a fat wad of cash. The suit was now back-peddling, the Bird advancing. "But if you want to accuse us of stealing, we'll take our money and buy our shit (he had no reservation using the word) elsewhere. Then we will tell everyone we know that Mr. Snot grass (intentionally mispronouncing Snodgrass from the name badge) doesn't want young people to shop at Penney's."

"Let's go." The Bird left the cart and then after a moments hesitation bob followed.

They had gotten ten paces before Mr. snot grass recovered. "Boys, please. My mistake." The Bird stopped. Bob the same. The manager was wheeling the cart toward them. "We do want you to make your purchases at Penney's. I had gotten a false report from one of our clerks that she thought she saw you shoplifting."

""That's bullshit, and you know it." Wow, even stoned the Bird had stones.

"Because of her misunderstanding I'll authorize 15 percent off your purchase."

"We weren't even done yet!" The Bird was fueled with piss and vinegar.

"Then yes, please, finish at your leisure and I'll make it 20 percent off."

Bird looked at bob in silent consultation. Bob was petrified, he wanted nothing more than to get out. He was utterly paranoid, panic stricken, fucked up stoned.

"Okay" the Bird moved back to the cart. Bob willed his feet to follow.

"When you're ready to check out, just have the cashier call Mr. Snodgrass, I'm the assistant manager."

They trundled the cart back to the music end-cap, the prune-faced clerk, hell every clerk, visibly absent, and relived the encounter while browsing the tapes.

"Fucking dickhead." The Bird said evenly, then brightened. "But we just saved you a bucket of money!" He smiled at bob.

"You." Bob corrected. "You saved me...a bucket of money." He was still quivering inward. Paranoid thoughts raced through his head. What if the manager was lying, what if the police were on their way, what if he was searched, what if he had pulled out the weed instead of the money like he almost did, what if, what if...

"Here it is, KISS Alive Two!" Some idiot stuck it in the "L" slot."

Grateful that they could now be on their way, bob added the 8 track to the cart and they headed to the cashier.

As promised, they were granted a 20 percent discount. Bob, inexperienced at handling money in the best circumstances, struggled vainly to present the correct combination of bills. Eventually the clerk interceded, asking for another 5 that lay on top of the kids wad, rather than watch his shaking hands worry out three of the ones interspersed in his bankroll.

"Fuckin' A man! Saved you what, 10, 15 bucks?" They were rolling again, the Bird basking in the victorious encounter, Bob easing his palpitating heart. "We gotta celebrate and I gotta top off the tank before we head to Mankato. Munchies and fuel!"

They hit the edge of town and pulled into the same 7-11 as they had one week ago. The Falcon rolled up to the pumps.

"Bird, I should pay." Bob was choosing his words slowly: "For gas." And then amended: "And munchies." He grinned shyly at the Bird.

"You're on my man! Gotta warn you though, she's bone dry." The Bird hopped out to pump while Bob took a confidence building breath and headed up to the store.

It was easier this time. He found the munchie aisle and pondered his selections. With the Bird busy at the pumps he had the time he needed to make his choices. Last time it had been an overwhelming experience. Everything scared him. This time it was the opposite, everything appealed to him. He grabbed life savers and red licorice, milk duds and a Butterfinger bar.

"Ha! You got the munchies bad!" The Bird walked by him on auto pilot and snatched a can of honey roasted nuts.

They hit the counter and paid. Munchies: $2.27. Twelve gallons of gas: $3.60. Total $5.87.

Fortuitously, Bob found a five and a one among the first three bills, collected his change and started to walk out. "You may want these!" the clerk echoed.

Bob turned back, retrieved the sack of munchies and laughed to himself. 'It makes you forget.'

3.

The drive to Mankato was the most awe-inspiring and scariest adventure Bob ever experienced. Never had he been beyond the city limits in the daylight, his longest trek prior had been at night with the Bird.

Again the drive was a slow motion wonderland of lines rising off the road and vibrant plastic landscape rolling by on either side in make believe animation.

The Bird triggered uncle Ted who blazed through Dog Eat Dog, Street Rats, and Free for All.

It's a free-for-all and I heard it said, you can bet your life.

The stakes are high, and so am I, it's in the air toni'-i'-ight'!

Bob took in the show, eyes, ears and taste. He started with the Butterfinger, until this moment the closest he had ever come to one was on television. The sensation was exquisite. Soft creamy chocolate, then an easy crunch that crumbled fragments of sweetness throughout his mouth. He wavered between chewing and just letting the sweet mass melt on his tongue.

He advanced to the licorice, not a disappointment by any means, but less than he expected. The milk duds started with promise, but soon his inexperienced jaw protested from over-masticating. He set them aside after going through only 5, promising himself to save them and the lifesavers for later.

"Just about there!" The Bird had polished off his nuts long ago, the empty tin joining the collection on the back floorboard. (Dropped back carefully this time, protecting the new audio equipment perched on the back seat) Bob observed the change in scenery. More billboards, far more! Heavier traffic, and now even what could be considered a skyline. Not just broadcast and electric towers, but buildings that created a bumpy little ridge on the horizon.

The immensity scared him. So large, so foreign. Thirty thousand people lived there; three times the size of Elmwood!

He put confidence in the Bird's ability to guide them through and pledged that he would not let him out of his sight. Being lost, so far from home, he wouldn't know what to do.

Just beyond the city limits, the Falcon swung briefly south, then again east. Bob stared at the passing homes and buildings and nearly came out of his seat when he saw KMKO - Channel 12.

"Channel 12!" He shouted. "KMKO!" He clung to the doorframe like a kid watching a parading line of circus elephants.

The Bird shot him a goofy glance. "Yeah, it's for real. Somethin' funny. You know that guy who does the Casey the Engineer shtick?" Bob returned his full attention to the Bird. "Well he's a drunken moron!" The Bird laughed and Bob tried to validate the rift that had just occurred between his real (Bird) and TV (Casey) idols.

"How do you know?"

"Hell, I was on that stupid show once when I was a kid. You know how he goes around and asks everyone their name?" Bob sat stunned. "Well he comes up to me reeking of booze! And then in 6 grade, you know that Playground Champions thing? Well I qualified to be on the show for box hockey. Guess who's the host? And guess who was liquored up like a lush! He's a total fuckin' drunk!"

The Bird laughed at the revelation and Bob sat silent, absorbing the immensity of the new found knowledge. His mind was spinning fast but going nowhere faster. Channel 12 was real! The Bird had actually been on Casey's show AND on playground champions. Casey was a drunk...was that a bad thing? The big city could indeed be a scary place.

They rolled a few more blocks, the Bird craning his neck, and then the announcement: "There it is!" 'Utopian Pipe Dreams.' He found an open meter and occupied the space.

Solid black walls adorned with psychedelic posters. Black lights, dozens of them, suspended from the ceiling, wall-mounted and strategically aimed, all bringing the interior of the shop to mystical swirls of living color.

Lava lamps, lined in rows above the back counter, releasing colored globules of mysterious fluid that rose, congealed, sank and rose again.

Display tables with prized offerings, hookahs that resembled miniature bagpipes, their slender tubes tipped with ornate stems for drawing communal smoke.

Bongs, so many bongs big and small, they commanded three tiers of shelving, the overall image resembling the world's biggest calliope.

And at the display case, the object of their quest: the pipes. Glass one-hitters with alternating convex and concave moldings, crafted to accommodate and steady the fingers. Metal pipes with slender stems, their mouthpieces and bowls threaded for easy detachment and cleaning. Clear open-ended tubes, crowned with larger bowls, their carburetors strategically placed for operation by any callused thumb.

Behind the counter sat the antithesis of JC Penney's Mr. Snot grass; a man who had saved fortunes on haircuts and razor blades over the last decade. He was draped in an oversized flowery shirt, laced by lines of Corona beer bottles ringing the collar, sleeves and untucked tail. Threadbare jeans and trendy moccasins completed his attire, and glassy red-lined eyes signaled his chronic disposition. He nodded at the new customers. And even through all that hair, with a head somewhere beneath it, you could read the message. 'Welcome, browse, take your time, enjoy.'

Bob's fear of losing sight of the Bird evaporated. In this place, there were people who understood him, who could help him if he needed help. Any questions about the morality of getting stoned were erased. You can't have a store like this right out in the open and still believe that smoking pot was bad. To the contrary, this showed all that was good about pot. The magical imagery, the dark, quiet environment. Somewhere hidden in the darkness was a pair of speakers, from them emanated sounds of Asian music, little bells, sitars and gentle wooden blocks that tickled his ears. A light scent of some sweet flower permeated his nostrils.

Bob greedily absorbed Utopian. These people understood. They knew about the sights, the sounds, the smells, and had there been free honey glazed peanuts, even the taste enhancing abilities of pot.

The big city might be a scary place, but not here. Bob felt completely at ease. This was home.