“Fuck, this shit is good.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Why do we always pass left?”

“To piss you off.”

“Fuck you dude…Fuck, this shit is good.”

I loved my friends. We were like a really eclectic Breakfast Club, so different but so intrinsically the same. We lived in the moment and laughed like laughter was our life force, our water and our grain.

“Is that a cop?”

“Sam, chill” I laughed before taking a hit and passing to Went.

It was the first weekend of summer and tradition reigned. Every second week of June since the tenth grade, we loaded into Gus’s car heading for the fields off of 91 with a trunk full beer and a glove compartment packed with weed and old tapes. We spent the night lying under the stars in a circle, talking, whispering, singing along with the music that blared from Gus’s grimey tape deck.

That’s Gus for you—perpetually grimey. He was the scruffy nerd, tall and gangly, his sight constantly hindered by his mop of brown hair.

Then there was Sam—the protective one. He was Glen’s, my brothers, best friend, and in a way, another big brother.

Went—the Casanova. Such a fucking ladies man. He was tall, dark, and handsome. And freckled. Went hated his freckles.

Last, but definitely not least, Ari. The ying to my yang—my best.

“Spencer, kill it.”

They didn’t have to tell me twice.

Suddenly, Sam stood up, dusting dirt from the seat of his pants plucking the keys from its place in the middle of our coveted circle.

“Dude, what gives?” Gus asked, lifting his head from its resting place in the crook of my neck.

“Yeah, seriously. No one touches the key to Bertha, but the Gus-man.” Gus said slowly, a goofy smile playing across his already goofy face. Bertha was the pet name he gave his car, Gus-man his superhero alter-ego—he had the creativity of a stick of wood.

“Why, Gus? Why do you insist on calling him Bertha? This automobile gem is not a Berta. It’s something tough and manly—“

“Like a verb?” Ari piped up.

“Yeah! Like a…Crusher or—“

“Bruiser!” Ari exclaimed, leaning back on her palms and turning her head up towards the star.

“Nope, she’s a Bertha, dude. Look at those volumptous tires, that sleek windshield, don’t even get me started on those blinkers, every time you make a turn, flashing, blinking like she’s so bashful.”