I met up with Sam during the summer of our nineteenth year. Before seeing him, I picked up the rest of the crew in Bessie, my scratched-up, gray minivan. Staisha and Lexi piled into the back, along with a kid I’d never met. Rather than introduce himself, he confessed he was tripping on mushrooms. Will turned to me from the passenger seat. He looked uncomfortable with the situation. I acknowledged my friend by handing over our bottle of Jameson. We arrived drunk, but we didn’t stand out. The Hill was tinted orange from streetlamps, shop fronts, and neon movie theater signs. The crowds of college students conglomerated upon the scene were dressed for sex. Men wore tight-fitting clothes and shirtless jackets. The women dressed in push-up bras and low-rise booty shorts. I was dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt with a white-dotted dress shirt over it because of an interview I had earlier that day. We found our friend lying on the piss-stained sidewalk in front of an abandoned shop front. He looked up at us with the eyes of a beggar. “Sam!” We were all happy to see him, but not like this. He hugged Staisha to the ground. “Staisha! My queen!” Finally, he noticed me. He sat up, struggling to open his eyes fully. “Julian?! You rat bastard!” We hadn't seen each other in a year. “How you doing, brother?!” “Julian! Julian, you know … you know I told them about you.” He gave a sedated smile. “I told them of your hippie ways, you fucking …” We knew he was glad to see me. The drunkenness of everything gave The Hill a whimsical randomness. When Sam did stand, he was the leader as we ventured into this realm. “Julian! We have to see Boomer. That man is my fucking father! We must see him!” Stumbling down the street, we passed a college kid screaming about being the million-dollar man; a girl, making out with someone, her eyes crossed; and a large group of frat boys chanting for books outside of a closed bookstore. We joined the chant before falling into C & C’s Piercings. The place smelled of vape smoke but bled warmth and safety. A bigger man, whose shirt was unbuttoned toward the collar, yelled, “Ah, my friends! Welcome!” The girls went to hug him. Sam and I checked out the assortment of pipes behind glass counters. The shop had hundreds—every color, shape, and size— scattered around and stacked on top of each other. There were some shaped like Gandalf and another displayed a Batman sticker with hypnotic swirls for eyes. I brought a long, blue one up to the counter. “Boomer, how are you?” “Oh, yes, very good, my friend! How are you doing?” I started to tell him a tipsy tale of my travels when Sam butted in. “Boomer! You fucking beautiful beast!” The man smiled. “You know, I tell everyone about you … Your fucking aura … You beautiful …” 59 PLAINS paradox