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Bruce and his gang head over to the Tasy Dog after school, and one of the guys flags the dishwasheer out back.  They light up a few cigarettes and there is discussion of buying a blunt from him for the group to share.

"Hey"  He says after one of the guys take spossession of the blunt, "I may have some tabs next week, samples from a guy in Chicago.  Garunteed bad ass high if you guys wanna try some pills, I can get you a good deal."

Bruce stops rubbing his head long enough to look up at the mention of tabs.  Between the cacophany of noise in his head and the chatter of students overloading Tasty Dog, his head felt like a bass drum.  Now some kid was starting a jamboree in the restaurant and he wanted nothing more than some slight respite from the noise and bustle.  He looks at the others in his group, wondering what their response to the dishwasher's question will be.

There is a mix of nods and shakes.  A couple of the group, the far more adventuresome, agree to take some when he gets them in.  The concensus is that they'll wait to see what happens to the others before vebnturing down the road of pills and stick to some weed.

Bruce notices that as the person playing gets into his first song, the voices ebd off slightly.  They return once he moves on to other pieces of music, but not quite as annoying as before.

The needed blunt secured, the gang heads off to a spot under the El tracks to smoke it and consume a few warm beers.

After the weed is gone and everyone is lounging, working through the beer, Bruce begins to get fascinated by the trains as they pass overhead.  If he concentrates he can see little shimmery ghost images of the train and passengers as it passes overhead, like it's happening in slow motion and over and over again until finally the train is past.

Bruce stretches his limbs, letting out a long sigh as the weed and beer work their magic on him.  He leans his head back on a strut of the El tracks, not caring how hard or dirty it is.  The rumble of each approaching train seems to transmit through the steel beams, helping to soothe his head even further.  As each train passes, Bruce feels like he's being drawn up into it, nodding his head in rhythm with the screeching wheels.  The occasional blue electric spark is like a tiny orgasm as it sears into Bruce's unblinking eyes. 

"Good stuff," Bruce says to no one in particular, not lowering his head.  "Anyone else hungry?"

"Dude, I could eat a train."  One of the guys says, and there are some snickers and laughs in response.

"DOGS!" someone else says, and there is effort made to get everyone up and moving back towards Tasty Dog.

Once inside and at a table food is ordered, mostly french fries, and everyone takes in the sites and smells of the Tasty Dog.

After a couple of minutes Bruces notices that the voices that normally annoy him have once again faded and he can enjoy his food in peace.