#substance #meditation Close your eyes. Count to three. Breathe deeply. Garlic is stuck under your fingernails. Your work shoes are kicked off under the pedals of the car, seat back, Daft Punk's “Discovery” is playing. In the passenger seat sits a man named Ben, with a lazy eye. He’s rolling another joint. A third guy, Kayvon, is in the back seat playing on your Nintendo DS. You're in the parking lot of a Pizza Hut. Your shift ended two hours ago and you're as high as you've ever been. Illuminated by the blue light of your radio, Ben finishes and hands his creation to you. He's muttering something about the girl he just broke up with. Kayvon just dropped out of college. And you? You're sitting in your car. A car that has been in this parking space for three weeks because it won't start. Transmission is seized, or, something. In twenty years, you'll be divorced with a ten year old daughter. Kayvon will be living at home with his mother. Ben will be dead from a Burnout 3 style chain-reaction-car-explosion. Ben looks at you as you take the joint from him. You've been talking for hours, but you can't remember anything you've said. And then he pauses and says: “Hey. What if there was a clothes store that was *this*?” You ask him what he means but he doesn't respond. The car goes quiet. It starts to rain. Welcome to Zumiez.