It’s REALLY happening! Oh my God - how did I get myself into this situation? But here I am, sitting in a stolen car with Na-Na Johnson at almost midnight on our way to the notorious Savoy Lounge!

I sit there on the Corinthian Leather, stiffer than a 47- year old virgin librarian on her honeymoon night. I look over at Na-Na, not knowing what to say. Apparently, this is as normal for him as, say, Ward Cleaver returning home from a day at the office. He plucks out a joint from his jacket pocket, sparking it up with his Kool, pulls it in deeply, and passes it over to me. What Na-Na doesn’t know is that I have never partaken of the good herb before. A virgin. In more ways than one.

I try to copy his nonchalant expertise, taking in a huge hit - and proceed to hack like a wounded seal for, like, the next five minutes. Tears are rolling down my cheeks like I’ve just watched, Born Free, or something.

“Damn, Strong, ain’t you never smoked this shit before?”

“Yeah, Na-Na, but – I protest between deep hacks – but…damn, this shit is potent, man!”

He nods knowingly.

“I ain’t never had shit like this before – whew!”

I can only hope that he believes my flagrant attempt at saving face.

He fishes out a pint bottle of NIGHTRAIN from his other pocket, and downs a big gulp. Then hands it over to me, keeping the steering wheel on cruise control, not using his hands at all.

I don’t know what type of liquor this is, but I eagerly down it in an attempt to extinguish the burning bush raging inside my chest. It goes down like a flammable concoction of pure rubbing alcohol, grape Kool Aid, and Vick’s cough medicine, and immediately sprays out of my nose. Na-Na gives me a look like I’m some kind of sexual deviant. In between the sneezing, wheezing, and tearing, I quickly take another long toke on the jay, then, throwing down a lethal gulp of the firewater, back and forth, in a manic effort to prove myself.  Suddenly, I start cracking up, Laughing, laughing, laughing, until my belly is sore.

Even Na-Na breaks a smile, which has to be a first, also, as we pass the twin vices between us.

“Man, you be buggin’ an’ shit,” he keeps repeating somewhat bemusedly, as I continue snorting NIGHTRAIN and smoke out of my nose and mouth. By the time we near The Savoy, I’ve completely forgotten what it is that I’m supposed to be afraid of in the first place.

We hop out of the ride, and Na-Na brandishes a brown leather cap, instructing me to put it on and wear the bill tilted heavily over to the side, overhanging the right part of my face.

“Yeah, now you cool.”

I start to wonder if I’m going to even get in tonight, never mind get served. I mean, I’m only fifteen and a half.

“Na – you sure I’m gonna get in tonight, man? I mean, I don’t have any I.D, or anything like that –“

“Yo – you wit’ me, man.”

Enough said.

As we’re bopping towards The Savoy, fog, the stench of the river pollution, dead fish, gasoline and diesel fuel exhaust envelopes our senses, and we finally come upon this crazy building set right off the docks. It looks like it used to be a White Castle, those greasy hamburger chains, where you could order a rat burger and fries for, like, twenty-nine cents. The color is a strange bluish-green, probably oxidized from the port air, like The Statue of Liberty.

James Brown blaring hard from the jukebox, pierces the silence of the chilly river breeze. We step inside, to find ourselves navigating through another cloud. This one of cigarette and reefer smoke, burning up my already ghoulishly bloodshot eyes. As I take off my glasses to rub the fumes out and then return them to my face, I believe we’ve somehow wandered onto the movie set of Cleopatra Jones. Only this is for real.

Pimps like the ones from, Starsky & Hutch, now strut right in front of me. Incredibly, they really are decked out in these outrageously colourful, bright orange and lime green gabardine suits. Wide-brimmed, plumed fedoras. Studded five-inch platform shoes. And a mouthful of gold, to match their blinding array of jewellery.

Holy Shit! I stand there for a minute, spellbound, the colors glowing in the dim light of the room. I strain to listen to the conversations over the steady bmmp-bmmp-bmmp of the music. Then my trance is shattered by the sharp sound of a cue ball smashing against a newly racked set of pool balls.

“Shit!  Mo’fucker singed my ass.”

Within minutes, I’m immersed in a carnival of sights and sounds, that amplifies the perception of my first-time stoned drunkenness.

Dice rolling. Knocking against the wall. Cards being expertly shuffled and dealt. Always followed by the most original curse words and swearing I have ever been exposed to. I soon realize it’s all about gambling. Gambling here is a skill, a livelihood, a game within a larger game.

Yeah.

Everyone seems to know Na-Na, and he introduces me around, always assuring them with - “He cool”, as they cast suspicious glances. This goes on for a while until he gets me my first order of ‘grog.’

The last thing I remember, is downing a can of Olde English 800, chasing it down with a shot of some kind of whiskey. Then, hearing Na-Na speaking with the largest, most muscular specimen I’ve ever seen, appropriately named ‘Hardcore’.

“It still be early, brother, shit definitely going down tonight.” He half whispers, assuredly.