Kid On A Mission Downtown by David L Gordon

Kid On A Mission Downtown by David L Gordon

So there’s this 18 year old kid from Scarborough, right? He hops the bus downtown, that rolling mausoleum of teenage ambition, because he’s on a mission: hash. Not a job, not enlightenment, not even a date. Hash.

He walks into Rochdale, and who’s doing security in the lobby? Satan’s Choice biker gang. Yeah, because nothing says “student run free university” like a biker gang with clipboards.

He’s thinking, “Do I need a student card or a human sacrifice to get past these guys?”

He mutters, “Bruce… third floor,” and the biker just nods. Like, “Yeah, kid, we know Bruce. Everybody knows Bruce. He’s the guy with the brick of hash so big you could build low income housing out of it.”

The elevator was out again, so the kid climbs the stairs, chanting to himself: “Bruce, third floor… Bruce, third floor…” By the time he gets there, it’s just “Bruuu… floor… hash… oh God.”

He opens the door, and there’s Bruce. Empty room, trench coat aura, brick of hash on the table like the Rosetta Stone of bad decisions. Bruce slices off a chunk, hands it over, and the kid feels like he’s holding the key to the universe. And here’s the cosmic punchline: the universe doesn’t care. You smoke it, you laugh, you cough, you forget what you were talking about. You think you’ve unlocked cosmic truth, but really you’ve just unlocked the fridge at 3 a.m. and eaten all the Pop Tarts.

So the kid leaves, clutching his treasure, and then he sees it. A cop in a car, staring at him, speaking into a hand-piece. Suddenly his brain goes full paranoia mode. “They know. They know about Bruce. They know about the brick. They know I’m the chosen one to go downtown to buy...Why did I agree anyway.”

And he scuttles to the back to the bus like a cockroach in daylight, heart pounding, convinced the entire Toronto Police Service is mobilizing against him. He slumps into the seat, clutching his hash, thinking, “This is it. This is the revolution. And I’m gonna miss it because I’m too busy hiding from imaginary cops.”

Because that’s the joke, folks: we’re all just kids from Scarborough, sneaking past biker gangs, chasing bricks of meaning, and running from cops who probably aren’t even looking at us. The paranoia is the punchline. The universe isn’t out to get you. It is too busy laughing at the fact you thought Bruce on the third floor had the answers.