We walked up Broadway and lit up a j.  Next stop, Dick's.
     "Rich, since I've been in Seattle, I've eaten here every day. 
At least twice."
     "That good?" I asked.
     "Superb," he said,  "extra greasy."
     He knew I was hopelessly devoted to grease.
     "I'll order first.  Just watch."
     I killed the roach and tried to focus.
     Paul said, "Two deluxe, one fry, one root beer float, and 35
cents worth of ketchup."  He turned to me and explained, "Only
place I know sells nickel bags of ketchup."
     "Cooooool," I stoned, and said to the lady in the window,
"Times two."
     We munched and killed yet another doob.
     I tied my shoelaces to a junkie and said, "Good shit.  Damn
good shit."
     Paul untied me and led me back toward the van.
     Something had changed.  

a RICHH/Paul joint