In ninth grade, I went to a get-together with some of my friends at Steve's apartment. Not quite like the house parties of the popular imagination (no girls for one thing). Steve had an amazing apartment on the top of his building (itself on the top of a large hill), which afforded a glorious view of the city. The boys sat on his balcony, and then on the roof above it, passing around ciggarettes, cigars, and cheap hard liqour mixed with some unidentifiable juice. I abstained from all of this; there was no room for substance abuse in the religion of my forefathers. Still I enjoyed the drunkness of others, I enjoyed the fact that this group had trusted me enough to invite me to the gathering, I even enjoyed the heavy smell of tobacco as it tapered upwards.

That evening, Marc (drunk beyond measure) thought that Derek (who had misteriously disappeared) must be dead. The fright brought Marc to the verge of religious hysteria (which continued even after Derek emerged from his mysterious disappearance [a/k/a the washroom]). Marc asked someone to explain the gospel to him (a superfluous act for any of us members of a Christian school, including Marc). I read to him from the bible, he accepted Christ. It was the last conversion I can take credit for (and itself a total sham.)

In the morning, Steve noticed that nearly all of the family fish had died.