“Jump on in, You’re in Safe Hands”

Abstract

everyone in the car—a renault, naturally—was majorly twisted, a combo of Algerian red, amphetamine, and weird over-the-counter French fuckyerheads called “Nuocodeine.” Four passengers and a female driver the total, barreling from Place des Terraux down to Bellecoeur at 2:30 A.M. to collect fresh supplies from the all-night liquor store by the underground car park. I’m seated behind the front passenger seat and only too aware, in that distanced-paranoia drug way, that she could easily kill us all, yet thrilling to the existential anarchy of the moment. (Sartre and Iggy Pop were our philosophical mentors then.)