Soaked in the trenches of adolescence, four teenagers embark into a world of self-discovery in Seattle during the mid-90s. A time when drugs, music, film, books, politics, religion, sex, fashion and pop-culture zealously intoxicated society. Its gritty appeal lure Heather, James, Scott and Kristin deep within the underbelly of the zeitgeist where their innocence is left to combat the propaganda machine.


Friday, September 23, 1994. 4 pm


A red ’92 Pontiac Sunbird convertible barreled down I-90 like no tomorrow. 

"Ah fuck me," Kristin shouted. 

Lowering white framed sunglasses varnished in red lenses, Heather asked, "Now what?" 

"Fuckin cigarettes man!" 

"Then stop goin through them so damn quick." 

Kristin tossed the empty box over her shoulder and squeezed the steering wheel. "Don’t give shit for the one thing no one should give me shit about." 

"Just get off the next exit." 

Instead of agreeing with the idea, Kristin switched off the radio. "Who put that shit on anyway?" 

"You did." 

"Did not." 

"Did too." 

"Change it before I run off the road." 

Heather unbuckled herself so that a shoebox decorated with stickers could be reached. The top was covered with bands Kristin manically listened to. As her finger ran past the row of cassettes, Heather plucked something that caught her eye. "Down for Dink?" 

"You mean Dave Ogilvie and Dink." 

“The fuck you mean?” 

“Dave produced their self-titled album, asshole.” 

"You want Skinny Puppy instead?" 



"The album." 

"What’s it gonna be!" 

Gazing forward in a pair of yellow sunglasses with blue lenses, Kristin coolly said, “Quit your shit." 

"Too Dark Park and Dink are in here." 

“Tough call.” 


"Both albums make my pussy wet." 

"How wet you wanna get?" 

“Not too wet.” 

“Dink it is.” 

Heather shoved the cassette in the console not knowing Green Mind would play from the speakers. Passersby’s glanced with concern as the girls thrashed their hair in circles while singing. 

They should've paid more attention to the road, but they wanted to roll into the weekend with the lack of focus. When the nearest gas station appeared, Mt. Rainier's pink and orange ice cap radiated in the sunset. 

Kristin strolled into the store while Heather lied on the hood of the car. Afternoon birds chirped in Douglas Fir and Maple trees as the clouds shifted color. 

Kristin hated their school uniform, so she liked to play it down by wearing yellow bar-laced shoelaces with black Doc Martens. They had the option to wear different color oxfords, but this morning Kristin chose a short-sleeve pink shirt to match a green argyle skirt. When she came out spanking the pack of Camel’s against her palm, she relished her edgy vibe. 

Bending over the door, she reached for the 12V lighter in the dashboard. She took note of the birds Heather listened to while inhaling the first drag. 

"Want one?" 


Kristin coolly pressed the death-stick against the cherry and sat next to her friend. 

Above them, Joe Camel was on a large billboard with an ice-cold beer and a grin. He was shirtless in roiling hot tub and presumable naked, but it was impossible to know that. 

"Bet that’s LA behind him?" Heather said. 

"Has to be." 

“His mind looks way too occupied.” 

“Hard to say with those sunglasses.” 

"Without seeing his eyes in a picture like that. I know his thoughts,” Heather said. 

"Do tell." 

"He's in a hot tub at a party in the Hills. He wants pussy and a blow job." 

Tapping the cigarette on her boot, Kristin wondered what really went on at those parties. "With a body like that. I’d blow him underwater too." 

A woman rolled into the parking lot and got out to toss papers in the garbage. She made traction toward the store but forgot something in the car, so she turned back. 

"Course you would total slut," Heather said. 

"You wouldn't?" 

"Um-hum. Bet it’s huge." 

“And if its less than 7 inches?" 

“I’d died of disappointment.” 

“The guy’s famous. Who cares about his dick.” 

A stream of smoke escaped Heather's lips. "He's a camel, Kristin. Something you not tellin me?" 

The same woman in white pants and yellow shirt came out with a paper bag, and waved when she saw the girls looking at her. But only Heather waved back. 

"So is that warehouse thing still happening?" 

"Not sure," Heather answered, "thought Scott said something about it after last period." 

"He said shit.” 


"What time is it?" 

"Six o'clock." 

Kristin tossed the cigarette on the oiled concrete and fumbled in the cup holder for a quarter. She went to a dingy phone booth at the side of the building and grabbed the phone. 

"Hi Mrs. Pruitt. How are you?" 

"I'm fine, thank you. How’s your week been?" 

"I got A's on my Geography and English exams." 

Mrs. Pruitt looked out the window and saw her husband's black Audi-100 pull in the driveway. "That's lovely dear…what did you write about?" 

"Mrs. Keenan gave us a list of books for the report, so I chose Philip K. Dick." 

"Familiar with his work?" 

"No. I'm guessing you are though." 

"I am. And my favorite work by him is Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch." 

"Sounds intense." 

"One second dearie—" Kristin heard her kiss her husband before he was asked to tell Scott about the phone call. "Sorry about that, David went to deliver the message that I'm taking up all your time." 

"Oh no, I love talking with you Mrs. Pruitt." 

"That's very sweet of you." 

"Anyhow…you didn’t finish what you saying?" 

"Oh yes, almost forgot. That book has everything science-fiction needs, but just the way he portrays the working-class society in that novel terrifies me.” 

“That’s always the case.” 

“Yes. But resorting to drugs for survival is an interesting concept.” 

“Why I haven’t I read this yet is crazy.” 

Mrs. Pruitt softly laughed. “Philip has such an empathic voice that sheds light on topics like poverty and how it can make people do strange things.” 

Kristin was glad she told Mrs. Pruitt she enjoyed her company because it was true. Out of all her friends' parents, she was capable of offering advice without being overbearing. If anything, it just exhibited where Scott got his moody and artistic personality from. 

Scott picked up the phone. “Hey." 

"Hi, darling, I would've fetched you sooner but we got into a little exchange ourselves." 

"Yup," Kristin replied, "her taste in books is such a treat." 

"Who would've guessed!" 

Mrs. Pruitt chuckled. “Any plans for the evening?" 

"I'm guessing that's why Kristin called." 

"Yes, I’m sure of it. Alrighty then, I’ll talk with you two later." 

"Have a restful weekend Mrs. Pruitt." 

"Same to you." 

Scott released a long sigh after the line cut-out. "What the fuck was that about?" 

"We were talking about books and not you for a change." 

"Yah-yah. Anyway, we goin' to that thing or what?" 

"Yeah. Heather and I just need to change." 

"Go in your uniforms." 

"You're joking." 

"Na, I'm being serious.” 


“Fuck man—you can be so dense sometimes." 

"Maybe if you weren’t a prick—I’d be less of a bitch." 

Scott was barefoot and the only piece of clothing he had on was a pair of tight black jeans. A green lava lamp morphed over his desk, making shadows on a Crass poster as if it were melting on the wall. If anything, he thought it was something the band would want if that were possible. 

"Headed over?" 

"Meet us at Heather's in an hour. We're still out." 


"Yeah, we got lost inside Bop Street Records again." 

"Find anything?" 



"Buzzcocks on vinyl. Thirty bucks. Mint condition." 

"Dang, I gotta see this." 

Overlooking the excitement, she added that she and Heather were going by “Pagliacci’s” and asked if “James” would “eat anything.” 

"I'll ask, but get enough in case." 

"Nice. Remind him to tell his dad we're crashing at Heather's after Pulp Fiction." 

It was six thirty when she hung up and lit another cigarette. When she came to the car, Heather was still laying down. 

"You awake." 

"Just thinking." 


"Nothing really." 

It left Kristin rolling her eyes and to look around suspiciously. "Anyway…about tonight. We’re crashing at your pad after we snag the pizza?" 

"Fuck you." 

"It's not that big a deal." 

"We’re supposed to be at your place tonight." 

"I need a break from my mother—" 

"And I don't." 

"I know, baby. Let me promise next time." 


Kristin held her palms in the air. "Pinky-promise." 

"Come on, man. This is royally fucked up." 

"Please…pretty please." 

Heather took a moment to pout, but once the frustration subsided, she asked for another cigarette before sliding off the car. 

"Fine. But if you're lying. I'm gonna kill you." 


As the two companions got in the car, the moon rose in the distance. They always liked how cryptic sunglasses looked whenever people worn them at night, so when they were put on, they laughed as the car sped off. 

Kristin merged on the freeway as the wind weaved through their hair like an invisible hand. Heather switched cassettes again, blaring The Damned for all to hear.

is the risk worth it?