“Richard, why must you be so negative?” Seng said, turning just slightly as he opened the door to make sure the other two were indeed scrambling off the settee. “Guys, tonight—don’t worry. You just wait and see.”

Jackson tried to keep up with Seng and Richard as they quickly shuffled down the three flights of stairs, puffing and flicking. Jackson had stopped trying to smoke in Chicago after a brief attempt, just to fit in with his colleagues at the insurance office. After some months of politely holding a cigarette and resisting the urge to gag while inhaling, he had decided to accept the fact that he was going to be the sad fuck left alone in the bar or at dinner whenever his colleagues went out to have a smoke. But Seng had given him such a look when he tried to explain that he didn’t actually like smoking that Jackson just gave up and took one when Seng held out the box.

“Eh, seriously—where are we going?” Jackson asked again, wondering if he should have stayed home. His throat was starting to feel scratchy from the smoke and the heat. It was insane. Just because the three of them were best friends in secondary school didn’t mean they still had anything in common. And Seng had always been crazy—god knows what he had in mind. Great—Jackson could feel himself sweating even more.

“Almost there, lah,” Seng said, breathing heavily as he darted between a few pillars and ducked into a narrow parking lot. “Kau beh so much!”

Jackson could start to hear the chipper hum of evening kopitiam chatter as they crossed the parking lot. Seng held his right palm out, asking them to wait outside the open-air shop when they arrived. Stamping out his cigarette with his shiny brown Prada sneakers, he smoothed back his gelled hair and sauntered into the heart of the coffee shop. How the guy managed to afford all this atas European-label crap on his shipping-company peon salary, Jackson had no idea. Even Richard had a much better job than Seng—some midlevel manager at Citibank or something—and he never wore any name-brand shit.

Jackson watched as Seng exchanged whispers, then a little cash and something else, with the kopitiam uncle. Uncle reached underneath his counter and pulled out six cans of Tiger beer and a few packets of chicken-flavored Twisties, putting them in a red plastic bag and handing that over. Seng shook the uncle’s hand and slowly walked out. The whole exchange took less than two minutes. No one had even looked twice at them.

Seng was silent as he stepped outside, pausing briefly to light another cigarette before starting to move again, this time more quickly. Richard was quiet, texting as they walked, careful to keep his footsteps right behind Seng’s. Jackson glanced around—the squat towers of cheap flats passed by slowly. There was a slender road before them, one of those old bus stops on the other side that looked like a faded, oversized orange mushroom, and next to that was a set of narrow stairs.

Ah, that’s where Seng was going. The old place—a fortress of trees that was, at first, a good place to play hide-and-seek, and then later, a safe place to take girls in the early pak tor days. With all those trees around, who needs to spend fifty dollars at Hotel 88 for two hours of privacy? If the girls were enthusiastic enough in the park then, okay lah, worth it to spend the fifty at a hotel.

When Seng got to their old usual table, a chunky stone fixture with five short stools around it, he sat down, gesturing to Richard to open the beers, grunting loudly when the guy took a few seconds too long to set aside his phone. As Richard opened three cans, nudging one over to Seng and then Jackson, Seng yanked out a little plastic bag and a small flat pouch from his pocket.

“I make the first one, ah—but you better watch carefully.” Seng pulled out a small piece of paper from the pouch, laid a few pinches of what looked like dried tea leaves on it, and started rolling. “This uncle here not going to roll all the ganja for you two lazy fuckers.”

“Ganja?” Jackson said, almost shouting. “Are you crazy? We can get arrested, you know.”

Richard jumped up, looking angry. “Oi—keep quiet! You want us to get caught, is it? You don’t want to do, just fuck off, lah! Don’t stay here and kill our mood.” Seng just stared at Jackson, still holding the smoke in his hand. Richard sat back down, taking a long sip from his can.

It’s not that Jackson had never done ganja—it happened once at a frat party at Loyola, on some drunken night when a cute girl had offered it to him and he felt he couldn’t say no. He hadn’t felt much of anything then, though—not from the pot or the girl. In the end he decided that, okay lah, at least he could say he’d tried pot once. Maybe better to just be a good citizen and call it a day. He never saw the girl again either.

“Fucker, how?” Seng said. “Want or don’t want?”

The feeling was old and familiar to Jackson—trapped, mostly. A little exhilarated but trapped. Amazing how the years had passed, they were all thirty now, working men with real jobs, and Seng still managed to bugger him into all these things.

“Okay, okay,” Jackson said. “But you start first.”

Seng lit up the joint, took a deep puff, and inhaled, holding it in for a long moment as he passed the smoke to Richard, who did the same, then passed it over to Jackson. The joint felt warm between his fingers and he could smell its sickeningly sweet smoke. Jackson wasn’t quite sure what to do.

“Oi,” Seng said. “Kani nah—you not going to smoke then just pass it back, lah, okay? Don’t waste.”

Jackson put the joint between his lips and sucked deeply, holding his breath and trying hard not to cough. He passed the joint to Seng and the cycle started again. None of them said anything until the joint had made a few rounds, with Seng taking a last long puff before flinging it to the ground and grinding it out.

A cloud of deep, sweet air swaddled them now. Jackson was slowly exhaling, bit by small bit, trying to sense whether he felt any different. He heard a sharp squelch—Seng had opened a bag of Twisties and started loudly crunching away.

“Jackson, I tell you, ah, you been away so long, this country, ah—crazy already,” Seng said. “You missed all these fucking stupid things! I tell you also, you won’t believe.”

“Eh, tell him about that guy!” Richard suddenly shouted, starting to laugh. “Walau—weird fucker, man!”

“So there’s this guy, ah,” Seng began, “apparently he can only steam about his wife when she’s asleep. Aiyoh, so the fucker started drugging her at night, man—feed her sleeping pills all, so she’s really still when he pok her! Walau!” He started laughing. “Like that, still okay. Weird—but okay. But then one night, the fucker wanted to really make sure she didn’t wake up—their anniversary or some shit like that. So he tripled the dosage to make sure she really sleep deeply. But then, hello, the wife never woke up!”

Richard and Seng were laughing so hard neither could speak. Richard was doubled over, holding his stomach. Perhaps it was watching the two of them—or maybe the story? But Jackson heard himself starting to laugh too.

“I tell you,” Seng said. “I told Richard, those people at wakes—better guard their coffins, man. Now that the guy’s wife is dead and gone, he might start going to funerals to look for another dead girlfriend to pok!” Jackson was surprised to once again find himself whooping along with their laughter.

“Wait, wait—this one even more stupid, lah,” Richard said. “Apparently, ah, there’s this guy who got young, pretty mistress, lah. But then one day I think he want to break up with her or some shit. So apparently he met her by the side of some road to cut her off. Wah—the woman angry, man! She not only scratch his Mercedes and take off her high heel and bang it on the car and all. But then she started whacking him in the balls with her hands! Fucker just stood there with his head down, just accepting it!”