Boss and I got high one time by the fence near the Geary underpass, sometime during the summer before I started highschool. The sun was out and it was late afternoon. Cars above and below, the sounds of grass hoppers, and two adolescents–one tall and robust; the other smaller, younger, and gangly–killing time in the long grass. You could have made a painting of it, to match the one in my memory. Boss and I had been quiet for some time, and then suddenly he–the taller, older, one–had something to say.

"See Benny, why would a guy fuck around with a girl?"

"Like, have sex with her?" I asked.

"Yeah like have sex with her. Is it because he's in love with her?"

I blinked. "I guess so."

Boss shook his head. "No, Benny, no matter what people say to you, you've got to remember– there ain't no reason a guy's gonna get with a girl besides one thing."

He paused for effect.

"What?" I asked.

"Pure. Animal. Instinct."

"Whoah." I said.

"Yeah, but like, most girls–hell, even most guys–they don't know it. Like, guys, they know it, but they forget–" his brows knotted together in thought.

"Girls can make them forget. Or even their animal instinct, that makes them forget it."

Boss paused now, one eye squinting out at the world beyond the underpass, testing the truth of his statement.

"Yeah?" He was asking me for an answer. I was following, but barely. The drugs were strong, and Boss had a habit of talking fast– as fast as he was thinking.

"I guess so..."

"Yeah. But girls: they're mostly stupid. They don't figure it out, and no one tells them– or someone tells them and, hell, they don't believe it!" He gestured out towards the bridge.

"Tells them what?" I asked.

"Tells them about the animal instinct. Tells her why a guy would wanna fuck her."

"Oh."

I was impressed. I'd never thought about why I wanted to fuck a girl (though I did want to– badly), or what a girl might think of my wanting to fuck her. Boss had. It was revolutionary.

"Like your average girl, she thinks it's love, right? Every time. Like she's the fucking apple of your moonlit eye or whatever; she'll never think she's some piece of ass. It's their dignity and upbringing or something. They're living a fairy tale. You're in it for the bang, and they're in it to be fucking, Snow White or whatever." He paused, his face contorted in disbelief at the ignorance of the female species. There was silence for a moment: Boss lost in his train of thought; I re-envisioning my conception of every girl I'd ever met as a creature who irrationally perceived herself as one of those stupid cartoon princesses.

"Some girls– they figure it out."

"Figure what out?" I looked over at Boss. He was still concentrating, staring out over the field at the bridge.

"Like, they know you're just in it for the bang."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You know what those are, the girls that know what's going on, and still get with you?"

I was in awe.

"No..."

"Those girls– are sluts. That's what makes a slut, man."

Boss laughed.

"Pretty cool. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

There was a silence: Boss retreating back to his previous contemplation. The distinction had just occurred him him–or reoccurred, more likely–and he was enjoying the feeling. I was pulling up small clumps of grass with my hands; my arms occupied on either side of me, the rest of my body trying to match his idleness.

"What about girls who know, but don't sleep with you?"

Boss broke into laughter– it sounded like more of a chuckle, but he had bent double over himself, and then he whipped his head back and laughed up at the sky; made a real show of it, his mirth. Then he shook his head, still looking upwards, at the clouds.

"Don't worry about those girls, Ben. Those girls are trouble."

"Yeah?"

Boss leaned back against the fence: legs stretched out, head back and tilted– a picture of cool. He was seeing something that I wasn't, back behind his retinas. I was aware of myself trying to act as relaxed as he was, with all of his confidence. In years to come, I'd think back to him sprawling there–lost in recollection, uncaring, sure of the universe–and I'd try to be him in that moment in time, only to end up feeling more like myself in that same moment, trying to be him. I'd remember this silent struggle in situations that were totally unrelated to that day.

He wasn't talking.

"Come on?"

"Eh."

"What about girls who know but don't sleep with you."

Boss eyed me now. He was grinning, fully immersed in the drama of his conversation, playing the role of guru. He could see my bones, my goddamn capillaries– he owned me. Boss was a born story teller who had accepted a superior and illiterate destiny.

"Girls who know, but don't give it up."

He nodded, eyes in slits, thinking hard. He smiled.

"Those girls are rare. Hard to find."

His hand gestured freely as he spoke, like a conductor's, and I watched it as it moved, waiting for my cue.

"Those girls are philosophers. Those are fucking, philosopher girls. That's the real money, right there." The lopsided grin of Boss's mouth and the half wink in his left eye made it seem like he was kidding, but his tone was omniscient.

"Those girls, those philosopher girls: you gotta work on them to get them to fuck you. Like, you have to prove to them that fucking you is worth it, just for the sake of fucking, you." He laughed. "You know? But then, when you're doing it, like when you're finally fucking, doing it, that's the best. The fucking best– she's not a slut, so you're knowing you worked for it, but she's not a normal girl, either: this girl knows you're not like, in love with her or whatever. You're free– you're totally free."

He shook his head, mane everywhere, freeing himself from his lecture, reverting back from ingenious teenage idol, to crass 17 year old stoner.

"It's a bitch to get set up. But if you can get it, man, that's good."

He was grinning, it was a joke now.

"Like, that's real cool. Fuck, you got it?"

I was nodding.

"Yeah".

He was laughing at me with his eyes.

From that day onwards, I wanted the philosopher girls: wanted them to the point of private obsession. I had barely "got" what Boss what talking about, but I'd grasped the essence of it. All through highschool I watched my friends chasing the girls that Boss would have called sluts–banging them one at a time–miserable girls, always laughing but always fucking miserable: sad; boring; seemingly sex addicted girls– while myself, I didn't have any interest. I wasn't interested in those other girls either, those girls you had to say I love you to and buy things for and drive around and talk to her parents– some of my friends got stuck with that, and sure enough, they'd get pretty stuck on those girls, too, these "nice" girls: their girlfriends– get all weird and obsessive, it seemed to me. It was normal, that was what normal people did, that's what happens, but me? I knew what I wanted. I wanted Boss's conquests: those girls who were somehow above everything, until you talked them down, got under their skins, and finally–with total lucidity and presence of mind–the girl would oblige and that cold, intelligent body would be wilfully yours: passionate yet undesperate; alive and real– and, in the morning–or even that night?–afterwards: she'd be gone; she'd leave you alone and return to her solitude: completely unchanged. Leaving you with the knowledge that you had won: you had won, and she knew it. She'd let it happen. And you were really something, then.

At least, that's how I imagined it.

I looked for those girls everywhere I went. Part of the problem was, I didn't know what to look for– Boss's description had sounded real good, but it didn't really include many physical indicators. For a while I was into those artsy girls–those girls who got to skip class to paint fancy murals, or who wrote poems in lit class that made the teachers get all hard or wet; the girls who dressed all edgy and scared other kids, or wore all soft colours and seemed to love everyone–I'd go after those girls a bit, talk to them, take them out to a movie; a play; whatever shit they were into, skim the books that they lent to me, nod at them– whatever. They weren't real: most of them wanted a boyfriend, most of them were utterly normal– though the ones who used drugs were often sluts by default. I made a couple of these girls cry and then I was more or less demonized by them all: not just in the school, but in town, too: the whole "art" crowd– they all knew each other. I didn't care, I was confident by then that I'd seen enough. I started to think that Boss made those girls up; that there weren't three types of girls– just two. Just girls who wanted to marry you, or cheap fucks. I started to get pretty down. I had a growing reputation: I was an asshole, whatever– but I could feel it too, I was closing up.

It was about the time that people were saying I was an asshole that I heard some stuff about Boss. That he'd had a couple of kids: both with the same girl; that he was living in a house in the far west end of the city, and that he had a job at the baseball stadium, working as a vendor.

"Oh yeah?" I said, and the guy who was talking about it seemed to recognize me then, and remember that I used to hang around with Boss.

"Yeah, he's working Thursday through Saturday for the next little while. Selling peanuts and junk. In a hat. I saw him the other day."

"Cool." I said, looking out over the cafeteria. I thought about what I was going to say to Boss. "Sorry to hear you got trapped– what kind of girl is she, did you ever really meet a philosopher girl; where do you find them? I've been looking, man..."

I figured it would be stupid to pay to see a game and then end up sitting in a section with a ten percent chance of seeing Boss come by with peanuts, so I went to the stadium the next Friday afternoon and asked at the gate if they knew whether Richard Bossman was in yet. The old bastard I talked to probably wouldn't have helped me out, but some girl was there behind him pulling a sweater off from over her concession stand uniform–probably just arriving to work–and she said she'd just seen "Rich", and that she would find him for me.

I waited around, trying to look cool–like I waited around baseball stadiums all the time, for fun–and moms and dads with kids came up and bought tickets from the old bastard; validated parking, whatever.

"Benny! Hey man, what are you saying?"

Boss was standing beside me, uniform on. His hair was short and he had a mustache. He looked older– it took a moment to sink in. He had a brightly coloured baseball cap in his hand with the logos of several snack companies printed onto it. I said that I'd heard he was working at the stadium, and asked if he wanted to meet up later for a drink somewhere. I tried to sound casual, but Boss looked concerned for me.

"Yeah, man, there's a bar up the street–some Mexican name I always forget–you can watch the game there and they won't bother you about your age or nothing. I'll come by after I clean stuff up, alright?

That laugh was still in his eyes. I wondered if he was into baseball; if he watched the game while he worked. I wondered if he knew that I was going to just walk around for the next few hours rather than go into the bar. I thought he probably did.

When I walked into the half-heartedly Marti Gras inspired "Los Dous Chicas"–or whatever–Boss was already there, talking to a guy at the bar. He looked relaxed: he'd changed out of his uniform, and had different a baseball cap on.

"Hey Benny, you made it."

The guy he was talking to was introduced as Sean: also from the stadium. I ordered a beer, and the game was talked about for a while. Sean did most of the talking, but the bartender was into it too– I guessed they'd been watching the game on television. Boss was eyeing me.

"So Benny, how ya been?"

"I've been alright..."

"You working?"

"Nah, I'm in school. This is my last year."

Sean and the bartender were away in their own conversation now– Sean telling an anecdote about a horse race or something. I wondered if Boss came here a lot.

"What about you? I heard you live around here now."

Boss stretched his arms out from his shoulders out to the elbows, smiling and comfortable, nodding.

"Yeah. Me and the girl got a house."

"Girl, hey– I heard you got kids now?"

"Yup. Two little babies: Flora and Sasha."

Boss snapped his fingers.

"Damn! I'd show you snapshots– but my wallet's in the car. I could go..."

He paused and cracked a smile, laughing to himself.

"Well, they look like babies. Like little people. A bit like me and a bit like Dana."

The selfless pride in Boss's voice– I felt like I was talking to my father. Who was this person sitting across from me? This man with Boss's laughing eyes.

"Dana?"

"That's my girl; what about you, Benny– you got a girl? You was always shy."

I wondered if he'd known, when he saw me standing outside the stadium, that I'd come to talk about women.

"No, no. Uh..."

I looked for something I could say, feeling like my head was the only thing above water. This wasn't Boss– but I still wanted to pose my question. I couldn't come this far to just forget about it.

Boss watched my face while I searched for words.

"I been thinking about those philosopher girls." I stopped, waiting for him to jump in.

"Who?"

"You remember– you said there were different types of girls?"

Boss laughed, over his beer bottle.

"Yeah, I wouldn't doubt I said that. There's all types of girls, Ben. What'd I say?"

He'd forgotten. The conversation had shaped the last three years of my life, and he didn't remember. The drugs; Boss had talked shit to everyone– why would he? But he would remember the basics. I had to try.

"The philosopher girls."

I waited.

"The girls who... There are three types of girls, and most of them don't know that you only want to fuck them, but some girls do know, and they're sluts– except one type that knows, and doesn't fuck you, until you kind of convince them to–"

"Whoah, hold on. You only want to fuck them?"

"Yeah..."

I looked up at him, and my eyes met with a face I'd never seen before– not with those features: not on Boss. His face was a mixture of pity, sadness, and anger– not all of it directed at me: a large part of it seemed to belong to his world at large. I'd said the wrong thing.

"What kind of shit are you talking? You don't say that about a girl– Jesus, man. Thinking that kind of shit about girls, that'll fly in school, I guess– but you got to give it up."

Boss's began to gesture out towards the bar, as though it were a world filled with females instead of a small room filled with men.

"Women... they've got all the stuff inside them that we do. You can't just think of them as fucks; write them off as types. You can't do it."

Boss' s face lost it's edge as he looked at me, and his voice lowered in tone as he lost the majority of his anger. His stare wouldn't leave my eyes: his expression a mask of concern, sincerity, and even a kind of gentle humour. I felt even more strongly that I recognized the features, but not the man beneath them. Why was I sitting there listening to a stranger?

"I'd say that there are two types of women, Benny: women you want to be with forever, and women you don't."

I'd never met a girl whom I'd wanted to be with forever. I stared at my hand, knuckles turning white around the bottle.

"Don't be so angry, Benny."

I couldn't look away from my hand on the beer on the counter. I didn't want to feel ashamed, I wanted to reject Boss's words– yet he was still a powerful force, and my memory was suddenly flooded with tedious mistakes that had posed as calculated choices; all at once it seemed as though my past actions had been governed by pathetic misconceptions: that it was I who was a failure; a jester– I'd been playing the part of a bumbling, shameful fool. My reality was falling down around me, while Boss grinned and pushed in his bar stool.

"Benny– great to see you, but I got to get home."

Boss gave me a light punch on the shoulder. He had nothing more to say; I was a piece of his past, and he pitied me– a boy living in the ruins of his legacy while he himself had transformed into a completely different personality: wise-man; father; gentle lover of womankind. I felt sick. Boss nodded a goodbye to the bartender, and then turned back to me.

"Thanks for coming by, man, good talking to you."

"Yeah, good to see you."

I clinked my bottle against his empty one. Boss winked at me–the same face winking, but a new idea behind it–and then he was gone. Back to his house and his family. I sat for a while with my beer, alone; Sean was gone, and the bartender was talking to some girls who'd come in while Boss and I were talking. When I finished I paid my tab, left the bar, and walked the two hours home to my own side of town. Everything seemed like it was against me: the buildings, the cars on the highway, the people I walked by. Everything the same. It was dark by the time that I got home.