Thing of Beauty by Stephen Fried

would sit on the grassy lawn outside the 107 Lunchroom and smoke what teachers might have even believed were hand-rolled cigarettes. A girl nicknamed Cricket sometimes brought a guitar and played; another girl had a bulky tape deck and recorded their conversations. One of the group’s leaders was Ellen Moon,* who shared her school locker with Gia because it was closer to the lunchroom: their Bowie-bedecked compartment was immortalized in the high school yearbook. There was usually only a joint or two to pass around, and marijuana in 1973 was rarely as potent as the industrial-strength pot the late seventies would produce. But the lunchtime ritual—followed by the Marlboros that everyone smoked—would produce a pleasant, giggly buzz that took the edge off the rest of the day. For those who bothered to wait for lunchtime to get high, grades in courses with afternoon classes were often markedly lower than those scheduled in the morning.
    Gia was often counted upon to provide the marijuana, because her brother Michael happened to be one of the school’s better pot connections. In the subtle sociological delineations of the schoolyard, this made both of them slightly different from their peers. The distribution system for pot was very simple and, generally, very friendly. At the top were layers of “real dealers”—who actually knew people even
they
thought of as criminals. The pot dealers sold to several layers of middlekids who paid for what they used themselves—and made a little profit, as well—by selling to their peers.
    Since pot was such a social drug, many people got high but never really bought. When it appeared at social events, everyone was happy to smoke someone else’s, but many weren’t prepared to spend their own money—or felt uneasy about being so deliberate about getting high. Even though a lot of people used pot, there was still a difference between those who just smoked and those who bought. The buyers were taking a bigger risk if they ever were caught: they were also placing themselves in a position of both power and frustration. “We were amazed at Gia’s ability to get pot, even during the worst dry spells,” recalled one member ofthe 107 Lunch bunch. “But, actually, sometimes she became paranoid and thought people were using her. She said we only wanted her around for pot.”
    On Saturdays, Karen and Gia would go downtown, walking over to Frankford Avenue in the morning to catch the elevated train. The Frankford El was the most convenient way to Center City from the Northeast. Its route was also a trip up and down the socioeconomic scale. Each stop closer to the city was in a poorer neighborhood, and from the point where a rider was afforded the most spectacular view—with the expansive Ben Franklin Bridge on one side and the skyline on the other—the train dove underground into the middle of one of the city’s most bombed-out sections. It then headed up Market Street East, a once-posh commercial district that was now all discount record stores, head shops and porno theaters, still awaiting a promised “urban mall” development that was supposed to save the area. The girls got off at Thirteenth Street, the stop that shared an underground walkway with the John Wanamaker’s store, the traditional refuge of the refined Philadelphia lady.
    As soon as they stepped off the train, the girls rushed to light up their Marlboros. But before their shopping began, Karen and Gia had to stop at the recently opened Center City branch of Hoagie City at Twelfth and Chestnut. There they received soda, sandwiches and other sustenance.
    “Dad, I need twenty-five dollars,” Gia would begin.
    “What do you want this for?” her father would ask, wiping the oil and tomato seeds off his hands with his apron before hugging his daughter.
    “C’mon, Dad, really, I need twenty-five dollars.”
    “Didn’t I just give you money?” he asked, in the soft voice he had passed on to all his children. “Didn’t