"Which way is it now?"
"It's over . . . that way," I said, pointing.
"Fleming, why are you lying?" Chris asked, as we went on. "Stop lying. If you don't know, you don't know."
"I'm not lying! I really think it's this way."
"When did you start all this lying? You don't have to lie. Now where are we?"
"Okay," I said, looking around. "Umm, we have to go...there..."
"Fleming!!"
"No, really!"
"You just pointed in two directions at the same time!!"

Instead of finding the Red Light district we found a horrible falafel stand that robbed us of both money and spirit. But near midnight, on the way back to the van, we stumbled into the Red Light completely by accident. Everybody's mood increased measurably, especially Steve's. He became more talkative and elated than I've ever seen in my life.

We spent over two hours walking the hooker-, porn- and drug-lined canals. Half of the passers-by on the crowded streets offered cocaine, heroin and "Charlie". One drug dealer pursued us, like he couldn't comprehend our disinterest, or as if with enough debate he could convince us that we really did need heroin. The hookers, for the most part, looked completely uninterested to the point of disgust, never smiling and often talking on cell phones while half naked in their little neon-ringed cubicles. Maybe that's what happens to you when your job is to spend all night listening to fat, ugly cab drivers ask you what grotesque things you'd be willing to do.

At one point we stopped to visit a magic mushroom store. All of us have been around the block in life, but the sight of these enormous, rainbow colored monster-mushrooms was truly intimidating. We left the store for the relative security of the sex-filled street.

"Steve," said Chris, "I think me and you need to combine our money and go bang each other." Now with a plan, The Mike Fleming Special split for the van, in order to spend the next two hours lost on rural highways while trying to make the three-minute drive home.