Ray and Jay and Bob, part 1 Montreal, Canada, 2018 The late September sun had that particular Montreal gold, the kind that gilded the crumbling brick of the Plateau and made the dust motes dance in the air of Ramon Atila’s Civic. The sun warmed the asphalt of Boulevard Décarie, casting a honeyed glow that made even the traffic seem cheerful. Ramon navigated the chaos with one hand on the wheel and the other holding an expertly-rolled blunt, its tip glowing like a tiny, fragrant amber. The scent of high-grade Sour Diesel filled the car, a familiar perfume for his morning commute to his shift at the YMCA. He was, as ever, blissfully unaware. His phone, plugged into the aux cord, was a repository of 347 unread emails and 82 unread texts. He’d been off-grid, holed up in his Mile-End apartment finishing a new treatment, his mind a universe away from the mundane. The radio was tuned to CJAD, Barry “The Bull” Buchanan’s voice a familiar, grating comfort. Today, the airwaves were crackli...
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