Guaynabo was the Puerto Rican suburbs, and mostly rich people lived there. They’d do parties for all the private-Catholic schools, and a bunch of mamaos would show up. Cultura Profetica, the local band that had recorded their second album en Bob Marley’s studio en Jamaica, was supposed to play that night and it took them forever to start. Riverbed sat staring at some boys make out with retarded girls. He felt awkward. He was thirteen. Riverbed didn’t know what Muerto had done that night, but remembers him mentioning later on that Eloy, another PR punker, had found a bag of weed, so Riverbed assumes Muerto got high. Riverbed saw Muerto, and Muerto had spiky-hair, and a punk rock band shirt. Riverbed was wearing his Social D shirt. Muerto looked sad and alone. He went up to Muerto and asked him, “¿Cuando empieza esta mierda?” and Muerto laughed, saying, Fuck man, he didn’t know; he wanted the thing to fucking start too. And they stood next to each other for five minutes, not speaking, and the crowd of social kids danced and converged, and finally the band started. Riverbed and Muerto split ways. In the future, they’d go to punk rock shows, and smoke weed, and drink, and listen to music together. They tried to have a band together, but shit always happened.