There I was, sitting by the run up home, with R sitting next to me, waiting to exhale. We were blazing up, doing our best to unwind and let things all go. That’s what R and I were doing. We had some really bad ass weed, and a pretty good buzz on, too. R was a pretty mellow cat at this point, but there were some ways I grew weary of his all too well known tensions.

R was the guy who gave me the mescaline that precipitated my lifetime illness. He’s the one of the two of us got kind of mellow, tripping on mescaline. The overall experience ruined my entire life. It’s not like it was R’s fault. He didn’t know ahead of time that mescaline would be too much for me. It’s not like I blame the guy or anything. We both took it. We got two different reactions to it.

He wasn’t the guy who gave me my illness. He didn’t have that much power. I eventually learned it was my father who gave me the flawed gene. Grandma gave it to him. Mescaline was only a catalyst that caused the mental trauma that precipitated the onset of my mental condition. That’s how it happened. I understood very little about chronic schizo-affective disorder till I was older.

I was so worried about getting busted for a little weed. That’s the way my brother was. The narc’s on campus were perfectly willing to let me slide, as long as I gave them my connection. So I gave them my connection. I wasn’t prepared to go to jail for him. I mean, I’m sorry, but I was taught to avoid jail. It wasn’t R. I came down with a chronic chemical imbalance in my brain.

It seemed like a damn-fool thing to do, to give your stash away, when you got the keys to the kingdom in your own pocket, when we all got our weaknesses, and that ain’t no joke. I was surely planning to give that bag to R, just so he would took the hit, if there was a hit to take. I had enough of that kick ass reefer to buzz myself right on out of reality, till the second Tuesday of next week.

I spent enough on that reefer, it seemed like a god-awful shame to zero in on some poor, unsuspecting guy to give it to, if anybody got the count against them. It was surely not going to be me. I must have had my brother on my mind to be thinking about all that. I’d be sure get completely paranoid about absolutely nothing, which was my track record when I had some reefer.

No cop ever cared about a bag of weed, unless it was right there to be seen.

We’d fire that bad boy up, and take our minds off everything. Literally. I would inhale and cough, then pass it on to R. My exhaling was usually accompanied by more coughing. Then came the buzz. I copped my buzz, you might say. It took the top of my head right off. It was a ritual, whether R was aware of it or not. We’d always get into my car, and that’s the way it was.

I was one of those guys who always had a car in those days.

Having a good bowl or two was my weakness. I’ll let the other guys speak for themselves. I’ve been known to give some guy a quarter pound of reefer, just because my brother was talking like a pig. A very short time later, when I tried to get wasted, R claimed he had nothing left. Sure. Makes perfect sense to me. Either he smoked it or sold it all.

I don’t think he gave a quarter pound away, like I would.

I was a smoke hound, and felt plenty secure about it when I really wasn’t. Soon, I would not have a car. I guess Jeff and his big brother set me up to put me back on shoe leather, like it or not. Whose to say? I’d like to know? It was a totaled car. How do you get someone to answer to that? That car’s been all beat up, and there isn’t anything going to put that junker back on the road again.

The cure for replacing a beat up old car, especially when the car’s so beat up it won’t go, no matter what, is to have enough money behind you to replace the junker 100%. If you don’t have all that money behind you, go to a rich relative, or start wasting shoe leather. Or, you pad the pavement until everyone knows you’re down on your luck, or you think maybe everyone has gone blind.

I had a reliable second-hand car, but it was soon to be towed off to the junk heap, due to the self-seeking of a couple of young men, who had their eyes on getting me, personally, off the road and grounded. I never did know what was going on with those boys, but I was out of a car like Jack Robinson. Smitty and I were left in my car, and the remainder of them were ahead of us.

So, I became the proud owner of a sparkling candidate for the junk heap. I don’t even have a clue how it was we got home that day, from ten miles away. We got home somehow, I know that. I know that old car wasn’t going anyplace, unless it was hooked up to a tow truck. I can’t even say, one way or another, how that accident even happened between Smitty and those guys up front of us.

I was wasting shoe leather for quite awhile after that. My hometown required a lot of walking, if you really wanted to get somewhere. I went all the way down into town to cop myself another bag one day, and there was this girl talking trash around my dope deal. She was a cute little thing too. I spent my money on that bag of weed, and then had to do a lot of walking to get more money.

I hadn’t had a girlfriend in a long time, nor did I have the strength to turn this girl down. I had plenty of strength to walk the whole way uptown, and the whole was back downtown, because I wanted to. There was this little place we checked into downtown, way down on the strip, and I was reminded of how to have a girlfriend. There isn’t anything like the touch of a young lady to help a guy let go.


About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at
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