Lit.Org - a community for readers and writers Advanced Search
 




Average Rating
0.00

(0 votes)

You must login to vote

“What the fuck is that on your head?” I said to Phill.



As he brushed his hair back, he dismissed my question. Then, I asked again; this time, I insisted, more so than asked, that something was there. My eyes widened as I saw this thing moving on the top of his head. It seemed to be growing.



After a few more times, Phill got up from his sitting position and turned to our good buddy Nick Lay, “Is there anything there?”



A huge smile stretched across Nick’s face, as the scene began to play out, and he nodded his head.



Phill swiped his head with one hand after another, and began to run around, screaming. I laughed in disbelief when the giant, white cone began to sway in the wind. Why is Phill freaking out? I wish I had a giant cone on my head.



As suddenly as it appeared, the mysterious cone disappeared, and I had to reassure Phill that nothing was growing from his head anymore. After that acid trip, I was fascinated with LSD. Even though, my memory and attention span got worse after that, I couldn’t stop thinking of hallucinogens.



Matt was the one that introduced me to the drug, and since he didn’t seem retarded from LSD, I thought I would follow his advice: just don’t trip too often. Once every other month was okay, but after seven hits, you’re legally insane.



Six months and nine hits later, Nate’s parents were ready for me to leave their nest. Going to college didn’t work out for me, and I couldn’t pass the piss test to join the army. The Kropps knew this, but my grandparents didn’t. A couple of desperate calls later, Grandpa allowed me to move in. He is not a dumb man by any means, and I believe he knew that I had little or no intention to join the army.



I stayed in their home for a couple of short months. In that time, I got a part-time job at a local 7-11, and saved up some money. I worked the midnight shift, and turned the store, during those hours, into a place to party.



My training consisted of two fat blunts, courtesy of Conehead (no, not Phill. Conehead was the nickname given to him from his friends, due to the shape of his skull). At first glance, Conehead didn’t seem like he would be any trouble. He was polite, and he got things done. But after things began to slow down, he called his friends.



A group of young, black males came into the store making a lot of noise. They all wore baggy jeans that sagged to their mid-thighs (in prison, belts and any drawstrings attached to sweatpants have to be removed, for fear of suicide attempts. Thus, the clothes would hang down from the waist. This is how you knew people just got out of prison, at least, until it became a fashion). One young man, Tony (that might actually be his name, but my memory has faded since the introduction of drugs. From this point on, I won’t remind you of this every time I forget someone’s name), quickly became friends with me; he rapped and so did I.



About a month or two after meeting Tony, we were on the hunt for LSD. Unfortunately, we found some. As the drug started to kick in, Tony’s mom and little sister came home. Tony and I were playing a video game when his sister asked what was wrong with me. I didn’t understand her reasoning that something was not right with me, because I didn’t say anything; I simply sat in front of the television and dueled Tony in Mortal Kombat.



Annoyed by his family, Tony took me to his room in the basement. My first thought was that I hoped that I didn’t get a boner; magazines of nude women littered the entire room, and I didn’t want to get embarrassed for pitching a tent. A huge tent. Not little by any means. I swear. Anyways, Tony took Big Butts and put it into the VCR. I tried to watch, but I was distracted by the colorful show of dancing lights, floating right in front of me. I tried to touch the 3-D display, but my hand slipped through it, like going through a puddle of water.



Not far into the trip (anywhere from ten minutes to four hours), Tony turned to me and started talking. I simply nodded my head, every once in awhile, and threw in a couple of Oh, yeah’s.



Finally, I made out a sentence that Tony spoke, “you don’t get it.”



“Get what?”



“I’m a narc.”



“Oh.”



“You still don’t get it. I’m a narc, and you’re going to jail.”



The dancing lights went away and so did any thoughts of freedom. The warmth of blood rushed to my head when the paranoia hit. I didn’t want to be anyone’s boyfriend just yet. Maybe, if I killed someone or molested a child, then, I’d think the punishment would be deserved.



Tony escorted me to the garage, before I started to have any questions, “What about your mother… who is she?”



“That’s an undercover agent. Now, put your arms behind your back! Okay. Now, turn and face that wall!”



As Tony grabbed me and turned me around a few more times, I began to wonder what he was doing, so I asked.



“You see that up there,” Tony asked, as he pointed to the garage door light? “That’s a hidden camera. I need to take pictures of you! Now, turn around! You’re going to prison for a long time! You crossed county lines with that LSD, so we’re getting you on trafficking.”



After an intense interrogation, I asked, “Don’t I get a phone call?”



“Who do you want to call?”



“My parents. I just want to kill myself.”



“You want to kill yourself? With what?”



“If I had a knife, I would just slit my throat,” I said, hoping a knife would magically appear.



“Hold on. Don’t move! I’ll get you a knife from the kitchen.”



A few seconds (or was it hours) later, Tony came back empty-handed, and I asked him where the knife was.



“My mom wouldn’t let me get it,” Tony replied. “Anyways, you don’t want to kill yourself. Be a man and take your punishment! Be a man!”



At this point, I started to come down from the LSD. I wasn’t as freaked out about going to prison anymore. In Tony’s eyes, I was being a “man.”



Tony’s finger pressed the intercom button (actually, it was the garage door-opener), and the night’s sky filled the background. I thought to myself that the sky was even more beautiful than I ever remembered, and it was the perfect backdrop for my last night as a free man.



We sat down, next to the front door, and Tony turned to me to say, “I’m not a narc.”



“What,” I asked, not fully comprehending what just happened?



“I’m not a narc, and you’re not going to jail.”



He explained that he was just tripping
and things got out of hand. The weight off my shoulders outweighed any anger that I had. I placed my anger the one place it belonged, buried deep down inside. Doing so, I realized it was only a matter of time before I reached a permanent state of bliss.



I glanced at my watch, and it was 10:45 PM, fifteen minutes before I had to work. That gave us plenty of time to grab a gallon of Dimitri Vodka. After purchasing the drink, we headed over to 7-11. Tony waiting in the car, until I punched in and my co-worker left. Then, we had the whole store to ourselves.



The seal was already broken when Tony finally came in, but only a couple of swigs were gone. I guess he couldn’t wait for a chilled, cherry-vodka Slurpee. For some reason, after coming down on acid and getting drunk afterwards, work didn’t seem to be a priority to me. When the donuts came in, I smoked a blunt with Tony in the cooler, and the donuts just had to wait. When we came out of the cooler, the donuts had to wait until I had some food in me. Luckily, we were already at a convenience store.



What happened next, was due to total intoxication. Tony began to say things like, “I love you man,” and “you’re my only true friend.” This, accompanied with loud tears, made me think twice about Tony’s street credibility. Sure, he carried a small Smith & Wesson with armor piercing bullets, but he was a bit of a hypocrite; he told me to be a man, but he couldn’t seem to do the same. When he sobered up, we agreed that nobody would ever speak of this again.

At around six o’clock in the morning, customers began to come in. Most of them went straight to the fresh coffee. Actually, it was about seven hours old, but whenever asked about it, I ensured them that it was brewed within the hour.



“I take it you were unusually busy this morning,” a customer said, looking at the donuts that were still out.



“No,” I said.



My boss came a bit later, and I thought that he was going to fire me when he asked to have a word with me. Before he could say anything, I told him, “I just want to let you know that I quit, as of now.” I figured I beat him to the punch, but for some reason, he seemed upset.




Comments

The following comments are for "Life of Drugs"
by davepfingston





Add Your Comment

You Must be a member to post comments and ratings. If you are NOT already a member, signup now it only takes a few seconds!

All Fields are required

Commenting Guidelines:
  • All comments must be about the writing. Non-related comments will be deleted.
  • Flaming, derogatory or messages attacking other members well be deleted.
  • Adult/Sexual comments or messages will be deleted.
  • All subjects MUST be PG. No cursing in subjects.
  • All comments must follow the sites posting guidelines.
The purpose of commenting on Lit.Org is to help writers improve their writing. Please post constructive feedback to help the author improve their work.


Username:
Password:
Subject:
Comment:





Login:
Password: