This post was written by an aspiring
author who prefers to remain anonymous at this point—despite my continued
qualms with anonymous ranting, this is pure fiction as far as I can tell and he
wants feedback (good or bad—he said be harsh!) This is his first time
publishing anything but he would gladly accept any honest critique of his short,
short, story as he calls a piece of this length, apparently. Without further
ado, I present:
What was his name?
He
smoked a lot—way too much. I couldn’t
keep up, not back then at least. Mostly pot, but he didn’t hate cancer
sticks either. They said everyone gets that shit anyway. Smoke ’em while you got ‘em, I
guess.
I
spotted him immediately (or maybe he spotted me...they always seem to). Bill rented a timeshare out here for the
month—a nice family vacation with mom and the kids and…him. Well that doesn’t
matter. He was my pot dealer—no more, no less. But, I got to know the guy
pretty well.
He
flipped $14 burgers all day for $7.35/hour and snuck out occasionally to sell a
dime-bag or two. Lift tickets weren’t cheap, and he only got one day off a
week, or two if he was lucky. 7:00 AM to 7:00 PM, six days a week, 51 weeks a
year. 3,672 hours a year flipping
burgers—for spoiled shits like me who put it on Bill’s credit card…one of the
perks of divorce, I suppose.
He
told me he tried driving Uber for a while and the money was good, no doubt. But
he didn’t feel like staying sober and driving in circles day and night—driving
belligerently drunk college kids like me. So, he went back to flipping burgers.
They didn’t care that he was high all the time—or they didn’t know—either way,
it was a non-issue.
So, this guy lived in the
bar owner’s basement (excuse me, it was a bar/restaurant if I recall
correctly). I know, because I spent a lot of time
there...more than I'd care to admit.
He was the only person I knew who didn't have my parents' last name. On Saturday nights I'd make up some lame
excuse—I think my parents thought I
actually made friends my own age for once. But no, I'd go over to the bar
and he'd take me down to his humble abode, an unfinished basement that he was
convinced still had lead paint on the walls.
I sat there
on his moldy craigslist couch for hours while he rolled doobie after doobie.
His Nintendo 64 and tube TV from 1998 were good enough for us. Besides, they
swiped my fake ID at the first shitty bar I set foot in on that trip—they
wouldn't even let me buy it back for the $53 I had in my wallet at the time. So
nightlife was out for the rest of that month. I was turning 21 in March anyway
and my bro had his old one waiting for me in Santa Montica.
Anyway, his
nug was pretty tight considering the fact that he grew it in a rusty bathtub in
the corner of his basement. I bought plenty of herb off him for sure, but more
often than not he was smoking me out for free. This ski-bum worked his ass off
just to afford to shred once a week and get stoned after work. Yet, he gave
away his homegrown Blue Dream hybrid more times than I could count just for the
company.
I still have
his number somewhere in my phone probably, but
I couldn't tell you his name. Pot dealers come and go. In LA I send one
text and a drug runner brings a briefcase full of medical grade marijuana to my
living room. He knows the security guard at my gate by name. I bet he buys from him too...yet, I digress, in all honesty I'll
probably never see this guy again, let alone text him to say what up.
Oddly enough
we're Snapchat friends so I see his stories everyday still. From what I can see
he's still flipping burgers, skiing, and smoking joints.
Sometimes I
can't help but thinking, I Snapchat as much as the next guy, but I never seem to look quite as happy as him,
even when I see my photo in the groupme with 6 likes the next morning, fighting
the perpetual hangover, lighting up another a dobis—forgetting about my
problems for an hour—just like he taught me.
The
author would, once again, kindly request any feedback on this forum. I will be
sure to relay him any messages. Thanks again for being an audience for content
for students, by students.
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