Sunday, January 3, 2016

What was his name? [an anonymous piece]

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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