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.

The Future Is Scary

            A few weeks ago, I wrote a post called Don’t Settle.  The gist was that we shouldn’t worry too much about what we’re doing after college because we’re young and still have endless opportunities.  Since then, I’ve had a slight change of heart.

            It’s not that having a desk job really scares me anymore; after all, not everyone can love every minute of their working life.  Even the inevitable process of endless interviews and networking is a necessary evil that I’ve come to terms with at this point.  Perhaps most importantly, I’d like to reward my parents’ overwhelming generosity and devotion to my education with a paying job that affords me independence.

            At this point, my biggest fear is that once I enter the working world, I’ll be stuck.  All of my peers seem to believe that out of college, they’ll work for a few years before they find something they like better.  This first position is just one more step on the path towards a future of happiness and fulfillment.  Yet, the question I keep asking is will that future ever arrive?

            So, you make some money.  You get promoted.  You fall in love.  You start a family.  You raise your kids.  Finally, you sit back, and watch, and hope your offspring don’t make the same mistakes you did when you were young and didn’t know any better.  That’s the mantra we’ve heard over and over again—the so-called, American Dream.

            But, what if that’s not how it goes?  Is there anything else to the formula?  Is there any guarantee that going through the motions exactly like your parents, and their parents before them, will lead to any sort of sustainable happiness?
            The unemployment rate for recent college graduates is currently 8.5%.  An additional 16.8% of that group is underemployed.  Meanwhile, the statistics show that 50% of marriages end in divorce.  Also, college tuition rates continue to rise while the job market becomes more competitive.  So, by my calculations, less than 75% of my generation has a sufficient income for independence, with a bachelor’s degree.  Even if this entire group got married, we have to assume that half will get divorced, which leaves 37% employed with an unbroken family.  I don’t even want to contemplate the math for how many of those people will be able to afford college tuition in 20 years.

            Nevertheless, every day someone asks me what I want to do with my life.  At this point, my honest answer is that I have no idea.  What I do know, however, is that if this country doesn’t start moving in a different direction soon, the future isn’t particularly bright for any of us, let alone the next generation.  The truth is, we have bigger problems ahead than just making our first paycheck, and I’m afraid anyone who thinks differently is living in the dark.