1978

 This is an excerpt from a novella I wrote recently.  

 

Tommy and Kent finally reached the sandlot. Jimmy and Raymond were throwing rocks into the brackish swamp that bordered the east side of the sandlot. Throwing rocks was still important. Being able to run fast was important. Being able to wrestle was important. They would enter high school in the fall and that’s when these skills got REALLY important. Or didn’t. It was assumed Tommy would run track because he liked to run and was the fastest kid at Busey Middle School. But Tommy had other ideas. When asked about his plans vis-à-vis athletics he was evasive, even misleading. He let people believe he was destined to be a jock without actually acknowledging anything. He could think of nothing that was less important to him than athletics. He dominated in gym class but hated to compete. He knew he would face pressures in the fall. He’d have to be ready for that. He hated to let people down but he also had to stick to his own plans. And they just didn’t involve sports.

     The four boys greeted each other with slapped hands and then Raymond and Jimmy led Tommy and Kent to a small clearing behind a boulder and Raymond, a tall goober of a kid with thick glasses, reached into his pocket and came out with a tightly-rolled joint. It was like a magic trick. “Jesus there it is,” said Kent. “Hey Lemme smell it!”

     Raymond held it under Kent’s nose and he sniffed. “Mmmm,” he said. “Nice.” The other boys laughed.

     “Your brother’s gonna kill you,” Tommy said.

     “Nah he won’t," Raymond said. "He'll just think he lost it or smoked it. He doesn’t know what’s going on in his life he’s so wasted all the time. This joint is just a drop in the bucket to him.”

     Jimmy, a short, big-headed kid nicknamed “Germ” because of his small size said, “Well let’s go. Spark it up.” Germ was the only one of the crew who had gotten high before. He’d smoked with his cousin a bunch of times. At least that was what he claimed. Nobody had ever met this mysterious “cousin.”

      “Take it easy, Germ,” said Raymond. “You gotta do this with a certain degree of finesse.”

     Tommy burst out laughing. “Man, you are so full of shit, I love it.”

     Raymond gave Tommy a friendly but not-too-light punch on the arm. “Takes one shithead to know another one.”

     “Hey, are we gonna smoke this thing or what?” said Kent.

     “Yeah, yeah hold your water.” Raymond dug a pack of matches out of his back pocket. The other boys leaned in close. Raymond plugged the joint into his mouth, struck a match and held it to the twisted end of the joint. He inhaled deeply and as soon as the smoke invaded his lungs he coughed it out, gasping. A string of drool fell from the corner of his mouth. “Jesus,” he gasped. “That’s harsh...”

     “That’s because you just inhaled paper,” said Kent. “Pass it over here.” He took the joint from Raymond. “Didn’t you guys ever see Easy Rider? You inhale it and hold it in both lungs for as long as you can. Observe.” And he sucked a deep hit from the joint, held it for about a millisecond and coughed it out.

     “Easy Rider, huh? Yeah, okay,” said Tommy, laughing.

     “Let’s see how you do, Bob Marley,” Kent said, still gasping. He passed the joint to Tommy.

     Tommy looked at it. “Hey, Raymond.”

     “Yes dear?”

     “What flavor is this?”

     “Flavor? It’s grass. Grass flavored.”

   “Yeah, I know but what kind of grass? Acapulco Gold? Panama Red? California Sinsemilla?”

     Raymond gave Tommy a sideways smile and said, “Okay, connoisseur just take a hit. Let’s see what you got.”      

     Tommy took a small hit, managed to hang onto it for a second, then it whooshed out of him, followed by brisk staccato coughing. “Uhg, man.”

     “Gimme gimme,” said Germ. Tommy gave him the joint. “It’s all yours, Germ. Ack, that shit’s awful.”

     Raymond said, “That means it’s strong. The worse it tastes the more fucked-up you get. You guys feel anything yet?”

     Germ took a long hit and held it. And held it. And held it. Everyone fell silent, astounded.

     “Whoa! Go Germ!” said Tommy.

     Finally, Germ let out the smoke. “Well,” he said, without coughing. “I have determined what strain of marijuana we’re dealing with here.”

     “Oh yeah? What?” Raymond wanted to know.

     “It’s dirt weed. Homegrown donkey dirt.”

   Raymond stiffened. “No way, man. My brother wouldn’t smoke dirt weed.”

     “Your brother didn’t. We did.” He looked at the half a joint in his hand. “We can’t get high from this.”

     “Hey fuck you, Germ!” said Raymond. “Give me that.” The joint was passed a final time. Raymond scrambled to the top of the boulder, crouched like a gargoyle and smoked the rest of the joint, gasping and rasping his way through it.

    The others returned to the sandlot. 

    Jimmy the Germ said, “You guys psyched-up for the party tomorrow?”

  Tommy said, “What party?” suddenly worried he was missing out on something cool again.

     “Susie Parker’s birthday tomorrow.”

     Tommy deflated. “Oh, that. Yeah, I guess I have to. My folks want me to go. Mrs. Parker sent the invitation to my mom.”

     Kent said, “I’ll check it out but if it’s the slightest bit lame, I’m outta there.”

     Germ said, “Free food, cake and ice cream. I’m gonna make a pig out of myself.”

     Tommy chuckled. “Sounds like you did get high off that dirt weed, Germ.”