behind the small playground at the end of Henrietta Road, within the ruins of an ancient stone structure where stood a single twisted cherry tree, old and barely hanging on to life, the same tree, in fact, beneath which I had buried my dog Rex. When we wanted to get away from everything it was to those woods that we went, where we could lounge and dream, drink beer, write our names in paint on the stones of the ruin, plot, and, most of all, pursue our newest hobby. Almost every night now we got wasted, we got trashed, we got bombed or hammered or Kentucky fried, we got petrified, paralyzed, ripped up, shitfaced, torn down, wiped out, tweaked or toasted, starched or steamed, twisted or bagged, laid out, stretched out, killed, absolutely murdered.
Good times.
We smoked dope like it mattered, but we each of us reefed for our own special reasons. Augie had decided early on to live his life on the other side of whatever line he saw painted on the earth, and drugs were the quickest route there. Ben, who had become an all-county offensive tackle, smoked to take the edge off the pain in his knee and the pressure he was feeling to rise into a superman pro. As for me, hell, from the time my mom had first driven me into Pitchford, like one drives a stake into the dirt, I had been looking for an escape. But I always thought the language was just as seductive as the high. If we were getting “poodled,” it wouldn’t have felt half so fine. For what seventeen-year-old doesn’t want to get wasted, whether with drugs or alcohol, sex or a skateboard, or just by vegging in front of the television? All teenagers are nihilists in their hearts—it’s why you can never get them awake in the morning.
And here was the funny thing about our part in the national pastime of rampant drug abuse: our supplier was none other than my own sworn enemy, Tony Grubbins himself.
Things had changed at the Grubbins house over the years. It was still curtained up and locked down, but it was no longer dark and quiet. People were going in and out at all hours of the night; packs of motorcycles were parked along the curb, accompanied by corresponding packs of motorcyclists with their scruffy beards and denim vests, replete with a fierce skeleton ram’s head on the back. When they came, they came en masse, hoisting coolers of beer and bottles of liquor, keeping the neighbors up late into the night with their backyard revels. And Derek, with his hard eyes and huge biceps, was no longer working regular shifts at a construction site; instead he came and went with no discernible pattern. But he was doing okay, whatever he was up to, even more than okay, if the gleaming Corvette now parked in his driveway meant anything at all.
And then suddenly Tony Grubbins, a senior while we still were juniors, started making like a mini-mart, selling everythinga good little head could ever want: weed, ’ludes, uppers, downers, coke if you could afford it, acid if you had the guts for it. His pilot fish, Richie Diffendale, tall now, and surprisingly good looking even with the same round glasses, made his way through the halls of Pitchford High in a long black leather jacket that hung off his bony shoulders as if from a hanger, taking requests, keeping the ledger, filling the bags and filling orders, and slipping free samples to the prettiest girls, all while Tony supplied the drugs and collected the debts.
“We’ve been ripped off, boys,” said Augie one night by our cherry tree as he picked through a bag of weed he had just bought from Tony.
“Pipe down and roll,” said Ben. The years had stripped Ben of his stutter, but his slurry voice was still soft as a whisper.
“No, man. Look at this crap, all stems and seeds, the bottom of his stash. I’m telling you, he kicks us in the face on quality every time.”
“So find a new seller,” I said.
“Who? Tony’s chased out every other dealer at the school, including me. Before I bought this shit, I gently asked him
Good times.
We smoked dope like it mattered, but we each of us reefed for our own special reasons. Augie had decided early on to live his life on the other side of whatever line he saw painted on the earth, and drugs were the quickest route there. Ben, who had become an all-county offensive tackle, smoked to take the edge off the pain in his knee and the pressure he was feeling to rise into a superman pro. As for me, hell, from the time my mom had first driven me into Pitchford, like one drives a stake into the dirt, I had been looking for an escape. But I always thought the language was just as seductive as the high. If we were getting “poodled,” it wouldn’t have felt half so fine. For what seventeen-year-old doesn’t want to get wasted, whether with drugs or alcohol, sex or a skateboard, or just by vegging in front of the television? All teenagers are nihilists in their hearts—it’s why you can never get them awake in the morning.
And here was the funny thing about our part in the national pastime of rampant drug abuse: our supplier was none other than my own sworn enemy, Tony Grubbins himself.
Things had changed at the Grubbins house over the years. It was still curtained up and locked down, but it was no longer dark and quiet. People were going in and out at all hours of the night; packs of motorcycles were parked along the curb, accompanied by corresponding packs of motorcyclists with their scruffy beards and denim vests, replete with a fierce skeleton ram’s head on the back. When they came, they came en masse, hoisting coolers of beer and bottles of liquor, keeping the neighbors up late into the night with their backyard revels. And Derek, with his hard eyes and huge biceps, was no longer working regular shifts at a construction site; instead he came and went with no discernible pattern. But he was doing okay, whatever he was up to, even more than okay, if the gleaming Corvette now parked in his driveway meant anything at all.
And then suddenly Tony Grubbins, a senior while we still were juniors, started making like a mini-mart, selling everythinga good little head could ever want: weed, ’ludes, uppers, downers, coke if you could afford it, acid if you had the guts for it. His pilot fish, Richie Diffendale, tall now, and surprisingly good looking even with the same round glasses, made his way through the halls of Pitchford High in a long black leather jacket that hung off his bony shoulders as if from a hanger, taking requests, keeping the ledger, filling the bags and filling orders, and slipping free samples to the prettiest girls, all while Tony supplied the drugs and collected the debts.
“We’ve been ripped off, boys,” said Augie one night by our cherry tree as he picked through a bag of weed he had just bought from Tony.
“Pipe down and roll,” said Ben. The years had stripped Ben of his stutter, but his slurry voice was still soft as a whisper.
“No, man. Look at this crap, all stems and seeds, the bottom of his stash. I’m telling you, he kicks us in the face on quality every time.”
“So find a new seller,” I said.
“Who? Tony’s chased out every other dealer at the school, including me. Before I bought this shit, I gently asked him
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