A Reason to Live

A Reason to Live

Joseph Mabrey

St. Charles, Missouri 2009

         Daylight. It shone in to the small room begging me to wake up and start the day. Each ray of light cut in to me further awakening and exciting the cells in his body. Today I leave, today I start anew. Birds chirped outside the thick bulletproof glass, and the unmistakable glint of dew on the grass signaled the early day. It couldn’t be seven yet I thought. Looking around I noticed the rest of my roommates were still sleeping, dreaming of what I would be receiving today. My discharge.

         I tried to go back to sleep but my mind was already bustling with anxiety and excitement. I could feel the blood flowing through my body urging me to hasten my escape from this place. I tried to relax myself with my thoughts, but my body resisted. I thought of how often it did that. It seemed there was always a battle raging between the two, each fighting for its place in me.

         Minutes went by seeming like days, and suddenly a man walks in. Black and thin with glasses that made him look intellectual, he shouted out and knocked on the door. Wake up he yelled, time to wake up. I acted as if I had been asleep and woke up dazed. Insults flew at the men from the other three in my room. He shrugged them off with his usual smile and moved on to the next room. Wake up, wake up I heard. This would be the last time I’d hear that familiar voice motivating me to start the day.

Saint Louis, Missouri Earlier That Year

         Who the hell is that black girl sleeping on my couch I thought aloud?

         I saw beer cans, vodka bottles, still lit cigarettes, a pipe and a bag of weed on the table. A friend lying on the floor next to me snoring off his imminent hangover. The small duplex reeked of sex, smoke, and something burning. Burning? I hopped up in frenzy and raced to the oven, pulling it open. Oh shit. A pizza burnt to black was smoking up the whole house. Without thinking I grabbed the pizza and shrieked out a fucking shit before stomping the smoke out of it on the tiled kitchen floor.

         “Ok!” I screamed. “Who the fuck put the goddamn pizza in the oven and turned it on 450 degrees!”

         Startled, my friend grunted what and leaped up next to me. He immediately began sweeping of the charred pieces.

         “Dude, my bad chill out. I got munchies and forgot to take it out. That was some party though. Kicked off two thousand and nine in style nigga!”

         I sighed and resiliently began to face the facts and consequences of my decisions that night. I had literally run my dad out of his own house because of the atrocious behavior put on by me and my fellow disturbed adolescents. Seeing the damage and remembering bit by bit what happened, the idea of running away to Mexico started to sound like a good idea.

         The night started off with me and my childhood best friend debating just how we were going to go about this night. New Year’s, two thousand and nine. The truth was, I had never really been to a new year’s party. I kept this fact away from him. I was always caught up with family gatherings, hating being there and thinking of all the fun and benevolence that was occurring outside of my trapped fortress they called home. I had sworn that night that I would throw a party so amazing, tales of it would be told for years to come.

         I was at my father’s throughout the entire day drinking five dollar vodka with batty hits, preparing the duplex for the upcoming night. My father lay in the room next to me, smoking his Mexican brick weed, talking on the phone, and somehow performing yoga all at the same time. Our house had become the type where you don’t really talk to one another unless you had something to offer such as money or drugs. It didn’t use to be that way, but priorities change when you are in the middle of a teenage crisis.

         My friend and I by the name of Geoff contemplated the great teenage questions of the day. How we were going to get beer, cigarettes, what hot girls we could get to go, and why we didn’t want ’that person coming. He is a fag, he will scare all the girls away, or he is weird, he’ll just sit there and not talk. When we got a good buzz going, we started to clean the basement.

         The basement included a washer and dryer, a drum set, other musical instruments that hadn’t seen playing in months, and a garage that was akin. The garage smelled of old gasoline and marijuana stems and seeds littered the ground. This wasn’t exactly the type of house where you invite forty people and get drunk, but it had a lot of spirit and what I thought were good memories.

         After the cleaning, we confronted my father about the crisis.

         “Come on dad, please, please just a thirty, that’s it then we won’t bother you. This is our last hurrah then I’m done with all this shit.”

         I begged and begged until all my dignity had been cast in the shitter along with my future. Finally, as usual, he gave in and strode out the back door with a slam in to his ford pickup. I looked at my friend and laughed.

         My dad had always been the giving in type. Ever since childhood I remembered getting my way. Granted, I didn’t ask for much, but I knew how to put on a guilt trip. In truth, I felt bad at how much our relationship had sunk in the past two years. I remember him coaching my baseball teams in parish ball, taking me to the science center and the zoo, playing catch in the backyards. But he had his demons as well, and lately had sunk in to a mid life crisis parallel to mine. He locked himself in his room and reminisced of old times when he played college soccer and was the life of the party. Now, forty five, alone, single, with two children who showed nothing but annoyance at his appearance, he smoked his problems away.

         He got back with a thirty of Budweiser and a bottle of vodka. He dared not drink any. Drugs can have a harsh affect on a man, but drinking is the absolute worst. There is nothing as nasty as the sight of a man with no hope on a drinking binge. I took the beer and set up a beer pong table downstairs.

         I never understood beer pong, I was always a fan of lets all get wasted and have lots of unprotected sex while playing monopoly or something like that. I guess that’s just another example of how I’m different than my generation. I hate my generation. What we will be known for. Cell phones, iPods, maybe the end of the world as we know it.

         People began showing up at around nine. My anxiety settled in. When I’m high, I swear I’m the most awkward fuck you’ll ever meet. Too scared to even talk because of what others will think of me, I turn in to a recluse and turn to my dark inner world. I persuade myself to gobble down a few drinks and let the liquid courage take a hold of me.

         My other best friend Tony shows up with a wide array of ugly looking girls. I am not so upset, as I have had six beers and a pack of cigarettes, which in effect always leads to a great night. The stacks of beer are starting to pile up. I am eyeing a South American looking girl who I recognize from school. Who the hell is she, oh yes; she is in my gym class. But she doesn’t party does she? I swear I’ve seen her at church before. Yep, I remember specifically scoping out her ass on one occasion. That’s what church is for me, the chance to check for good looking girls with low self esteem who are forced by their parents every Sunday to confess their sins to a God they don’t believe in. They are aching for it, so I oblige them. Saintly.

         She eyes me back, I look to my friend Geoff, and he is talking to the girl’s friend, a blonde. I always admired the way Geoff was able to talk to people. He just had a way with women. In all truth I hated him out of jealousy. Wondered why he was blessed with such abilities. I pretended to be like him in order to forget my own personality. It worked out on some occasions, but left me with a gaping hole where my morals used to be.

         She keeps looking at me. The crowd is wildly partying in ignorance. The liquor has created several different groups. There are the shot takers, the weed smokers, the pukers, the guys who hit on ugly girls, the guys who hit on hot girls, and me. My friend introduces us.

         “I know you! You play soccer! You’re pretty good. My friend thinks you’re hot.”

         Her mask of makeup covers her orange tanned face and the fakeness of her oozes in every poor. I am disgusted by her appearance, let alone her nasally voice. Her friend says hello. I say hello back. She is shy, looks at the floor when she talks. She has shoulder length hair with that South American tint to it so it always looks like she just got out of the shower. Her body is well made, and I start my game.

         “Ok enough of all this nonsense. Shots! All around let’s go you first. Come on Geoff”

         “Alright line me up.” He says with his usual confidence. He has a way with girls, and can convince anybody to do anything, and is a talented person in general. But my friend cannot take shots, it hits his blood and his body reacts in a way God did not intend. With the first he spits his tongue out and yelps at the moon much like a wolf.

         I follow suit and soon I am upstairs in my room with this amazingly hot Incan woman who is pulling my clothes off. I am quick to point out that she is an avid church goers and I would not like to be sued for rape or any of the charges she could make against me. She tells me to shut up and stick it in. I try, she cries out. Something is not right. I ask if she is a virgin. She replies yes and to shut up and sex her. I do feeling guilty thinking this girl has a mother. Little did I know I would eventually have the pleasantry of meeting her later that night?

         In the darkness of the room, my first sexual experience shows me the wonders of a woman. I get the feeling that this is what men feel like. I could be doing this every day, what the hell have I been doing. I realize that this is my reaction to everything. Why does this always happen. Instead of just complying with my human nature suddenly the questions pour out. Do I want to do this?

         Her friend comes to the door an hour later. Calls her name, tells her that they must leave. Half naked, I step out to the chaos ensuing outside the door of our lovemaking.

         First, my father. Standing there with a wide eyed look, as if about to cry, panic, or flip out. My guilty conscious roams in. Then a sound enters my ears I will never forget. Geoff’s girlfriend Laura, balling her eyes out being comforted by the neighbor upstairs. She is sobbing uncontrollably, screaming at Geoff.

         “You fucking pig! I have done everything for you! Is this even the first time? I came over because I felt bad, I felt terrible that I ditched you! And this is what I get? Don’t ever talk to me again you fucking asshole!”

         She stomps out of the room. My dad gets in on it.

         “Man, you said this would only be a couple people. This is crazy Joe, I can’t do this anymore. I’m not a fucking doormat man; you need to tell everybody to leave.” His tone of voice is low, making the guilt even worse.

         “I can’t dad, they just got here a while ago, and I’ll tell them to be quiet, promise. Just chill out, Laura will relax. And I’m sorry you had to see this, I wasn’t even doing anything, really. I have a condom.” Lie

         “You don’t get it do you, you don’t get it.” He walks out the back door and I see his truck lights turn on as he pulls away. I look to the ground, and see some random people standing beside me talking in a frenzy about the drama that just unfolded. I go back in to my room to meet the Incan. The last thing I remember is taking a drink, and seeing my father’s disappointed face before I pass out.



         Later

         Ok, the black girl has got to go.

         “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name but do you have a ride or some sort of transportation to get you home? My dad should be home anytime and he’s probably really pissed off

Chapter 3

The Car Ride

         I dusted myself off after we exited the administration building. Stress should have been at an all time high. My mind should have wondering what I was going to do; how I was going to comply with this extraordinary punishment I had been given. For what? A simple pipe. Consequences were starting to build up on me, and I brushed them off like last week’s news.

         It was a gloomy day in Webster Groves. Thick clouds pushed eastwards trying to reach the river by three. Raindrops fell every now and then, staining my recently ironed khakis and collar shirt. It was the first time I had taken a shower and dressed nice in at least a month. My hair shagged almost to the edge of my eyes and my frame had grown thinner in the recent months. My eyes were bloodshot, and purplish bags hung under them as if weights pressed on my eyeballs. My red hair shone brown in the grayness above me. I walked with an air of arrogance and foolishness, with sadness creeping in.

         After seeing my principle I learned that I would be receiving an out of school suspension for ten days, and that I was to get an assessment from a psychiatrist. I thought nothing of it, even though it had been my first suspension in my school career. I was filled with anger and hatred for the way I had been wronged. Other people sold drugs at the school. I was in trouble for a pipe.

         It was a normal day in your every day routine suburbia. I woke up, showered, brushed my teeth, ate my cereal, packed my bowl, and strutted out the front door without saying a word to anybody. Unlike later it was sunny out, not a sigh of clouds in the sky. I didn’t notice however, my mind preoccupied. I took a left and then a right up a long backstreet which led past a church called Saint Michaels to my friend’s house. His mother’s garden spelled perfection. I jumped over the daisies and up the green paint crusted front steps. I knocked on the wooden door before letting myself in.

         My friend’s rather overweight mother said a typical good morning hello in a tired voice. She still wore her nightclothes and grasped a cup of coffee in her left hand. She asked me if I would like any pop tarts, knowing my modest reply would be no thank you. I waited at the kitchen table for my friend to come downstairs. Anime was always playing on the television set, and I found myself laughing inside at how nerdy of a family these people were. Middle class, nerdy, gluttonous, nice people. Good people.

         My friend Nathan’s loud footsteps beat down on the wooden stairs to my right. I gazed over and nodded to him. He said good morning and asked me a couple of ridiculous questions about my soccer game, how my dog was, and all that jazz. He was a very good kid, Nathan. He was the most awkward looking fellow you would ever see. His daily apparel was a white T-shirt with cheese stains on it, workers jeans and Adidas shoes that had been worn out five years ago. He had a face that highly resembled a chubby bird, with a pointy nose and beady eyes. He was like the rest of his family overweight as he indulged in hand foods like peppers, string cheese, and the like. I never understood what motivated him through the day. Perhaps it was the eight hours of Call of Duty he would play on his computer after school.

         I had grown accustomed to walking to school in the morning with Nathan because he lived close, his brother and my sister had been rather long term friends, and he always wanted to smoke with me. The latter being my prime motivator and my excuse to my mom for walking. Smoking weed was a must before school; there was no question about it. If I didn’t smoke, I could not focus, or involve myself socially. However I would get tired by the afternoon, and not do any homework and just sleep. It had grown from weekend fun, to weekly habit, to finally an addiction.

         We headed out the door past the garden to the usual smoking destination. A wooded area at the end of the street. A footpath led in to a canopy of trees that provided good cover. A large log that had been knocked down in a storm was at our sitting disposal. We sat down without speaking, his heavy breathing making me uncomfortable.

         I unzipped my backpack, and pulled out my pipe. It was a cheap peace with green bubbly circles and blue contorted shapes running down the sides. The inside was nearly always jammed with resin, seeds, or stems. I didn’t even care at this point about my pipes; I just needed to get high.

         I blew out the excess, and pulled my weed bag out. Finally feeling awake, I began to chat with my friend about daily occurrences. How I got in an argument with my mother the night before because of skipping my sisters soccer game to get high at home and watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force. How the dog pissed on my leg. His sister annoying him to the point where he threatened her with a knife. All these things were the primary basis for our rebellious conversations. It was in this that we found a common bond, and a common reason to smoke.

         We packed it with as much bud as we could, until it almost overflowed the sides. The weed was light green with purplish crystals, a beautiful sight that drew my breath every time. It had the appearance of a regular plant, but the power of the devil and god combined. It stank up everything within a three foot radius.

         I looked around before I hit it. The coast was most definitely clear. I pressed the white Bic lighter flame to the sticky green plant and inhaled violently. Fifteen second of this avid breathing and I finally took the pipe out of my hand, looking straight ahead, eyes watering.

         Ah, the feeling. The relief, the loosening of the shoulders and tension. The euphoria of happy thoughts and dreams flooding in to my brain, clearing everything else, fighting all my past doubts and anger. Like a wave from a tsunami neurons charged in to my brain, wiping away all that had happened in my sixteen years and forming a new person. I swelled with ambition, kindness, and courage.  My blood was on fire, limbs shook from the exhaustion of living. My head dazed and became blurry, showering me with coordinates that did not comply with the earth’s physical nature. Ah, the feeling of that first hit.

         Then another, and another. We passed it back and forth until forty minutes and six bowls had perished in to the sky. My mind dealt with the reality in a subconscious way, knowing that my body had to move, get going. Dazed with confusion, I knew that this was my reason for living. To elevate myself to a superior being, compatible and capable of doing anything I set my mind to.

         We slowly awakened ourselves and leaped up for the mile and a half walk to school. The walk flew by in short time periods, my brain foolishly trying to cooperate with the environment in a fundamental way. The thirty minutes felt like thirty years, time knew no bounds. I arrived at school, ready to face the challenge of the day with my head on backwards; knowing not that what was ahead of me would change my life forever.

         

Chapter 4

         I was sitting at my kitchen table, staring at homework that had been given to me to complete over my suspension. I had no intention of doing it, as I gazed at the wall waiting for somebody to call me so I could leave the house and cause mischief. My mother sat menacingly in the office room listening for any sound I made to try and escape my house.  I had run away several times in the last three weeks, two of those times caused by altercations between me and my mother, the other a near fight with my macho stepdad. It’s not that I quite hated them, just that I couldn’t stand their style of living. Their boring suburban lives, the way they manicured their lawns daily. It all went against my idea of living.

         My head was in a daze, I could not focus on anything. I had stopped taking my anti depressant medication against the advice of my family and friends. I didn’t need any crazy medicine I thought, I was perfectly fine. I had done my research and convinced myself that it wasn’t even as affective as people thought, mostly just run on placebo effect. It caused me to feel dumb and made sleep impossible.

         I twirled the pencil in my left hand, considering making a run for it through the front door. Everything in my mind said this was a terrible idea, but my body spurred me on, missing that all too familiar rush when I left with my belongings toward a world unforgiveable and action packed. Running away was the only way I knew how to deal with things, as it provided an escape from my own conscious, leading to nights filled with highs and that badass feeling you get when you are breaking the rules. I had no idea that this was normal behavior for an addict.

         My mother had dealt with me and my crazy behavior for a whopping two years. Not that I hadn’t been a trouble maker before the age of fourteen, but that’s when I discovered the amazing qualities of highs and lows. She would stay up calling friends mothers and fathers trying to find out where I was, what I had been doing. She sometimes checked jails, or police stations to see if I had been picked up. She was a trooper, knowledgeable on my disease. I would return home on most occasions angry and ashamed, pissed that she had ruined my escapades. I was weary of her anger when I walked in the door, for she could be the scariest person on the face of the earth, and I feared nothing more than her.

         I fell asleep, the table’s lines etching marks in to the left temple of my head. The stomping of her feet echoed as I heard her come down the hall. I startled up, acting like I was doing work, writing fake numbers on a math worksheet. She looked at me.

         “Nice try. Get your shoes on; we’re going to get an assessment.”

         “What kind of assessment?”

         “For school. They told me you have to get one and I can’t say I don’t agree. Your behavior over the past two weeks has been atrocious. I just don’t understand why you do the things you do.”

         “Yea yea I know. But like what is it about. Like a shrink? I don’t need a fucking shrink. I’m not crazy.”

         I am a very defensive person. Anybody accusing me of some kind of wrong was absolutely wrong and knew nothing about me. I was worried to say the least; I had never gone to get whatever this assessment was. I had seen a shrink once for three sessions, and like everything else I soon gave up on it. The first time I went, we talked about voices in our heads that told us what to do. He said I had two kinds of voices, one that wanted me to do what seemed fun and exciting, and another that would be ashamed of what I did after. He said this is the reason for my downs. I blew him off, but accepted that he had cut right through me. I told my mom later that I never wanted to go back to any kind of shrink. It scared me inside.

         “Joe, you need to do it. Just do it for me, please.”

         It was almost like she had given up, pleading for me to fight my pride and go. I gave in and put on my sambas, buttoning my nice dress shirt. Before I left I went downstairs and snorted an Oxycontin which I had made sure to get from my friend earlier to fight withdrawal. I had started to eat them like candy. There was no way I was going to feel those aches and pains, that burning of fire on your bones. My mom called down loudly.

         “Come on, let’s go!”

         “Ok fuck! I’m coming.”

         We strolled out the back door in to the soggy day full of grey clouds. My black Labrador retriever ran up excitedly for me to pet him. I stroked his ears and spoke in high words his name that I had given him, Augustus Octavius Aurelius the third. Sometimes the only being in this world I respected and loved was my dog. He loved you back no matter what, always giving love and never expecting anything back except maybe a belly rub.

         I looked at my backyard, not knowing that I would never look at it again the same. The hammock rocked back in forth in what we called the back back yard. A fence separated it from the rest of the yard, and a tree grew on a hill overlooking a fire pit. The porch painted rich brown smelled of winter, threatening to splinter anyone’s hands that touched it. I felt overwhelming doom, like something big was about to happen. I watched little toddlers playing soccer across the street, remembering how I used to play tennis at the clay courts. How I would ride my bike down the steep hill across the street next to the police station. How me and my buddy Geoff would walk up the big street to the recreational center and play hide and go seek. I realized I did nothing I would consider fun anymore. My life consisted of doing drugs, trying to fit in, and pleasing everybody. And when I went home, irritably shrugging off the people that truly loved me. It was a thought that came and passed as quickly as it had come. 

         I tenderly walked down the stairs and in to the blue ford explorer parked in my driveway. I hopped in like an inmate getting ready to be taken to prison. In a way that was what happened. My mother and stepdad were in the front seats obviously tired and stressed from all the havoc I had created. I felt awful, but not enough to say sorry. Not like it would have mattered. I had done way too much to earn back their respect with a simple sorry. She revved the engine on and we headed north.

         We drove past all the familiar sights I had associated with in the past four years. The high school loomed close, and my eyes noticed the bushes where we used to go snort coke at. It provided just enough cover from assistant principals roaming the grounds for inconspicuous teens. Past the University playground where we would get stoned off our ass and sing songs like Bohemium Rhapsody at the top of our lungs, not worrying about waking the neighbors. The last spot I saw was a soccer field. It was the place where I got my first concussion, scored my first playoff goal, and smoked my first joint. I thought it was quite ironic at the time.

         Eeriness creeped about the car. No one said anything, yet no one wanted to be quiet. To soothe the situation, I passed my mom a scratched up Led Zeppelin CD. Physical Graffiti was my favorite, side one of course. The rover blasted in the car as I turned it up. My mom quickly turned it down, and I groaned. Leaning back I watched the highway lines flash before me. We were really starting to get further out of the city now. Suburb after suburb came by, city limit sighs going past. We crossed a bridge over the Missouri river leading in to Saint Charles County. I put my head back and let the music enter in to me. I started to feel sleepy…..

Chapter 5

         I was sitting cross legged playing video games on the thirty inch television. The carpet was stained with dark spots filling in voids where brown should have been. My dad’s voice called out to me informing me he was going to bed. I heard his door shut with a soft thud, leaving me to the duplex all alone. I was younger, much younger. My red hair was long draping over my eyes, curving to the left. I had to flick it every once in a while to be able to see. My eyes were much different, innocent and wide. Sitting with intention, and confidence, I pressed buttons on the black controller. Unaware of the darkness of the night, I continued playing for another hour.

         Bored, I leapt up and grabbed a book. Exhausted from the baseball game earlier in which I had three hits and a miraculous play at short, I thumbed through the pages of the geography book, quizzing myself on the capitals of different countries. I made little wars in my head, conquering small countries with my mighty armies. The book was wrinkled from being soaked in water, and I remember the smell of it as I waded through its pages. The phone rang and I left it alone, not caring who was calling and considering rude as it was nearing twelve. Almost time for bed.

         Then the sound of the back door opening and voices filling the apartment. The screen door screeched to a close and I pounced up on the couch not wanting anybody to see me reading on a Friday night. The footsteps echoed and then my roommates entered.

         They were older than me. My sister had known them for a long time, going to school with them for four years. She was in high school, and her friends were seniors. One of them was black with a goatee and skinny frame. The second was thick headed and had a beer belly developing. He was rather funny and spoke with not a note of seriousness. He had curly black hair and blue eyes. The third and final roommate had a crew cut and big lips. He looked Slavic with his strong features.

         They came in loudly, laughing and speaking of times at the bar. I pulled the blanket over my body and pressed play on the remote for the VCR, turning on O Brother Where Art Thou. Acting cool, I tried not to look too interested in the movie. Honestly, I was pretending to get ready to go to sleep so I had no questions about why I was home instead of out with friends. I was self conscious about the fact that I didn’t like people too much, and over the past year had started to become more isolated.

         They turned towards me in the hallway.

         “Watsup Joe!” The curly haired one said.

         “Watsup. Where have you guys been?” I asked knowing the answer.

         “Oh we were doing big boy things at the big boy place if you know what I mean.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Is your sister around?”

         “No I think she went to Lizzy’s house to spend the night. And dad went to sleep so try to keep it down.”

         “No need to worry my Niño, we are headed in to our fortress soon enough. You want to come play some Halo with us or something?” He had a little nod to his words, insisting something. I knew what he meant and usually I refused. But tonight was different. I was tired of being alone. Of not doing crazy things like everyone else did on Fridays. I wanted to have fun, and talk the next day about all the adventures I had the night before.

         I sighed, acting like I was too cool for them.

         “I guess… As long as I get first game. Swords and rockets, I hate all that pistol stuff you guys play. Let me get a soda first.”

         They cheered. I smiled. I belonged. Walking in to the kitchen, I grabbed a Gatorade and thought about what my dad would say. He liked the roommates, even hung out with them in their room. I knew what they did in there, but didn’t really push it or act interested. I knew they smoked weed all day and drank, but I was repulsed by it, disgusted even. It just wasn’t my thing. I was an all A student. I played soccer for a club team and baseball. I had a lot of friends, girls liked me. Everything was fine, and I didn’t want to try smoking or drinking. It scared me. I can honestly say the reason for it was that I was bored one night, so I decided to do it.

         I ventured in to what the guys called the pit. My old room had been turned in to the shithole of all shitholes. There was a musty stench of weed, bong water, and three teenagers. Three male teenagers at that. Food wrappers from Jack in the Box and Taco Bell lay scattered across the ground. Pipes were on the floor along with game controllers, seeds, clothes, and movie discs. The smell almost made you cough when you walked in. I tried to sit where there wasn’t a dark stain.

         Alex, the black roommate, turned on the Xbox, sipping on a Budweiser. He did his pregame ritual of silliness. Talking in a stoner way I can only describe in slow motion.

         “Maaaaasssss Buuuuutttchhhh timmmmmeeee. Prepare for battle young one.”

         I laughed, and the guys sipped their beers chuckling. The Slavic one brought out a box that was covered in grandma red. He opened it with a key, and delicately held it up in the air. I started laughing; wondering what was so precious in the box.

         “This, my little red haired friend, contains the holding place of Mark Mcfire, the one and only golden pipe you can find in the Tri state metro area of Saint Louis. Only rumors have been told of it. It wasn’t until two nights ago I came across her at a pawn shop. How much was it you ask? Well only fifty four dollars. Fifty four dollars for this wonderful piece of engineering. Have you ever smoked little man?”

         “Like cigarettes? I tried one once with my sister but it tasted so gross. I almost threw up.”

         They laughed. He put down the box and opened his mouth.

         “No not cigarettes, but the one true plant. I think I was but your age when I tried it. Pot. The savior of my existence.”

         “Oh, no I haven’t.” I replied anxiously.

         “Like, you haven’t in a week?” He asked stupidly.

         “No, like never.”

         He stared at me with a confused look on his awkward face. The thought of somebody not smoking weed regularly stunned him, scared him even. Even I, as young as I was, should smoke according to him. These are the people who truly believe in drugs. The people who don’t consider you human if you don’t use. My first lesson in drugs.

         “Well, I remember when I was your age, I was getting pretty curious. Here, try this, see if you like it. But here are the rules. First, don’t tell anybody you’re doing this with us. Second, don’t tell anyone your doing this with us, and third don’t drop it.”

         Everybody laughed, and I just grinned apprehensively. He stuck out his hand with the golden pipe. I looked at it closely. It shone off the darkness, having an aura to it. I thought it was stupid honestly. I didn’t really want to take it, but peer pressure persuaded me. I grabbed it by the end, and looked at him. I didn’t know what to do.

         He laughed and reached his yellow lighter to the bowl. His thumb pressed on the gas and the light flickered on. It burned the bowl. I looked at him. He told me to inhale, inhale, and inhale. I followed his directions. The wispy vapor suddenly whisked down my throat, in to my lungs. I felt the urge to cough and throw up, but not wanting to embarrass myself, I held it back. For twenty more second I inhaled, and then gave the pipe up. I slapped my knees and held it in. Finally, after a minute of agony, I let it out. A giant ball of smoke shot out from my body, lunging unto the room. My eyes became blood shot instantly, and I started to cough insanely. The black guy hit my back hard, while they all laughed hysterically. I was their entertainment.

         I finally recovered, sitting up straight and getting the last of my coughs out. They were all looking at me, waiting for me to say something, so I thought of the first thing on my mind.

         “Let’s do it again.”

Chapter 6

         My eyes bolted open. The car had stopped in a newly paved parking lot outside an office building two floors high. It was still raining out, but the sun was pushing to make an entrance in to the sky. I had drooled a little bit on my hand, so I wiped it on the back of the seat. My stepdad and mother were getting ready to get out of the car. They motioned to me to get out, so reluctantly I followed suit, hating every bit of this demeaning assessment I was too get already.

         The building was wide, above the highway that took us here. A green hill led up from the road to a fence, and beyond the fence was the office center. A two laned avenue swooped around the building making an oval shaped drive in. To the left was a parking lot with ten or so parked cars. It looked like the most boring place on the face of the earth.

         I walked a couple yards behind my mom, not daring to let her see my face. I was anxious, suddenly aware that people were about to start asking questions that would dwell in to my conscious. That never suited well with me. I hated being asked questions, especially when the answers were screaming to be let out. It made me feel vulnerable. I was too proud to admit I wanted to shout them out.

         The rain stopped hitting our heads and we opened the glass door that read Preferred Family healthcare on the front. I got the hint that this was some kind of family shrink helping kind of place. Inside I moaned, not ready for all these touchy feely shit. I thought my mom would cry, or my stepdad go nuts. I hated emotion.

         The doors shut behind us quietly. The building smelled new. The waiting room was cozy and had several comfortable chairs with nice fluffy cushions. Art hung on the walls created to represent how drugs ruined lives. That made me nervous. This place seemed legit. Magazines lay on the coffee tables from nineteen ninety nine. I immediately sat down, glaring at the pages, acting interested. My mom went to the receptionist who was a blonde haired chubby lady with an all too happy attitude and dimples. She greeted her with an ecstatic hello and told mom that it would just be ten minutes and someone would come back to get us. I listened before deciding to act asleep. I do that sometimes, just because I don’t want anyone to bother me.

         A couple minutes later the door opened and in walked a petite looking brown haired lady who must have been around fifty. She waddled through the door with flip flops and capris on, waving for us to come back with a smile. I was not fooled by her devious grin, and as she smirked at me I shot a menacing look at her. She seemed not to care.

         We walked down the hall to the first door on the left, in a cramped office with a bunch of paperwork piled up on the desk and one computer. There were only two chairs so my stepdad went to the waiting room to let us talk to the happy lady. She said her name was Sheryl. I remember thinking that’s such an old name. She somehow squeezed in to the tiny chair, her rolls flapping over the sides. Stroking the keyboard, she said nothing for a minute or two. All she did was stare at the computer and squint at the monitor, apparently not to fond of these modern devices.

         Finally, after another minute of akward silence, she spoke, interrupting the airwaves of quiet.

         “So, you must be Joseph! I’m very excited to meet you, now I know your probably wondering what the heck is going on here but I’ll tell you not to worry your in good hands ok now. We’re just going to ask you a couple of questions, and hopefully you’ll answer honestly and be on your way ok?”

         I nodded. She spoke with a northern accent, like Minnesota or Wisconsin. She reminded me of an older version of the main lady cop in Fargo. I half expected her to ask me if I wanted some eggs. My mom put on her fake smile and began to ask Sheryl questions.

         “Now is he going to just answer questions here or go with a counselor? I don’t really know how this works.”

         “Oh well first we’ll I’ll ask some simple questions such as basics. Age, zip code, social, stuff like that if you know what I mean. Then he’ll go see a social worker and a counselor. They’ll ask him some more personal questions about the incident and such. “ She recited as if she had gone through this hundreds of times. She probably had.

         Counselor, social worker? This was serious stuff. Up until then I did not know exactly the consequences of my actions. How serious a charge I was facing now. I could have gone to jail,could have had a felony on my record. Now I had to see someone sent from the state to make sure I wasn’t a menace to society. The truth hit me hard, causing me to suddenly feel ashamed of the position I was in. Guilt began to flood through me. Where had my life taken me? I was so happy a couple years ago, and filled with hope. Now I was here, a ward of the state, forced to take an assessment to question my sanity.

         Sheryl began asking questions. Once again, basic information such as social security, sex, address, the like. I answered patiently, wondering where all of this was going. I didn’t show and resolve, as it had all been sucked out of me. I was tired, depressed, unwilling, ready to give up life. I was sixteen and had nothing to show for it. What had I done to help myself or my family? Nothing. My life was drugs, running away, and pain. My head ached from the mind questioning itself. All of the past two weeks pushed down on me like I was thousands of feet under the ocean. The pressure built and built until I had combusted, given up. I was drowning, waiting for somebody to save me.

         After about ten minutes of questioning, she gave me a stack of papers to sign. I knew this wasn’t normal. What was I signing? Exactly I didn’t know. I just pressed pen to paper when she asked me to sign. This is a form of confidentiality, a form of inpatient (just in case she assured me), of human rights assurance. I didn’t really understand what any of it meant, so I looked at my mom before signing anything. She just nodded at me to do it, so I complied.

         The amount of papers to sign was ridiculous. It took nearly twenty minutes to finish it all up. When all was said and done a stack of papers a foot high were on her mahogany desk, overflowing. I sat back, exhausted from just writing my name. She talked us through every paper, but I had tuned her out after the third one.

         She sighed and pushed the papers to the side.

         “Ok Joseph, your going to go with Kim now. She is a social worker who will ask you some personal questions so we can gage where you are at right now. I know this is all new to you but we just want to get it out of the way so you can go on home.”

         She said it as if reading my mind. Just then a tall thick black lady with her hair tied back in a pony tail walked in. She waved and smiled introducing herself.

         “Hi joe, my name is kim and if you can follow me down the hall here we can go to my office and talk for a minute so your mom and Sheryl can chat. I like your shirt by the way, very cool.”

         She pointed to my jimi Hendrix shirt.

         “Thanks.” I mumbled.

         She had a very strong voice, almost manly. I personally thought she was quite sexy, in a motherly sort of way. She was definitely thick with nice features, and a great bosom. She must have been thirty five or so, as I could see that time had found its way on her face.

         I followed her down the hall, sulkingly. She prounced around with a sense of authority around the thin hallways. The place reminded me of a Vietnamese tunnel in nineteen sixty eight. The hallways almost squeezed you tight, and the rooms were all cramped. She led me back to her office, a nice room with the smell of lotions and perfume. Its smell was strong and stung my nostrils with each intake of breath. She pointed to the chair facing her desk so I sat in it. It was nice and comfy.

         She squeezed in and typed on her computer for a minute then looked at me. Her eyes bore in to mine, searching for something. I quickly glanced away. I hated eye contact with strangers, even when it wasn’t neccassary. If I was walking down a sidewalk, I didn’t even want to look at the person coming opposite. I don’t know why, I just hate communicating with random people. It all seems a game, life is a game. Some people are good at it, some people aren’t, and then there is me. The non player.

         Her face was glued to the computer for a couple more minutes. I began to get ancy, wondering when the hell this whole thing was going to be over. I hated waiting. Patience in my opinion is no virtue. Time for me was not money, but drugs and sex. I could think of a million things I’d rather be doing at the time. So I moved around trying to get comfortable. Then finally she asked me a question. One that caught me off guard.

         “Joe, what is your drug of choice?”

         I just looked at her. First of all, drug of choice? Drugs weren’t a choice. They were a necessity. I had to have them or I don’t know what would happen, but I’d probably flip out and hit something. It didn’t matter what drug it was, as long as it fucked me up to the point where my reality was the drug, and they all did that. The question certainly puzzled me, so I scratched my head and gave an anxious laugh.

         “What exactly do you mean?” I replied.

         “Many young people who come in here have a certain drug that affects them the most. Some prefer meth, some heroin, some are fortunate to not have tried harder drugs and stick to marijuana or alchohol. Everybody has a drug that is there favorite. Mine is food. I love food, can’t get enough of it. So tell me, what is yours?”