Being paranoid is really just the ability to read minds incorrectly. I got tired of people saying I’m paranoid (and being paranoid, I guess), so I’m glad I quit doing drugs. I have enough trouble reading my own mind; the best move was just to leave everyone else’s mind alone. Looking back, I probably should have quit way earlier.
From the time I started smoking it was trouble, fun trouble. It was about six months after really started I that I became the biggest pot dealer in Isla Vista, the beach side student ghetto/housing attached to the University of California, at Santa Barbara. Then it just became trouble.
The first time I smoked pot was in my junior year of high school with the drama kids. I had won the drama kids’ attention with constant mockery. Somehow that won me the interest of some of the female thespians, including Laura. Laura who I loved since honors Algebra in seventh grade. Tanned skin, just as tan under her fingernails, even tanned hair, it seemed. Best student in school with the most melancholy eyes. She never smiled and never complained. Her only rebellion was to be dramatic, an actress, and when she acted, she smiled. She could be someone else.
I worked with her whenever I could. Joined the school newspaper because she did, took Math classes that were too hard just to be near. But I didn’t want to be an actor, and that kept us apart. I hated the drama kids that got to be around her all the time, after school and on weekends. So when I started to make fun of the drama kids it pleased my friends and released some of that tension. Everyone it seems has a semi-justified grudge against the drama kids. I became known for my harsh critique of their ineffective attempt to be different and removed as we all struggled to belong, often with very similar haircuts. The drama kids were up to the challenge, often pointing out that I was blustery and lame, correcting the spelling and grammar on the one-paragraph, three-page long manifestos I would post on the bulletin board in the drama room like a teenage Martin Luther. They ended up being just as harsh in return, and, I guess, the mix of being harsh and vulnerable made me attractive to the girls in the clique. Laura started to notice me. She gave me a Hemingway book that she had read on her on when I told her that he was my favorite writer. I would hand around her and her friends at lunch and make cracks about the guys in their group and their wannabe English dockworker appearances. After three years of hanging out so tightly all of the guys in the group had built up a significant amount of resentment for these guys who had all used, abused, ignored or outshined them. I was a breath of chilly, fresh air that made them shiver with a smile because their was still always something wrong with me. I was sloppy like my writing, a spit-talker, and a trendy mess of current fashion. A non-threatening threat to their anti-social conformity. Laura’s friend Eleena even developed what seemed to be a mercy crush on me and invited me to join them on a big outing they were making into the “city.”
I went to be with Laura. Eleena didn’t care because I was there just to make another older guy jealous. We went out to Ed Debevicks, a fifties theme restaurant in Beverly Hills famed for a sassy wait staff of actually pissed off people who moved to LA to actors and only found a chance to sublimate their anger at the “public.” Laura left early, the goodliest of the bad girls. Eleena, I and two other guy actors went on to a midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture show. We smoked some weed in the back of the hatchback Hyundia on the way there. One of the guys had to light the matches for me. The drama kids were all pleased with how they had corrupted me. When Laura heard about it later, she was embarrassed for me.
Drinking and smoking hadn’t been a part of my life or my crowd. I hung with a group of smarter kids, all smarter than me, who drank a little alcohol and lusted after the same girls. The only time they got in any serious trouble was when they burned up the rejection letters that got from Ivy League schools in a small, out-of-control bonfire in a vacant lot on a hillside gated community. The cops came and laughed at them.
So, I didn’t smoke again until a few months into my freshman year of college. A girl’s dorm room, three of her friends and a precarious game of “I Never” set the scene for my re-initiation. I remember thinking how I had forever ruined my chances with Laura since we were still in that early college period when ever rumor about you was spread back to all high school friends by magic (the Internet). After that I don’t really remember not being stoned for more than a day until after I graduated college.
Right after graduation I was telemarketing with my Step-Dad in Canoga Park, tricking people into ordering printer toner at outrageous mark-ups. I took a bong rip, walked out into the alley to smoke a cigarette. As I smoked a co-worker, a pale and hardened thirty-six year old man, on payroll from a probation violation, burst out our a doorway and threw-up for twenty minutes. He had taken too much GHB. It was ten AM, Monday morning, and I was sure we were all going to be in jail by noon. I haven’t touched a drug since.
But for a summer after my freshman year of college, I was a teenage drug kingpin. And that too started in the most innocent way, completely fucked up on beer, weed and pride. Basically a typical night in Isla Vista when My brother, Curt, brought his ’bro’ Keith to visit me just after Cinco de Mayo.
It was a drably-insane night on the streets. Groups of guys and girls walking with their cups aimed to the ground, as they had been instructed, so the cops would leave them alone. Then they would wander into a house and fill their cup from some keg, if they were female. Or they would try if they were a guy who didn’t know anyone at the party but the group they came in with. Curt was blown away by it. “This is perfect,” he kept saying. He said it so often that it annoyed Keith. Their friendship was a high school connection that lived on undead in the high school afterlife. Keith seemed to wonder how life was changing so much for him and Curt wasn’t changing at all. Curt still lived at home. He had an awful case of acne that looked like Herpes. He sold weed and dressed like a hippie that owned one flannel.
That night Curt hooked up with the seventeen-year-old sister of a sophomore and spent the night in their dorm room. Keith and I walked the sea cliffs that formed the southern border of Isla Vista. Keith told me that he was glad to be getting out of college soon. He went to a state university near where we grew up. All he wanted to do is get away from it all and start over again somewhere new. He didn’t have to say he envied me, but he did. I was away and he thought I’d never go back. We sat for a while and he was summoning something. He was serious: “Pete, don’t get too mixed up in getting stoned.” He was stoned, too, on some sweet weed that Curt brought up. “It will make you dull or mental.”
Curt met up with us in the morning. “I’m moving up here,” he said.
Cool. We all went to eat breakfast, and Curt watched the room like a parakeet making eye contact with nothing. He was mad with desire to be a part of it.
I didn’t hear for Curt for a few weeks and then he called me up with a business proposition. “Dude, I just subletted an apartment for the summer. I’m going to get a ton of smoke and you can smoke for free if you sell it for me.”
“What’s smoke?” I asked.
“It’s green…” he said.
“What is?”
“The smoke! Man, you know! Sweet green? C’mon.”
“How much will I get for free?”
“As much as you want.”
I had no idea how much that was, but it sounded promising. I was barely able to afford living at school for the summer with my job at a software store in the mall. Weed was an extra expense that I thought I’d have to give up. Plus, weed had a kind of currency around the area that money lacked. It said that you were somebody, somebody that partied. Most importantly that I partied now made me very different from my old friends, except Laura.
As my freshman year went on, the news about Laura became more and more exciting. She had taken to partying quickly. Apparently her good girl act was more an appeasement to her parents than anyone had realized. She had joined a sorority and then quit. The latest news was that she was total pothead and proudly dating more than one guy at a time. How had she lost our high school morality so fast? Blame it on strict parenting. I blamed it on going to school in Arizona. Either way, I felt like I had a chance. Becoming a dealer could only make everything easier.
Curt showed up two weeks later with two ounces of weed. He had some rules and a new flannel.
Curt’s rules for selling weed
1) I sell it all and never tell anyone about him
2) I can smoke as much as I want and take ten percent of the take
3) Don’t get caught or tell Keith anything
I liked the rules and weed, good stuff.
The apartment that Curt was sub-letting was two blocks from the little cottage across the street that I rented with my friends, but he never told me exactly where. He was intent on being mysterious and sleeping with lots of girls while I made the connections. Luckily selling weed in Isla Vista was simple. People were soon beating down my door, literally. I had made the mistake of letting people come over. I’d smoke them out and then sell a bag. It was exciting, and I was meeting girls for the first time in my life. When my roommates came to stay for weekends they were shocked by how social I had become. They had been unsuccessful in finding sub-letters for their rooms and were glad because they could constantly come up and party with me when they wanted. I quit my job at the mall and enjoyed my reputation. If one of my customers invited me to their party, I got a “house cup” and cuts to the front of the keg. Girls would introduce themselves to me and ask to go by my place later. This only made other girls notice me. Even Curt noticed, he told me latter, since if I did see him at a party he would pretend not to know me. Once some customers came by when he was there and he hid in the closet for twenty minutes. I thought he was going to kill, the look in his eyes, but he just left.
The person I most impressed was Laura, I think. I wrote her emails all the time about my life. She wouldn’t tell me anything about here but had tons of questions:
Are you afraid of being robbed?
Not really. I try to be friends with the tough people. If they come for my stuff, I’ll just give it to them. I can get more of everything.
Do your parents know?
No.
Are you stoned right now?
Yep. Are you?
She was. She kept saying she was going to visit, spend the weekend. I didn’t believe her, but I thought about it all the time. I constantly imagining the ways I would impress her. But mostly I just wanted to get alone with her and get stoned. I saw us sitting cross-legged, knee-to-knee talking about karma like a couple of Kerouac characters.
Then I went dry. The weed ran out. It was the fifth ounce we’d been through and the last time I saw Curt he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get anymore. People came around. I’d smoke them out from my personal, but I couldn’t sell them anything. They’d leave ambivalent; I was sure I was going to be killed. I couldn’t sleep at night and began writing long emails confessing my love to Laura. I told her about my theory of fate, how we were the only real ones in our high school. That meant something, something romantic. She didn’t respond.
The same people came by three or four times, and soon I didn’t have any weed at all. People stared me down. They were sure I was lying. I stopped answering my door; people started banging. I’d finally got to nap at three PM after being up for eighteen straight hours. There was a sharp kick at the front door. I didn’t move. Silence and then the sound of a moderately large rock banging against the door thrown from just few feet away. I was sure the window was next, but just more silence and lots of imagining myself being hit with a rock between the eyes, my head exploding.
I scraped the resin off the last dirty pipe I had and smoked the tiny ball. It produced about a lunch bag filled with smoke, nothing basically. I couldn’t leave; I just had to wait for Curt to call if he ever would. I decided to check my E-mail for the twenty-fourth time that day. Suddenly there was a E-mail from Laura.
Subject: THIS WEEKEND!
She had gotten the weekend off work and was coming up. She didn’t say anything about the awful emails I had written over the last few days, but she was coming. That said something deep, inevitable.
PS: Can’t wait to get baked with you!
Oh, fuck. Baked only means stoned, smoking pot. I had nothing. But still I wrote back:
Laura–
You are going to have the best time.
Bring the Visine.
Pete
I tried to think of where I could get some weed. I had no idea. I called Curt again. This time his answering machine didn’t even answer. Where the fuck was Curt? Why had he disappeared? I needed to get in touch with him. It was my last resort, but I decided to call my brother.
“Keith?”
“What’s up, man?”
I bullshat for a minute, pretending to care about sports and our family.
“Do you happen to know where Curt is?”
“Why?” This was a really bad idea. “Are you still working at the Software shop? Mom said you quit. How are you earning money?”
I didn’t know my mom knew I quit. She must have called the store. I’d been avoiding her calls for weeks.
I said, “I’m working on campus. I’m at work right now, man. I just met someone who knows him.”
“Who?” He knew everyone that Curt knew, another reason he hated him. “I know he’s living up there. If you are selling that shit, I’ll kill you both.”
“Of course.” I paused. “OK gotta go. Work time.” I hung up the phone with my finger. Curt wasn’t dead; Keith hadn’t killed him, yet.
My only hope was going to find Curt at his place. If I found him, he’d be pissed, but I’d know what was up. I put on a hat, a parka with a hood and sunglasses. I hoped I could fade into it all even though it was eighty degrees out.
I chose the block that I thought was his and looked into every window. Often in frustration I would lift my arms to the air and look all around. I wasn’t finding anything but lots of people on couches napping. I looked in three more windows, nothing again. I protested again with my arms and looked all around. Out of control, I did exactly what I did not want to do and made eye contact with one of my customers. He recognized me. He walked towards me, and I hated my life.
“What’s up, man?” I said.
“Hey, man. I keep coming by your place but you are never there. Can I cruise by later?”
“Not tonight. Soon.”
“Well, I’ll cruise by and see if you are there whenever.” He meant he’d be by tonight.
“Hey man, do you know a guy named Curt? Wears a flannel?”
He thought hard. His head moved as he did.”Hmmm. Always the same flannel?”
“Yes!”
“Right there.” He pointed to the next window I was about to check. I thanked and the guy left saying something vague about how I should be expecting him soon. I looked in the window and saw both of Curt’s flannels on the floor, but no one was there. Where could he be? The Bathroom?
I knocked. Then I knocked hard. Nothing. Knocked again. Fuck, I thought I should leave a note but had nothing to make one, so I walked home. I wrote a note and brought it back to his place with some tape. When I got back to his place, I looked in the window. One of the flannels was missing, the newer one. I knocked for five more minutes until I just put the note on the door and went home.
I checked my E-mail. Laura had written back, the quickest response ever for her.
Subject: See you soon!
The mess of the last few months grew obvious around me. If she was coming I’d better clean. So I did. Can by can I picked up the entire house. Then I decided to clean everything. It took four hours. About three people an hour knocked on my door. Each time I checked to make sure it wasn’t Curt and went back to work. Finally done, I sat down and felt tired and safe for the first time in a while. I drifted to sleep and knew exactly what was going to happen.
There was a knock at the door. I had promised myself that I wasn’t going to check the next knock but I could tell right away that it was Curt.
I opened the door. He looked down, shook his head and walked past me. “Stupid fuck,” he said as soon as I closed the door.
“What?” I decided to be tough.
“Why did you go by my place?”
I stood up straight; I was about a foot taller than him. “Where have you been?”
“Why did you come by my fucking place? I told you the rules.”
“I don’t care about the rules anymore. Where have you been?”
“Why is that any of your fucking business?”
“Keith’s looking for you.”
He looked down. “He is? Well, I was out of town. Do not go by my place again. I’m not fucking with you.”
“I know. I know, man. I was just trying to help out Keith. He wants you to call him next week. He’s gone for the weekend; wanted to talk to you before he left, but call him next week.”
“Sure.”
“So?”
“So you got any?”
“Fuck, man. Relax…”
“I can’t relax. I have people coming by here all the time.”
“Tomorrow night.”
Cool, that would work. “OK, good.”
“You don’t have any?” He was looking to smoke.
“No, you?” Figured I’d ask. He turned to leave and I said, “Hey man, tomorrow when you come by my friend will be here.”
“No fucking way.”
“Be cool, man. It’s a girl. Laura Wietzman from Chatsworth.”
His eyes said, Oh, that little bitch. “Fine, man. As long as you promise to fuck her.” I agreed, and he gave he a high five half hug. I’ve never felt so awful and awkward about anything. I barely slept that night at all.
Laura arrived the next day at four o’clock, about three hours after I was expecting her. It felt like three days, but I forgot about it as she had arrived. She looked better than I remembered her. She had a flapper haircut and was wearing a form-fitting halter top, I think. She gave me a stilted hug and sat down on the couch. She didn’t seem like she wanted to talk.
“You wanna smoke?” Exactly what I was afraid off.
“Well…” I looked around. “I’m kinda out for a few hours. Just a few hours.”
“That’s cool. I have some if you want.”
“Great!”
She pulled a tiny pipe out of her pocket. She showed me that was packed with leafy green. She offered it to me. I gave it back, and she smoked. Our lips had already touched, basically.
We passed back and forth. The house became smokey and calm until there was a sudden knock at the door.
“Who is it?” she asked.
I looked out the curtain and recognized the guy from yesterday by Curt’s house. He was sniffing the air; he could smell the weed.
“I’m not going to answer it,” I said quietly walking towards her to sit next to her for the first time. “Some guy who wants weed. Been coming by here every hour. Poor guy.” A stone hit against the door. She looked at me, and I laughed pretending it was nothing.
And she laughed and laughed and laughed.
“What?” I said. “What?”
“This is just so weird. To be sitting smoking with you and you are a drug dealer.” I laughed to and had no idea if it was good or bad, but I went with it.
I got big with my high and started talking about everyone we knew and what they were doing now and how provincial they all seemed. I imitated their bad acting and trying to fit in their new school. She laughed at it all.
“You are really funny. I’m really glad I came to see you.”
My cheeks became as red as the former whites of my eyes. I sat down next to her, “Did you read those crazy emails I sent?”
She laughed. “Those…” She was about to say something. And there was a knock at the door. “You gonna look?”
“Nah, but it could be my supplier and then I’ll have tons of weed.”
“Really?” Her eyes lit up.
“Yeah, good shit too. I’ll check.”
I looked out the window and it was dark already. Curt was there with his backpack where he always carried the weed. I noticed that he wasn’t dressed like a hippie. He had on a black V-neck sweater over a black T-shirt and some clean jeans. His face almost seemed to have magically cleared up leaving just a normal amount of acne. I let him in.
Laura stood up trying to compose herself.
“Hey,” Curt said. “How are you?” He walked up and got a full, nice hug. “How’s Nicole?”
He knew her older sister. He knew her brother too and her dad. They seemed to know all of the same people and talked about them all for ten minutes, very nicely.
“So are you baked?” Curt asked finally.
She blushed, “Yeahhhhhh.”
“Nice. I’ve got the kindest buds in the world with me. My buddy drove it down himself from Washington.” It was like an infomercial. “It’s called the Golden Aurora.”
“I’ve heard of it! Oh my God! You don’t have it!”
“I do.”
I had no idea there were brand names. I thought it was all the Chronic.
Curt took a foot-long bong out of his backpack and a bag with a small bag of bright green weed that he treated like gold. He set them down and threw me a large back of brownish weed. He walked to the sink and filled the bong. Laura watched him.
He packed a bowl as he walked and sat down next to her on the couch.
“No one is going to believe I smoked this,” Laura said. She leaned in and smoked. She smiled as she coughed out her hit. “It tastes so good.”
Curt took the bong and smoked. His hit was clean. He looked around my place and said, “You cleaned up.” Then he started telling the “crazy” story of how his friend escaped from the cops in Oregon all so we could smoke the Golden Aurora. Laura nodded madly and occasionally stated how high she was.
“Oh, you want a hit, Pete?” An afterthought.
“Sure.” He packed a fresh bowl and handed it to me where I sat across the room on a folding chair.
Getting high was my only hope so I endeavored to take the largest hit ever and I succeeded. My mind was instantly wiped. Then I became myself again but faintly, making all kinds of clouded connections but mostly fixated on the thought that Curt wanted Laura. I heard myself tell myself that I was being paranoid. I heard Donald Duck quack the same thought at me and I laughed.
“Here let me take that, big boy,” Curt said grabbing the bong from me. “Don’t worry, man. There’s plenty.” They both laughed and watched me. “Tons.”
I was becoming sleepy. My body felt slow and my thoughts were like a dream slipping away in the morning, clear and full and then gone.
Curt went into his backpack and pulled out Cheech and Chong’s Up in Smoke. Laura went nuts. She’d been waiting her whole life to see it. He put it in the VCR and sat down next Laura. They both took another hit. I had to go lay down on the floor if I was going to watch. Then I was asleep. I woke myself like an alarm. And looked around. The movie was already going. A cop was already being fooled, Laura and Curt were close. The last sounds I heard were a knock at the door. I think someone walked in, and I was out.
I opened my eyes again and it was daylight. I was alone. I looked around and saw Curt’s bag and bong on the floor. Someone had covered me with a beach towel. I got up and walked to the bedrooms. No one was in the room I shared. No one in the next room. I walked all the way to the back of the house and the back bedroom door was open. I slowly peaked my head through the doorway. Curt and Laura were in one of my roommate’s beds under the cover and talking with their noses about an inch apart from each other. Curt saw me first. He stopped talking and smiled. Laura turned to me.
“Hey!” she said. “Wanna go get some breakfast?”