• jeffreypohn

SUCH A DEAL









Using my dad, Bernie, as a negative role model, mom has always tried to impress upon me the importance of being a good businessman. Taking her advice to heart, I start to deal marijuana. The profits from this endeavor, along with the money I swipe from mom’s purse, allow me to afford all the new gym shoes I want. I become known and envied at school for my gym shoe collection.


I am fashioning a new identity - sort of a very poor man’s Hugh Hefner. In addition to my ever-growing mane and groovy new threads, my bedroom features a waterbed, exotic-looking textiles adorning the walls, a high-end sound system, and my old posters of Chicago sports luminaries replaced by rock stars and pin-ups. Mom doesn’t seem to wonder how I’m financing all of this. Socially, I’m moving and shaking, dumping my old friends, and making new ones - older guys, bad apple seniors who are drawn to me because I’m such a cool dude, and because of my cheap - and often free - pot.


During my first couple years of high school, my illegal substance activities expand along with my mind. In addition to daily drinking and pot smoking, I experiment freely with LSD, mescaline, cocaine, speed, hashish, Quaaludes, etc. Quaaludes are my favorite, as they get me closest to unconsciousness while still remaining conscious. My least favorite drug is LSD.


On my last and worst acid trip, hanging out with a bunch of friends at the home of one of their parents, I sit on the floor with my weight back on my hands. When the others leave to party elsewhere, I become convinced that my hands are glued to the floor. I simply cannot move. I remain stuck there for hours until my friend’s parents return home, and find me alone, still hopelessly attached to the floor.

“What are you doing here?”, the surprised mom demands.

I try to speak, but words won’t come out. The best I can do is to nod or shake my head. The dad glares accusingly at me, snaps at his wife.

“Look at his eyes, Doris. He’s all hopped up.” He trains his disgust on me.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

I shrug.

“We’d like you to leave”, the mom insists.

“Can’t,” is the best I can manage to say.

I wriggle around on the floor. Finally, the parents get down on their hands and knees, pry me off floor, and send me on my way.

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