The Wikiness

I was hardly innocent. With certain football teammates, I lived as a “weekend wino,” attending practice and passing classes all week so that on Saturday night we could insinuate ourselves into parties with my favorite, coveted elixir, the compound that made my cares abate, put a smile on my face, and left me feeling potent and attractive.

Ah, ethanol!

But kids who did “drugs”? I was not that kind of kid. My preferred stupifiant was respectable. Wasn’t it advertised endlessly with catchy jingles? And didn’t the most popular TV shows celebrate drinking?

I felt estranged from my younger sister Sarah when she and her friends began smoking cigarettes, something “jocks” eschewed. She became stranger yet when she and her friends began doing “drugs,” a category including the whole range of sedatives, anesthetics, and stimulants that I knew only from a distance via shows like Dragnet, especially the LSD episode used to scare my classmates and me in 6th grade.

I’d also read and seen the made-for-TV version of “Go Ask Alice,” the purportedly true story of a real American girl whose life is turned into a nightmare after being dosed with LSD at a party.

No way would I risk my brain for an “acid trip.” But for some easy money? I was ready to take a chance.

“You mean… I pay $2.50 for each hit, and then you turn around and sell them each for ten dollars to your friends?”

But it was true. In my 15th year, my entrepreneurship found a major, if illegal, outlet. I would bankroll my sister’s LSD sales with funds saved at Suburban Trust and Savings and make four times my investment in a week!

As is her wont, Sarah cautioned, “Yeah, but you’d need $100 cash, and you’d have to pick it up from the dealer yourself.” 

My greed spoke up. “No problem! Let’s do this!”

An older brother of one of my sister’s friends drove us to an apartment on North Austin. Before we went in, he looked at me. “You’re gonna see some shit, and you’re not gonna say shit about it… Ever.”

“Yeah, sure!”

He half-squinted his eyes. “You got me? These guys don’t play.”

I nodded my head. I’d seen cop shows. I knew squealers got killed. 

When we entered the second-floor flat, though, my stomach began to churn. A few older dudes were seated around the room, glowering at me. Strong incense hung in the air, and sitting next to a scale on the coffee table like a box of chocolates was an automatic pistol. 

My ride explained what we needed. One of the criminals got up and motioned to me.

“Come ‘ere.”

I followed him into the kitchen where he held his hand out and said, “a hundred.” I gave him my cash. He counted it and put it into his pocket. Then he reached behind the hood over the stove and pulled down a box from which he drew a single sheet of paper, put it in a clear plastic bag, and handed it to me. 40 little square yellow smiley faces.

When I returned to the outer room, my ride was transacting for marijuana. To my amazement, one of the dudes had opened a 30-gallon trash bag stuffed full of the dried herb to weigh out Ted’s ounces. 

The extent of the illegality of my situation finally overwhelmed me. If we were arrested, I’d go to the Audy Home for sure!

I could hardly wait for the deal to finish so that we got out before the police raid in my imagination started.