Authors: Chuck Stepanek
“All right, see you ‘round…Bob!” The older boy walked off.
How could he know so fast? Maybe he was a friend of the Bird. Bob was mulling over the odd exchange when Judy Zimmer met him in the hallway. “So are you going out for theatre next year” she paused intentionally. “Bob?” Tittering she walked off without a reply.
Little did Bob know at the time but when it is revealed that the dorkiest, most dysfunctional, unspeaking kid in the school is a stoner, news travels like lightning.
Innocently enough, Jon Hemmingburg had picked up a couple of buddies for ‘just a taste of the leaf’ before school. Purely out of
reverence to the power of the Columbian Gold, he shared the story of the De-man getting stoned on his first time.
“No way!” from Brad Venneman who was accepting the pipe from Ned ‘Chico’ San
chez
. “Nobody gets stoned their first time, especially not him. I’ll bet he didn’t even inhale.” Brad Venneman took his hit and forwarded the pipe to the front passenger seat. “Fuckin A, he was blown. Laughing and shit, fucker couldn’t figure out the door handle, coughing and choking out a lung. It’s the gold I’m telling you.” Bird waited on Paul Sindelar, who was riding shotgun, then took his own hit, and held the pipe out behind him in the accepted counterclockwise rotation of automotive tokin’.
Now, feeling the effects nicely, the passengers relented, yes, maybe it was possible. Regardless, each had a good circle of friends and a good story to pass along once they stumbled into school.
“How’d ya like the hills bob?” A passing voice in the hallway. “Bob did you bring some munchies for lunch?” Another random contributor.
It was only third period, but already bob had earned some kind of celebrity status. The acknowledgement was nice, but his ongoing inability to engage in conversation was maddening. A little spot in the back of his mind teased: ‘they’re making fun of you. Just like they’ve always made fun of you.’
No, they weren’t laughing at him. They were laughing with him. The things that he had enjoyed; the hills, munchies, music, they too knew how much fun it was to see the world in more than one dimension. And now he had seen it too.
Plus there was another thing. Nobody was calling him by the ‘D’ name. Everyone was calling him bob.
So much better.
Bob took on his new identity and luxuriated in it.
He was being accepted.
But hot gossip gets cold fast, and nowhere faster than in high school. Once everyone (worth telling) had heard the news, there was no one left to tell. A second telling would
elicit
a tired, ‘yeah, we know about bob, we know.’ The news of Bob’s transformation lasted all of one day. It was superseded by the adventures of the ‘KISS dozen.’
The envy of the school, a dozen sophomores had cut class the previous Friday to drive to
Minneapolis
to attend a KISS concert. The one day suspension they received for their adventure made them no less than heroes. Now, they were back. The comments filled the lunchroom: ‘Gene Simmons was spitting fire all over the stage, 20 feet; I fucking swear he was breathing fire 20 feet!’ Study hall: “And then they came out of ‘Hotter than Hell’ and rolled right into ‘Firehouse!’ Changing classes: ‘And then they lit this massive skyrocket bomb thing that exploded over the arena!’
Bob had been supplanted by something called KISS. He felt compelled to learn about KISS, to not do so would leave him behind, again an outsider craving to fit in.
The Bird had recommended the Elmwood J.C. Penney store as a place to find clothes not only for his job at the Prospector, but also clothes for school; plain pocket jeans and ordinary shirts. On one of his shopping trips he had wandered over to the music section out of curiosity. But just like that fateful encounter with the Beatles in music appreciation class, anxiety crawled up his neck as he gazed over the meaningless names on the album covers.
But now he had a name, KISS, (which came on good authority - a dozen sophomores and their hero status)and he had
Kansas
and Pink Money? Moon? Lloyd? He would go to J.C. Penney, buy KISS, and play it in his room.
One problem: Play it on what?
On the final day of school, Bob approached his friend the Bird.
“8-Tracks. Just like I have in the Falcon. You can get a home 8 track player a lot cheaper than a full stereo system. Everybody’s going to 8 tracks, pretty soon you won’t see any more albums. 8-tracks are gonna be around forever.”
For bob it was pretty high tech information to absorb.
“Oh, and you gotta get a good set of headphones.” He dragged out the word “gooood.”
“Now
we’re
talking about $80 total here. How long is it gonna take you to save up all that dough?”
Bob had $127.14 in his pocket. He had no bank account, not even a wallet. Each of his prospect hole paychecks the last six weeks had been cashed and stuffed into his jeans. Other than a few shirts, three pair of plain pockets and one bag of peanut M & M’s, he hadn’t spent a dime of his earnings.
“I have enough.” He pulled out the wad as proof.
“Jesus!” You could get a set of Sennheisers!” The Bird was truly impressed.
“Also, how much does it cost to buy po—uhmm, bob?”
The Bird reflected and then preambled. “First, you’re gonna need something to smoke it in.” Bob hadn’t thought of that. “But with school out now, we could make a quick run over to
Mankato
. They’ve got a cool head shop and you could pick out what you like.”
Bob didn’t know what a head shop was but figured he would find out soon enough.
“With bob, there are different prices for how good it is and how much you want.”
“Well” Bob struggled. “Like that kind we had…” “Columbian Gold” the Bird beamed. “I guess maybe…” He took a shot in the dark. “Two pounds?”
The Bird staggered comically. “Are you fucking shitting me? That’s like $2,000!” He laughed at the absurdity.
“Oh, sorry.” Bob had to laugh a little himself. “How much then…” he left the question dangling for the street savvy Bird. “An ounce will run you eighty. Forty for a half. But I don’t think there’s much gold left in the Elm. There’s always plenty of Mexican” the Bird made a sour face. “You can get that for half the price.”
It worked out perfectly. $80 for music. $40 for gold. Certainly the head shop wouldn’t be more than $7.14.
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, music, half an ounce, and the head…um place.” Then he appealed: “Can you help me?”
The next day, the first day of summer vacation, Bob and the Bird went shopping.
2
Bob sat in the Falcon rolling the plastic baggie in his hands. Inside he could see that the pot had a golden brownish look to it. Ergo the name, Columbian gold.
“He had some other halves already packaged, but it was bottom of the barrel stuff, seedy and full of sticks. He’s been happy with
the business I’ve brought him so he took a full ounce bag of the good stuff, cut in half, and there you go.” The Bird prided himself on getting a good deal for his passenger, then came a straightforward warning. “Hide it good, and if you get caught, just say you found it.”
“Can we try it?” Bob asked the question as if he were a customer wanting to test drive a new car.
“Thought you’d never ask!” the Bird chirped. “Let’s find a spot to load up.”
The spot, ended up being
Johnson Park
. A poorly designed area that was no more than a hill sloping into the banks of the
Minnesota river
. They pulled into the parking lot and the Bird retrieved his pipe from under the seat. “Load it up.” He handed the pipe over.
Honest, and embarrassed: “I don’t know how.”
“Here, let me show you.” The Bird demonstrated and Bob observed. “You don’t need much, remember, this is gold.” Bob reflected on his statement the previous day and said: “And I wanted 2 pounds.” This cracked up the Bird and got Bob to smiling. They weren’t even stoned and already they were laughing. The social magic that is weed.
They toked. Again Bob felt that floating feeling and the world began to morph. As the ember dimmed, the Bird rummaged for music, finally settling on Ted Nugent. He popped in the cartridge and they listened as uncle Ted sang of sweet poon tang.
“Let’s go man.” The Bird tapped out the pipe and fired up the Falcon.
Being stoned during the day was much different than night. The world was alive! Trees, signs, houses, colors, things that bob had never noticed before were three dimensionally radiant.
He looked at the Bird in awestruck wonder. How did he know where he was going? Bob could have been in a foreign country for all he knew, not the city that he had lived his whole life in.
They pulled into the JC Penney lot and the Bird cut the engine. “You remember to bring your money?” Bob was stunned. He had no idea. He reached into his pants pocket and discovered something very strange. He pulled it out. A fat sack of weed.
“Jesus! Be careful” the Bird hissed whipping his head around frantically. Bob labored mightily with the simple task of re-pocketing the contraband. Then he tried the other pocket. Yes, cash.
“Okay, let’s score some music.”
The process of navigating the store, selecting the home 8 track player and headphones was all in the hands of the Bird. Bob could only do his best to follow. The Bird recommended a player. The picture on the box looked like a single slice toaster laying on its side. He then identified the headphones. “Man I wish I could afford Sennheiser’s” the Bird said enviously. In the adjoining aisle, the music section, Bob took his first lead. “KISS” he said.
“Oh, KISS fucking rocks” the Bird opined. The ‘f’ word caught the ear of a prune-faced saleswoman who hissed at the boys.
“Oops!” The Bird whispered. This got both boys to laughing. The Bird good naturedly, bob uncontrollably. The prune faced lady disappeared and a minute later a young suit approached them. “Something we can help you boys with?”
“”Nope, we be good.” The Bird quipped and shot bob a shit eating grin. At the sight of the manager-type bob sobered quickly. The world’s guiltiest expression crossed his face. “You know we have a zero tolerance policy for theft.” The suit shot without provocation. “You wouldn’t have anything in your
pockets I would want to know about.” Bob felt panic-stricken. The Bird came to the rescue.
“Yes we do, my friend has over $100 in his pocket that we planned to spend here.” He pointed to the shopping cart with the 8 track player and high end headphones. “Go on, show him your cash.” Bob reached for one pocket, blushed when he realized he had chosen wrong, and then from the other extracted a fat wad of cash. The suit was now back-peddling, the Bird advancing. “But if you want to accuse us of stealing, we’ll take our money and buy our shit (he had no reservation using the word) elsewhere. Then we will tell everyone we know that Mr. Snot grass (intentionally mispronouncing Snodgrass from the name badge) doesn’t want young people to shop at Penney’s.”
“Let’s go.” The Bird left the cart and then after a moments hesitation bob followed.
They had gotten ten paces before Mr. snot grass recovered. “Boys, please. My mistake.” The Bird stopped. Bob the same. The manager was wheeling the cart toward them. “We do want you to make your purchases at Penney’s. I had gotten a false report from one of our clerks that she thought she saw you shoplifting.”
“”That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Wow, even stoned the Bird had stones.
“Because of her misunderstanding I’ll authorize 15 percent off your purchase.”