Man Up! (12 page)

After some time, I’ve come to terms with the fact that the highlight reel of my football career will be limited to that one time I beat my brother at John Madden Football on the Xbox and showing off my killer Nerf spiral in the front yard with my friends. Which, by the way, I just did today. True story.

A
ll right kids, enough fun and games. Gather ’round Uncle Ross, because things are ’bout to get real for a minute up in this bizz’ook. Sit down, ’cuz you just might overdose on a massive hit of life lessons and I’m the only dealer in town.

I want to make an important public service announcement about something that is no doubt affecting you or someone you know. It’s an insidious danger that’s lurking around every corner, at every park across the street from every school and has been featured in at least one “very special episode” of every sitcom since the dawn of time. I’m talking about the original bad girl herself, a lady that goes by the name of Mary Jane. She has many nicknames: the Pot, Grass, Weed, Reefer, Ganja, Chronic, Cannabis, Sticky Icky, Maui Wowie, Acapulco Gold, and the Devil’s Lawn Clippings, just to name a few.

I’ll be honest with you, dear reader. Even I—squeaky clean Mr. By-the-Book himself—couldn’t resist being lured into the smoky web of the Wacky Tobaccy. Yes, I’ve danced the forbidden dance with the Pot many a time and, boy, can that lady move!

When I was younger, I used to think I’d never try drugs. I knew drugs were for losers like that one cousin of mine whose other poor choices included a rebellious haircut complete with spiky bangs, shaved sides, and a rat tail. A look that screamed,
Back off, I’m trouble! Hang out with me, and you’ll end up gettin’ a neck tattoo!

Keep in mind, this was in the early 1990s, nearing the end of Nancy Reagan’s Just Say No campaign. I was constantly bombarded with anti-drug messages, just like every other sixth grader across America. A huge part of this community outreach frenzy was an in-school Drug Awareness Resistance Education program, better known by the sassy street-smart acronym, DARE.

To a kid like me, DARE was kind of awesome. Real-life police officers came to our classrooms loaded with freebies like stickers, erasers, and pencils, each one emblazoned with DARE’s bright red, graffitilike logo. These totally radical prizes were given out as rewards to those of us courageous enough to participate in the educational fun. And, boy did I participate!

I was the absolute best when it came to role-playing the variety of dangerous drug-related scenarios in front of the class. I would often portray the part of the Voice of Reason when we practiced different ways to handle the inevitable peer pressure. “I…I don’t know, Melissa. I don’t think doing drugs is a good idea. Why don’t we all go to Jimmy’s house instead? He’s got a Super Nintendo and his mom always has Jeno’s Pizza Rolls in the freezer.”

As raw and utterly believable as I was as the Voice of Reason, I was even more powerful when I’d immerse myself in the dark, gritty role of the Sinister Tempter. “Hey guys,” I’d mumble, shuffling across the multipurpose room with my hands in my pockets. “Homework sucks, am I right? I don’t know about you, but I could really blow off some steam with a good rolled-up joint of a marijuana cigarette. You know what I mean? A nice, deep inhale of drugs? Well, I just happen to have an entire Ziploc sandwich baggie of the Pot right here in my fanny pack. I know narcotics are against the law and our parents and teachers will be disappointed if we do them, but who cares, man? Let’s have a wild drug party.”

The program culminated with a year-end graduation ceremony held in front of the entire school. I had been in the audience for the DARE graduations of sixth-grade classes before me and, frankly, was underwhelmed. Paper police badges were taped to the shirts of all the graduates, and everyone was served a tiny cup of ice cream. That was it?!? These kids fought for an entire year in your war on drugs and they’re rewarded with a dinky Post-it note badge and a single scoop of vanilla? Where’s the pageantry, the celebration, the chocolate sprinkles?

I approached my teacher with my own plans for a new-and-improved finale to our upcoming DARE graduation ceremony. “Just picture it,” I implored her. “The entire class dressed in matching black-and-red DARE T-shirts, beat-boxing in unison. The crowd begins to clap along to our cool, funky beat. Suddenly, I break away from the group, stepping forward into the spotlight and then…I begin to rap! I rap about drugs! I rap about drugs like no one’s ever rapped about drugs before! It’ll be sensational!”

I must’ve really sold her on it, because my teacher gave me full creative control. “Sure, Ross. Go for it. Whatever. You’re in charge.”

OMG. Do you know what that meant, you guys? I was going to be the star, director, producer, and choreographer. This was huge. I was basically a young Barbra Streisand, and this DARE assembly would be my
Yentl
. (Feel free to sing along, “Pothead, can you hear me…?”)

Under my sure-handed guidance, my classmates and I rehearsed relentlessly for weeks. It was important to keep morale up among my backup performers, so I encouraged them to customize their DARE T-shirts. I myself opted for a tastefully simple yet elegant costume, pairing my T-shirt with a classic red mock turtleneck (to set off the color of the DARE logo and make it really pop), pleated khakis with a stylish half-inch cuff, argyle socks, and a brand-spankin’-new pair of penny loafers. Hot!

Cut to the day of the big DARE graduation assembly. All of the students performing in the show gathered for a final dress rehearsal. As the visionary in charge, I was meticulous, insisting on perfection. “Rodrigo, it’s one-two-pivot-pivot, not one-two-three-pivot! We’ve been over this like a hundred times!”

I could tell my backup performers were getting restless, but I begged them to run through the rap just one last time. I’m not going to lie to you, it wasn’t great. No, it was phenomenal! I came alive on that stage, each succinct rhythmic rhyme pouring from my very soul, echoing throughout the multipurpose room with such glory!

Oh, and dear God, how I moved! I covered every inch of that stage, clapping, jumping, popping, ’n’ locking like an overeager extra from one of my mom’s
Sweatin’ to the Oldies
VHS tapes! Richard Simmons would have been so proud.

Reaching the glorious climax of my routine, I threw myself into the final one-two-pivot-pivot when
something
…​​happened. Something horrible. I had spun with too much passion, miscalculated a turn, and had veered dangerously close to the edge of the stage. The floor that had once been securely beneath my penny loafers was suddenly gone.

Suspended in midair between the edge of the stage and the linoleum floor—a distance of over five feet—I didn’t think of the impending injury to my body. Instead, I thought one thing and one thing only:
Oh noooo, the shooooow!

And then…a sickening thud. In mere seconds, I had gone from a dazzling, magical rapping sensation to a mangled pile of pleated khakis and argyle socks.

At the emergency room, I was an inconsolable, sobbing mess. Not because my wrist was broken and my knee had nearly swelled to the size of one of those disturbingly huge pumpkins people in overalls grow and then show off on the covers of small-town newspapers.  No, I was upset because I knew that less than three miles away, the show was going on without me and, to add insult to injury, with Rodrigo as the lead.

I was shattered, just another casualty chewed up and spit out by the voracious monster known as Show Business. You would think if I was ever going to turn to drugs, it would be then. But actually, it happened two years later.

The first time I tried the Pot was in the middle of my freshman year at the wrap party for my high school’s production of the musical classic
Oklahoma!
I was in the chorus (I still remember my one and only line—“Oh you would, would ya?”). You’d think the natural high of a Rodgers and Hammerstein show would have been intoxicating enough, but I was jonesin’ for more, and these musical theater thugs were only too happy to share their stash.

One puff and I lost my stuff. I became a one-man giggle factory, and business was boomin’! And not only was the Pot at the party good, but the food was
amazing
, too. For some reason, I just couldn’t get enough! And the music was fantastic. I’d never really paid attention to the words in “All That She Wants” by Ace of Base, but it’s actually a superdeep song.

Needless to say, I quite enjoyed my first foray into the Pot. I enjoyed it so much, in fact, that from then on I often found myself shamelessly dipping into my older brother’s hidden supply (sock drawer, duh!). When I came home to an empty house after a long day of school and extracurricular activities, I’d light up, grab four or five after-school snacks, sink into the couch, and disappear into another episode of
Rikki Lake
. But eventually, as much as smoking the Pot made me feel cool and rebellious, both the novelty and my buzz wore off. I mean, yeah, it was fun, but it made me love food and hate homework even more than I already did. As a result, my grades were falling and my pants weren’t. It was time to get my shit together. I had to quit the junk.

But, wouldn’t you know it? Just as I was beginning to turn my life around, I was dragged right back into the seedy underbelly of the drug world when my brother suddenly noticed that the only thing in his sock drawer was socks. “Hey, Dickwad,” he hissed at me under his breath in the living room, “replace the fucking weed you stole or else.”

Fair enough. Along with my new sobriety also came a new sense of integrity. After all, I did steal his drugs. The least I could do was put on my big-boy panties, buy him some more of the Pot and finally wash my hands of the rough-and-tumble underground drug world once and for all. The only way to accomplish this was to do something I never thought I’d find myself doing: I had to do a drug deal.

Let’s face it, drug deals weren’t for kids like me. They were for down-on-their-luck hoodlums, weak-minded thrill seekers, and former child stars. But these are the dirty back roads you’re forced to walk down when you dance with the Devil and smoke his lawn clippings.

So, I ventured into the bad part of town. Just like the rest of small-town America, the bad part of Mount Vernon, Washington, is near the railroad tracks next to the diner that sells biscuits and gravy (with real sausage in the gravy). Wanting to look the part, I wore my version of a “druggie” costume—a backward baseball cap, an oversized filthy T-shirt, ripped jeans, and a bandana tied around my upper thigh. It occurs to me now that I looked much more like a chunky Punky Brewster.

I approached a kid who couldn’t have been much older than me. He looked like the demon offspring of Kurt Cobain and Alanis Morrisette and he kept swatting his long greasy hair away from his forehead with his middle finger. I couldn’t tell if he was flipping me off or just couldn’t see through his Jared Leto–like bangs. He struck me as surprisingly angry-looking for someone with such unlimited access to marijuana. I remember thinking to myself,
When they inevitably turn my life into a movie, this
character has to be called “Dealer Dude.” Oh my God, the guy who plays Becky’s boyfriend on
Roseanne
would be perfect for the part!

“Dealer Dude” didn’t seem to notice my hand shaking with fear as I held out a wad of crumpled dollar bills. Saying nothing, he reached into the flannel shirt tied around his waist, handed me a sandwich baggie of green buds, and shuffled away (exactly, by the way, as I had done as the Sinister Tempter in DARE).

I had survived my first (and last) drug deal. And now, once I handed over the Pot to my brother, I could leave the sordid drug world behind me once and for all!

After my momentary detour to the dark side, I returned to the anti-drug movement with the same fervor I had during my glory days of DARE. But this time I was armed with what they call street cred. Now that I’d walked the walk, talked the talk, and smoked the Pot, I had a newfound perspective that would add an invaluable yet invisible layer of depth to my mission. I found my calling in the Straight ’n’ Narrows, an aptly named after-school program comprising the best and brightest sober students in our small county. The mission of the Straight ’n’ Narrows was to perform at all the schools in the area, offering up lots of drug-free drama and healthy humor in the form of entertaining skits.

I heard about the Straight ’n’ Narrows from my friend Aubrey, a soprano whom I’d gotten to know in our school’s jazz choir. Aubrey was featured prominently in the Straight ’n’ Narrows, most likely because her mother was the founder and director. During my drug days, Aubrey was constantly pushing to get me involved in their sober celebrations. I may not have been interested back then, but now that I’d kicked the junk, I was intrigued.

“Aubrey,” I asked one day, “what exactly do you guys do at Straight ’n’ Narrows?”

Her face lit up. “Omigosh, Ross! It’s amazing. The Straight ’n’ Narrows is all about merging theater, drug awareness, and abstinence education. We meet every Wednesday night at the alternative school. You know, where boys on parole and pregnant girls go to class? Anyway, we start with an improv game. Like, we sit in a circle and everyone has to say their name and a teenage temptation that starts with the same letter. So, for instance, I’d say something like, ‘Aubrey, Angel dust!’”

I was definitely a little interested, but didn’t want to commit to anything. I mean, Wednesday night was
Melrose Place
night. But I’m a real sucker for a word game. “So, like, I could say ‘Ross, Reefer’?”

“Omigosh! Exactly! You’re perfect for this!”

She did have a point. I really was perfect for this. Still, I wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know, Aubrey. I’m pretty busy…”

Then she really went in for the kill. “Aw, that’s too bad, because we have those big tubs of Red Vines from Costco and we always order way, way too much pizza.”

That manipulative little bitch. “Should we carpool?”