Chapter 8

People might say marijuana is a “gateway” drug, but I believe cigarettes, tobacco to be far more so of a “gateway” drug.

Tobacco was the first drug I tried. I remember, at age 11 or 12, the first cigarette I smoked; a Marlboro light that I’d stolen from my stepsister. It tasted so smooth, so good, its flavor, and it gave me this euphoric buzz. I loved the smell of tobacco before it was smoked too, the smell of cigarettes in the pack. I’d sniff and breathe in the fragrant pouches, the cigarette packs I’d find while snooping in my stepsister’s room when she wasn’t around.

Smoking cigarettes made me want to try more drugs, too, harder drugs, and seeing so many drugs done in movies, on TV, drugs to me looked so cool ... So rock n’ roll...

I’d been smoking cigarettes, regularly, starting at age 13, then took to weed, smoking a joint, on the roof of an abandoned building, with my friend. My friend had gotten the joint off his older brother that night, which, coincidentally, was Halloween. That first time I’d smoked weed, I didn’t feel it, didn’t catch much of a buzz.

(Perhaps it would have been better if I did, because my friend and I went out smashing pumpkins afterwards, and we trashed a Halloween display a little girl had set up, and the little girl watched us destroying it, from her living room window, and was traumatized, ran and told her parents, and somehow they knew we did it.)

((The parents, I guess, must have seen us, or the little girl knew us, and the girl’s parents called our parents, and her parents berated our parents, saying the little girl was having nightmares, night terrors about us kicking and smashing her beloved pumpkin she’d carved, and the girl’s parents threatened to call the police if we again trespassed and attacked their property ... If only that weed would have been stronger, maybe none of this would have happened ... I wonder if to this day, the girl still has nightmares about that, and if she has a Halloween phobia... ))

The second time I smoked weed, the buds were far more potent, I guess, and it hit me like a brick to the face. It was almost as strong as an acid trip. I felt like God and saw wonderful colors, everything silhouetted in neon green lines. It was intense but somehow peaceful. It was chill and beautiful.

I’d had much better experiences with weed than I had with drinking. Weed just mellows me out, though at times does make me lazy, catatonic, and while drinking never made me violent, like it did to others, it did sicken me if I drank too much.

Like the first time I got stinky drunk. There was a Japanese restaurant around the corner from my house, and I’d seen they’d kept stacks of beer, in six packs, and boxes, near an exit door in the back, next to the bathrooms. My young criminal mind, my demons knew it would be quite easy for someone to sneak a six pack from there, either in a backpack or stashing it outside the backdoor.

I chose the latter. I’d gone there with my friend and his parents and had went to the bathroom and afterwards had quickly grabbed a sixer and stashed it outside the backdoor. Then I made up an excuse to leave early, went back behind the restaurant, grabbed the sixer, stole off running like a bandit. I must have been 13 at the time.

Later that night, we, two other friends and I, drank the beers. The beers, Budweiser, cans, were warm, and tasted like piss. As does all Budweiser, in my opinion, but it’s even worse warm.

My friends hated the stuff, gagged, contorted their faces and spit the suds out after only a few sips, then chucked their cans into the garbage and quit imbibing.

But me, I was able to stand the horrific taste and guzzled my can empty, then put the rest to my face and downed the three remaining cans in quick order.

At first, I didn’t feel anything. I remember us, my friends and I, hanging at this playground, on the swings, talking shit, joking around, smoking menthol cigarettes, which I’d taken a liking to...

Then it hit me, the drunkenness, hard, and, having trouble standing upright, I decided to stumble home, which was only a couple blocks away, so I could lie down and pass out. But before I could make it too far, I felt an acidic burst, a powerful surge in my throat. I clutched my stomach before I keeled and purposely vomited on the front door of the community recreation center I’d been staggering by.

On the short walk home, I must have vomited three or four more times. On the sidewalk. In a front yard or two. Once on a car, I think.

I can’t remember if it rained later that night, but I hope it did, to wash away the puke, or else my neighbors, and a janitor or a city worker had some terrible surprises awaiting them the next day ... I can only imagine the contorted looks of horror coloring the faces of the recreation center staff when they arrived to work the next morning, seeing that front door covered in chunky pink puke...

More puke arrived, for me, when I came home, and I upchucked so many times that my stomach emptied. Then I dry-heaved a handful of times until I finally passed out. I learned a lesson from that experience, though, and have since only thrown up (from alcohol) maybe once or twice more and nothing to that extent. I learned that night the power of alcohol, and even if I’ve abused it, I’ve always known my limits with the potion and have always recognized the point in which I’m happily drunk and in no need of more.

Alcohol I’ve done in moderation, but weed I’d smoked voluminously, for many years. I loved how it mellowed me out, relaxed me, helped me sleep. I’m elated that it’s legal in many states. It’s long overdue. It should be legal everywhere, I posit, that beautiful plant...

Acid I’d done a few times and loved, but it lasted too long. At a certain point, I just wanted it to be over. I only had one bad trip, after taking a blend of LSD that was a carbon copy of one of the most powerful batches from the 1960s.