Weed

When I saw the bike sitting against the wall at Scooters, unlocked, unsecured to anything, it was like a dream come true, a wish fulfilled, a prayer answered. I slowed my pace as I walked toward it, hunching forward with my hoodie up, noting, as unobtrusively as possible, whether I would be seen if I took it.

If. Such a funny word. Of course I would take it. It was a Specialized road bicycle. They went for well over $1,000. I could get a couple hundred for it from one of the spoiled brats at West High who wouldn’t mind a joy ride on one of these bad boys. Those kids would use it and lose it, dumping it somewhere far away from their little cocooned, white bread world.

No one was on the street. I glanced at the window into Scooters. It was down the sidewalk a little ways. In order to see me with the bicycle, a person would have to be standing in the window and looking hard to the right. Fortunately, no one was in the window.

I walked up to the bike as if I owned it and pulled it away from the wall. I walked it a few feet down the sidewalk, and just as I was getting on it, I heard a yell from behind me.

“Hey! That’s my bike! C’mon, man!” a man shouted.

“Thief!” yelled a woman.

I ignored the voices, hopped on, and began to ride. It was smooth. For a little while, I heard someone running behind me, but that disappeared as I picked up speed. I crossed street after street, not slowing down, putting my life in the hands of fate. If a car on one of the cross streets failed to see me…well, that would probably be the end of me. Of course, it would be the end of my troubles, too.

When I was far enough from the Scooters to feel safe, I slowed down to get my bearings. I realized that I would need to go north on Lorenz about five blocks, and then I could head west on Pellant until I reached Ryan. From there, it was only a couple of blocks north again, and I would reach West High School. And it would be just in time for school to let out. I would just hang out on the edge of the parking lot and wait for someone to come up to me and my bitchin’ bike.

I thought about looking the part to ride one of these expensive bikes. I had a ratty black hoodie on. That would probably have to go. Otherwise, I was wearing a pair of blue basketball shorts and a gray t-shirt. They were a little worn, but from a distance, they would do. My sneakers were old, but they had been pretty nice kicks back in the day. They would be alright.

I pulled into an alley next to a Chinese restaurant and rode up to the dumpster. I quickly pulled off my hoodie, dropped it in, and headed back out onto the street. I rode at a nice easy pace, as if I had no care in the world. A few cars passed me from one direction or the other, but none of them even slowed down to take a suspicious look.

Within minutes, I was at the high school. There was a tree at the southeast corner of the parking lot, so I stopped there and waited. Off in the distance, I heard a clanging, and I jumped. It took a second for me to realize that it was just the dismissal bell. Good, the kids would be crowding the parking lot in mere moments. The sooner I got this bike off my hands and the money in my hands, the better.

I watched the students milling around, walking to their BMWs and Audis, yelling at each other about their plans for the weekend, and high-fiving before going their separate ways. These kids. What could they possibly know about life? They were so privileged. It was disgusting how spoiled they were.

I could say that because I knew them. I was one of them five years ago. Then Dad lost his job, and things just started to slip away. We lost the luxuries first, since we couldn’t pay for them--the vacations; the sleek, beautiful cars. Then went the necessities--electricity, water, the house itself. The bitterness attacked me suddenly. I tasted iron, and my eyes stung before I blinked them hard enough to stop the stinging.

“Hey, man, nice bike,” a young, thin boy said as he approached me. The boy had long, shaggy brown hair, swept to the right. He wore a zip-up hoodie with tattered sleeves, and blue jeans with carefully-placed tears over the knees. His clothes were expensive enough to look poor. I was familiar with the ensemble.

“Thanks. Wanna take a look at her?”

“You bet,” the boy said, and he walked around the bike, appraising it. “You’re lucky, man. She’s a sweet ride.”

“Yep. Sure is.”

“How attached are you to her?” the boy asked.

“Not that attached. Why?”

“I’d love a bike like this. Would you be willing to sell her?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll give you $150.”

I laughed. As rich as this kid probably was? Yeah, right. “I’m a little more attached than that.”

“Okay, okay, I hear ya’, man. How about $200?”

He hadn’t even asked me for a counter. I bet I could get at least $300. That’s enough for plenty of weed.

“I was thinking more like $400.”

“$250?”

“$350.”

“How about $325?”

“Deal.”

The boy pulled out his wallet, picked three hundreds, a twenty, and a five out of a thick stack of bills, and handed them over to me. I tipped the bike toward him, and he took it. I pulled off a shoe, stuck the money down in it, and put it back on.

“Thanks. Enjoy the bike.”

“Thanks, man. I will.” The boy got on the bike and rode off toward the parking lot to show it off to his friends. I walked south on Ryan. I had about a half hour’s walk to reach my neighborhood on the south side of town.

Once I reached the neighborhood, I started toward Steve’s house. He would set me up with weed. I found him outside his house, working in his flower bed.

“Steve, how’s it goin’?”

“Hey, Dave. What can I do for you?”

“Got any product?”

“Of course. How much are you looking for?”

“An ounce would be great.”

I followed Steve into his house and stood in the living room while he disappeared down a hallway. I was always surprised by Steve’s house. It was immaculate. Almost like a small museum. Two recliners stood on either side of a buttery leather couch. End tables made of dark wood and glass sat next to them. A brown and cream area rug laid in front of the furniture. That’s all I saw. No ashtrays, no beer cans, no pizza boxes, no trash whatsoever. I just couldn’t reconcile that with a thirty-year-old drug dealer. While I waited, I reached down and took the hundreds out of my shoe.

Steve appeared again with a weed-filled baggie. “It’s $300 even.”

“That’s what I thought. Here ya’ go.” I handed the money over to him as he handed me the baggie. I stuffed the baggie into my briefs.

“Nice doing business with you, Dave. Come back again sometime,” he said with a wink.

“Thanks, Steve. See ya’ ‘round.”

I stepped out of the pristine living room and walked down the path to the street. Three blocks away, houses were decidedly less affluent. Who am I kidding? They were run down, trashed. Cars were up on blocks in the front yards. Porches leaned. Sheets hung in the windows. And one of those little mansions was Dad’s house.

I walked in the door and went right to the living room. I knew he would be in there, shaking and trembling. “Hi, Dad. Got something for you.”

“What’s that?” Dad asked, head swaying back and forth.

“Something to help with the Parkinson’s. I’ll be right back.” I went into my bedroom for paper, laid it carefully on my desk, pulled the baggie out of my shorts, and plucked a small amount of weed out to place on the paper. I rolled the weed up in the paper, licked the edge, folded it over, and twisted the ends. Picking up my lighter off the desk, I took the joint out to Dad.

“Here ya’ go, Dad.” I held out the joint to him.

“Oh, Dave, I can’t do this. It’s illegal.”

I thought briefly about the crimes I had committed today and the risks I had taken. Anger flared up inside me, but I tamped it down as quickly as it rose.

“Dad, there are places where it is perfectly legal. We’re just behind the times in this Godforsaken state. Trust me, you will feel so much better. It’s medicine, for Christ’s sake!”

Dad eyed me for a moment, head, arms, and hands shaking, torso swaying back and forth. He somehow managed to maintain eye contact. “You’ll have to light it for me,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

“Duh.”

I pulled the joint to my mouth and lit it. Once it got going, I leaned forward and placed it between Dad’s lips. He closed them on the joint and took a drag. His shaky hand reached up to take it out for a second. He held the smoke in for a while, coughed, and leaned back. He closed his eyes.

I sat down on the broken, mismatched recliner next to the couch and waited for the tremors to subside.