We were the only ones ducking the flying bats at the movie, quite
possibly due to the marijuana we had inhaled earlier. We were also the
only ones laughing at the Andy Warhol movie (Dracula/ Frankenstein? I
don’t remember) which was really no big deal since there were only a
handful of people in the theater and they were all most probably on some
sort of illegal substance, it being a 3D movie and all.
When the end credits started to roll, we left and headed to White
Castle. This was a new experience since we had never been there stoned,
No laughter from the ladies working behind the partition when I asked
them if it was bulletproof. No laughter also when I asked for Fresca
and, when informed they didn’t carry that particular brand, pretended to
get upset and cancel our rather large order.
Tom, a veteran of all things drug and alcohol related, stepped in and
calmed down the ladies enough so that they could make our 35 burgers and
we could head on back to the safety of the suburbs.
Even though they were almost cold by the time we go back to Richie’s
house, we still managed to eat all 35 and settled down to watch some new
channel that had recently made it’s way to our local cable company,
something called MTV.
After seeing Billy Idol’s “Dancing With Myself” repeated ad nauseum, I
decided to head home. I knew I was in deep shit since it was pretty late
so I took my time heading home figuring I couldn’t be later than late.
When I got home, no lights we on. I tried the garage and it was locked,
as well as the front door, back door and the porch door. No windows were
left unlatched so I knocked on my brother’s ground floor window.
Nothing happened at first, but when I knocked really hard, his drapes
finally opened. He looked out at me with a shit-eating smile and waved.
“I’m locked out, you need to let me in,” I said as it dawned on me that
I was never given a key to the house by my parents. Strange.
He pointed at his ears and shook his head.
“Open the front door dickhead!” I almost shouted.
He open his window about an inch and I smelled farts mixed with the
familiar scent of marijuana.
“Yes? How can I help you?” he asked as some sort of weird electronic
music (Tomita I think) wafted through the open window,
“I’m locked out! You have to let me in,” I said, practically begging.
“No can do! Strict orders from the parental units. You’re not home on
time, you can’t come in. So sad, isn’t it?”
“JUST OPEN THE FUCKING FRONT DOOR!”
“Nope! Hey, have yourself a good one!”
He smiled again, waved again, shut the window and closed the drapes.
COMING NEXT: What to do?