Of course, I had overlooked a few details. First, since I had never picked up a broom, mop or vacuum cleaner in my life, the house being so clean was suspicious. Second, the kitchen floor being freshly waxed was a tip-off for the aforementioned reason. Third, the artwork hanging in the living room had endured some trauma since their departure.
But perhaps the least subtle clue was the barrage of angry phone calls Mom received from fathers, including Erica’s and Mary Jane’s, telling her I had sent their daughters home drunk. Mom confronted me, but she never told Robert what she learned. She frequently withheld information from him to keep the peace.
The Whale Heart
I loved being around Geoff because he always wanted to get high, and, once we did, I never knew what was going to happen. He made a ceramic “whale heart” in art class, which was actually a party bong. We spent countless hours sitting around it smoking pot. Upon seeing it in Geoff’s room, his mom asked, “Is that what you guys smoke your cocaine in?” We laughed at her silly question. “No one smokes cocaine.” I would eventually learn how dreadfully wrong we were.
One evening, Geoff, Richie, Cheryl, and I sat around the whale heart getting stoned while discussing ways of getting even with Geoff’s neighbor, Carrie, who he had an ongoing disagreement with. I thought we were engaging in harmless, stoned banter, when Geoff suddenly stood and said, “I know what to do.”
We followed him into his mom’s bathroom, where he retrieved a tampon. Next stop, the den, where he grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. Last stop, the kitchen, where he pulled a bottle of red food coloring from the cabinet. Geoff wrote a letter that went something like this…
Dear Carrie,
I’ve been watching you, and you’ve got the goods. I want to shave your pussy, roll the hairs in a joint and smoke them. Can you eat some Mexican food and shit on my face?
The note was longer, but you get the idea.
Next, he soaked half the tampon in the food coloring. We quietly walked up to Carrie’s front door, hung the dripping tampon on her door knob, placed the note on her doormat, rang the doorbell and ran.
Carrie didn’t see the humor in the gag and called the police. I guess she thought she had a secret admirer, who not only left her a used tampon but also wanted to express his love by smoking her snatch hairs. Geoff had to go to court over the incident. I had a mental image of the State’s Attorney reading that note aloud in court while holding up an evidence bag containing a bloody tampon.
That night was just a typical evening with Geoffrey. While other people stared in disbelief, I was always by his side, laughing my ass off.
One evening, Burgess drove Geoff and me downtown to pick up his sister from a club. He parked the car in an alley, which was facing a sidewalk lined with pedestrians. Once Burgess left, Geoff jumped in the back seat with me and said, “Let’s make those people think someone’s fucking in here.”
We rolled the windows down. I took my shoes and socks off and stuck my bare feet in the air. As he rocked the car back and forth, I started yelling, “Uh…uh…oh yeah, baby… fuck me... uh…uh…fuck me good, baby… your cock is so big.”
We were drawing a nice crowd when a police officer tapped his flashlight on the rear window of the car. Geoff and I poked our heads up from the back seat. I would guess he was more familiar with this scenario than I.
“This is not what it looks like,” I explained, trying to look as non-gay as possible.
“I don’t want to know what you are doing. Just stop,” the cop replied.
The Moon
Geoff, Richie and I regularly got stoned in the woods near our neighborhood, the same location I smoked weed before school every day. Goya Road, which led out of our neighborhood, ran alongside it. Whenever we did this, Geoff got the urge to jump in front of cars and show his bare ass to them. As the sun set and he mooned cars, I remembered Mom telling me to come home before dark. I left them in the woods. When I got home, she informed me we had to go to the grocery store. As we drove down Goya Road, someone jumped in front of our car, pulled their pants down and presented their ass to us.
“Was that… Geoffrey?” Mom asked.
“Uh…I don’t think so,” I said, trying to cover for him.
“No, that’s definitely Geoffrey.”
That incident was when I learned…
Shit I Know To Be True
1. Don’t give tube socks to children for Christmas… EVER
2. A preoccupation with external appearances is sometimes used to hide something unattractive on the inside
3. The closest we come to immortality is the positive legacy we are remembered by
4. Those things that make us different, make us better
5. All good things go bad eventually
6. Do not moon cars in your own neighborhood
The Vending Machine
Geoff and I were partying with some friends in a hotel room when he noticed a vending machine in the hallway. “Let’s steal it,” he said. So, we dragged it over to the elevator, placed it inside, and went to the ground floor. When the doors opened, two people were waiting to enter. Geoff and I nonchalantly walked out, as if vending machines in elevators were a common occurrence. When it came back down, we dragged the machine over to my car, opened the rear hatch, pushed it in as far as it would go, and drove to my house, hoping to not get pulled over.
The motivation for this theft wasn’t the money in the machine or bragging rights. The reason was to adorn…
My Bedroom
I wanted a bedroom that matched my personality: unique, twisted, and the product of intoxicated thinking. The décor started with a 4-foot-tall Canadian Club bottle with a push dispenser, which my parents gave me after they returned from a cruise. The bottle was half full when I got it, much to Geoff’s delight. One wall of my room was covered with beer can wallpaper, which my parents picked out.
I started adding to the ambiance. I took a yield sign from the side of the road and mounted it on my wall. My neighborhood had a “neighborhood watch” sign at the front entrance. To test its effectiveness, I stole it. The “neighborhood watch” didn’t see me do it. I mounted it on my wall.
I stole an actual traffic light, which was a challenge. I mounted it in the corner of my room. I had various “Do Not Enter,” “Employees Only,” and “Danger! High Voltage!” signs hanging everywhere, along with a picture of Mel Tillis eating breakfast, which I stole from a Whataburger drive-thru.
I now had a vending machine. When Mom saw it, she responded by saying what she always said when something new appeared in my room, “I don’t want to know where you got it.”
Although she was tolerant of my ever-expanding décor, I eventually discovered her limit. Geoff and I, in a stoned and drunken state, stole a small tombstone from a cemetery. The dates on the stone indicated the deceased was four years old. I placed it on the shelf in my room and passed out.
I was awakened by Mom, who said in a rather distressed manner, “I feel like I’ve been very understanding of the shit that appears in your room. But now you’ve crossed the line. GET THAT FUCKING TOMBSTONE OUT OF MY HOUSE RIGHT FUCKING NOW AND GO PUT IT BACK WHERE YOU FUCKING FOUND IT!” Which I did right fucking then.
Later, I told Geoff, “Mom wasn’t happy about the tombstone. I had to put it back.”
“Yeah, I had a feeling that wasn’t going to go over well,” he chuckled.
The Baby
Geoff and I regularly drank at Fancy Free, a local gay bar with a rather lax policy concerning underage drinking. One particular evening, I felt lonely and complained I had little chance of “getting lucky” in a gay bar. Being a good friend, Geoff found a heterosexual woman who was drunk enough to have sex with me. After kissing in my car for a while, she said, “Let’s go back to your house.”
“I’d rather go to your place.” I didn’t want to divulge the fact I lived with my parents.
“I live with my husband’s parents,” she said.
“What? Where is your h
usband?”
“He’s in the military. He’ll be gone for weeks.”
After some negotiating, we went to her husband’s parents’ house. We entered her bedroom, but she refused to turn on the light. As we disrobed, I heard something moving.
“What’s that noise?”
“Don’t worry about it.” We had sex and passed out.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of people eating breakfast outside her bedroom door. I looked around the room. Next to her bed was a crib holding a sleeping baby, the source of the shuffling noise I heard the night before. Sex seemed so important just a few hours ago. The room had two windows, which were narrow and located near the ceiling. I couldn’t squeeze through them. I tried waking the woman, but she wouldn’t stir. To make matters worse, the baby was starting to awaken. I had no choice. I got dressed and, with my shoes in my hand and an “I just had sex” hairdo, walked out of the room.
I was faced with her husband’s family sitting at the dining room table. They all glared at me, so I said the only thing I could think of. “Hi.”
The older man, who I assumed was her husband’s father, sprang from his chair. I bolted toward the only door I could see, hoping it wasn’t a closet. I ran outside and drove off.
I thanked Geoff later.
Over the years, Geoff tried to stay in touch with me, but I was a little preoccupied. A true friend, someone who loves you despite your faults, is hard to find and harder to keep. I truly regret losing contact with Geoff, who did everything he could to be a friend, and whose friendship I didn’t deserve.
Chris
As animated as Geoff was, Chris was just the opposite. He spoke in a monotone voice and had a sarcastic, cynical sense of humor. Plus, he was a ginger, which meant he had no soul, a fact I envied.
Chris and I created the worst band in the history of music, Vomit. Neither of us had any musical talent; we couldn’t sing or play instruments, and our equipment was ridiculously inadequate. But the 80’s was the era of garage punk, so we didn’t let a few deficiencies stop us.
A recording session always started with getting stoned. Next, we both grabbed a piece of paper and wrote some lyrics. Finally, Chris pressed the record button, and we taped each song in one take.
We tried to make the songs as offensive as possible. Nature Sucks, Crippled Fucking Freaks, Kill Ted Turner, Knife the Pope, Con Man Christ, Theme Song to the Special Olympics and Wayne Fucked his Doggy were just a few of the musical delights we created. My favorite song, however, was one Chris wrote, called...
Charities Suck
by
Vomit
I ain’t here to share
I ain’t here to give
I ain’t here to be nice
I ain’t here to do shit
Charities can kiss my ass
I ain’t crippled. They won’t help me.
Charities can lick my balls.
They ain’t gettin’ my money.
Why we didn’t get any radio play is beyond me. Chris and I made tapes to sell and hung posters in the halls of our school, which featured a guy vomiting chunks into a bag and had a list of some of our song titles. One of the songs was called Conflicting Races is Natural, which our black principle, Mr. Sherman, had an issue with. We were summoned to the principal’s office. “Are you trying to start a race war at this school?” he asked.
“No. We just want to sell tapes,” Chris responded in his monotone voice.
“Well, you can’t put up posters telling students that it’s natural for different races to fight.”
“I guess I can see your point,” Chris flatly stated. I was biting my lip, trying not to laugh.
“Now, go take down those posters. Anything posted from now on has to be approved first.” The sudden disappearance of our advertising added to the band’s mystique. We sold five tapes.
Other than our successful band and affinity for pot, Chris and I had something else is common:
Atheism
When I was twelve years old, I was invited to eat dinner with my friend Shannon. During the visit, his mother said something I had never heard before. “We all know we didn’t evolve from monkeys. The Bible says man was created in God’s image.”
Having just finished a book about Charles Darwin as well as one on prehistoric man, I thought she was simply misinformed. “We didn’t evolve from monkeys. We evolved from less advanced humans.”
“That’s not true. Nowhere in the Bible does it say anything about humans existing before Adam and Eve.”
“But all animals evolve.”
“Humans are not animals.”
“Of course, we’re animals. If not, then what are we?”
“Animals have no concept of God.”
“Look. Let me run home and get the books I just read. I’ll show you what I’m talking about.” I hopped on my bike and rode home.
When I ran back to my room, Mom asked, “What are you looking for?”
“Shannon’s parents don’t believe in evolution. I’m looking for my books so I can show them they’re wrong.”
“Okay, Brett. We need to talk.” Mom explained I wasn’t going to convince them they were wrong because I was challenging their religious beliefs, which were deeply held and personal; I risked upsetting them if I continued discussing this topic. She told me to go back to Shannon’s house, tell his parents I couldn’t find the books, and never bring it up again. I did as I was told. Her advice saved my friendship with Shannon.
The incident fascinated me. How could anyone disregard scientific evidence and the opinion of the most intelligent people on the planet and simply believe something on faith? If man was created in God’s image, how could man create the universe? And if God existed, why can’t we see Him, or hear Him, or have any concrete proof of His existence? Science and religion appeared to be mutually exclusive. So, I had to make a choice; I chose science. At a young age, I realized I was an atheist.
Of course, having a personal belief of disbelief wasn’t enough. As with most things in my life, I had to take it to the extreme. I became a militant atheist, which meant my self-anointed purpose in life was not only to convince believers how wrong they were, I also had an obligation to offend them in the most obnoxious way possible.
For example, a group of street preachers handed out religious pamphlets in front of Seville Quarter, the largest nightclub in Pensacola. Every time I was given one, I said, “No thanks. I have front row seats in Hell.” I then took the pamphlet, wiped my ass with it, and threw it back at them.
Chris shared my utter disdain for anything religious. We cut the center out of a Bible and stashed our pot in it. Whenever we wanted to get stoned, one of us would say, “It’s time for Bible study.”
After getting drunk with Chris one evening, I passed out on my parents’ couch. The next morning, Robert woke me and asked, “Why is there a Baby Jesus in your car?”
Sure enough, a plastic Baby Jesus was in my passenger seat. I couldn’t remember where it came from and assumed Chris had put it there as a joke. When I called him, he said, “You don’t remember last night?”
“No.”
“You were too drunk to drive, so as I’m taking you home, you had me stop at every Nativity scene we passed so you could destroy it. You stole the Baby Jesus from the last one.” Of course, it was proudly displayed in my bedroom.
One Saturday night, Chris and I noticed the First Assembly of God Church had installed a new marquee sign. We drove around stealing letters from other signs until we had the ones we needed, removed the letters from the church marquee, and spelled out a pleasant message for the Sunday morning church-goers.
FUCK JESUS
Don’t worry. I’m not going to burn in Hell because it doesn’t exist. At least, that’s what I hope.
I heard some people at school talking about a band called The Dead Kennedys. Thinking the name was funny, I asked Mom for one of their albums for Christmas. After listening to it, my Barry Manilow stage ended. I was a punk r
ock fan from that day forward. I had never heard music so provocative and cynical as well as eloquently presented lyrically. The band didn’t care much for religion, as demonstrated by this song.
Religious Vomit
by
The Dead Kennedys
All religions make me want to throw up
All religions make me sick
All religions make me want to throw up
All religions suck
They all claim that they have the truth
They’ll set you free
Just give them all your money and
They’ll set you free
Free for fee
They claim that they have the answer
When they don’t even know the question
They’re just a bunch of liars
They just want your money
They just want your consciousness
All religions make me want to throw up
All religions make me sick
All religions make me want to throw up
All religions suck
All religions suck
All religions make me want to throw up
All religions suck
All religions make me wanna bleah
I admit that song wasn’t one of their more eloquent ones, but you get the idea.
Whataburger
Chris and I got jobs at Whataburger. The manager, Jackie, was a black woman with bulbous fingertips, which gave her hands a strange, alien look. She spent a lot of time in the rear of the building talking to her friends, a situation we took full advantage of. We had our dealer deliver weed to the store, paying him with money taken straight from the register, and even took turns getting high in the bathroom. Eventually, Jackie started watching the drawers closely, so we created a new system. Chris worked the grill, and I worked the drive-thru window. I developed a method of signaling him as to what food to prepare without ringing it up. At the end of our shift, we took the excess money from the drawer and purchased weed with it. Jackie must have smelled a rat because she moved both of us to the grill. From that point forward, we had to purchase weed with our own money.
American Drug Addict: a memoir Page 7