Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  Except I couldn’t do whatever I wanted. After rent and food and entertainment expenses, I had no money except the little I made middling ounces of weed. My uptight parents, afraid I’d get into mischief, wouldn’t front me enough bread to deal wholesale. Or retire early. Without the resources to join the idle rich, I needed a plan. Hoping for inspiration, I sought professional help. Mom and Dad, thinking along similar lines, had scheduled an appointment for me with the CIA’s top shrink, Dr. D’Mento. I ditched that and met instead with Mr. Eisenberg, our school’s guidance counselor. Familiar with the enlightened attitudes of today’s youth, he’d have to be more open-minded than Dad. No doubt he’d be copasetic, put me on the right path to a rewarding career in . . .well, something.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Good. I’m here to help. . .if I must.” He pointed at my long hair. “It is Mister, isn’t it?”

  I sensed I’d misjudged his open-mindedness. To show him we were cool, I said, “You’re a riot.”

  “That’s not an answer, so I’ll just put hermaphrodite.”

  “Good one, Mr. Eisenberg. Have you considered a failed career in comedy?”

  He pointed at a file. “According to my sources, you’re not funny, either. They also say you’re a terrible musician and an untalented actor.”

  “Wait a second, you have sources? On me?”

  “Oh, yes, on all you longhaired radicals.” He pushed the file towards me. “Go ahead, take a look.”

  I skimmed through the thick file. It weighed about twenty pounds. “I gotta tell ya, the info in this file seems thorough. Also, quite harsh.”

  “You’re not a terrible musician and sickening actor?” He pointed at some brutal reviews from the campus newspaper. One read, “Mr. Good’s performance made me terminally ill.”

  “That’s a compliment. I played a metastasized tumor.”

  He shook his head again. “I think you’re in denial.”

  I denied it, then asked, “Do you have to be so negative?”

  “Just preparing you for the real world, Mr. Good. You better get used to it, because you rub people the wrong way.”

  I wanted to argue, but he’d made a good point. After a few years of college, I was out of touch with the real world. I enjoyed life better that way, which, along with the talent issues, limited my job options.

  After a deep sigh, I asked, “Can we just stay focused on the career situation?”

  “All right, no lectures. Besides, you dirty longhaired hippies never listen. You need to straighten up and. . .”

  “Thought you said no lectures.”

  “That was a rant.”

  “Still.”

  “All right, Mr. Good, let’s get down to this sordid business so I can get you out of my annoyed hair.”

  “What hair?”

  He used his middle finger to scratch his nose while he perused my file. Seeming perplexed, he shook his shiny head.

  “Hmm, these grades—a 5.0? On a scale of 4? How do you explain that?”

  “I guess my professors wanted to make sure I didn’t repeat any classes.”

  “I think I see why.”

  He turned back to the files. I could see waves breaking from his fourth-floor window. I couldn’t wait to get out there.

  “Is this really your I.Q.?”

  “Why do you look surprised?”

  “Jesus Christ, just look at you.”

  “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “No.”

  He was wrong. I looked totally cool with my silk aloha shirt, surf shorts, and flip flops. Not to mention, my long hair and love beads.

  “A student with a brain like yours should be no problem to guide into a rewarding career as a shady lawyer or stock market manipulator.”

  “Hang on, Mr. Eisenberg, I don’t want one of those unscrupulous. . .”

  “I said should be no problem. You won’t get anywhere in the corporate world until you cut that hair, put on a personality-stifling suit, and wear uncomfortable shoes like these clunky brown wingtips.”

  He seemed a bit repressed. Probably had something to do with the American Dream. He needed perspective, so I gave him some guidance.

  “Like Frank Zappa says, ‘Brown shoes don’t make it.’ ”

  “What?”

  I sang a verse to remind him. The one that suggested we quit school and asked, “. . .why fake it?”

  “Knock off that racket.”

  “Not a Zappa fan?”

  “Not a Mike Good fan. All right, where were we?”

  “You were gonna help me figure out what high-paying super-easy job I’m best suited for. One with lots of time off for lengthy vacations to far-off lands with good waves.”

  “You live in a dream world.”

  “Thanks.” Finally, a square who got me.

  He shook his head as if not getting me. “Do you have any preferences for your, ahem, dream job?”

  I ignored his sarcasm and answered, “Yes, I do! I’m looking for something in the marijuana field. Perhaps quality control. Got any openings?”

  After considering my excellent suggestion, he shook his head, checked the thick file some more.

  “I’ll take that as a not right now. Still, put me on the waiting list.”

  “I notice an alarming number of comments about your lack of drive and poor attendance.”

  “That second one was by the express request of the Teacher’s Union.”

  I could ignore Mr. Eisenberg’s buzzkilling comments, but I couldn’t ignore the surf. With the wind off-shore that day, the waves were hollow. I wished I was riding them. Through the corner office’s other window, I saw protesters carrying the trussed-up Dean on a pole towards a bonfire. Those playful radicals were at it again. They would have peace if they had to kill for it. Also, according to the signs they carried, more pool tables and a bigger pizza kitchen in the Student Union Building.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Eisenberg kept babbling. “It complains here you have a pronounced inability to pay attention, something, something. . .”

  While he droned on, I watched the furious peace freaks insert the Dean between two support posts. Much as I wanted the war to end, I didn’t advocate barbequing the Dean. For one thing, I didn’t eat meat. For another, I feared the cannibals who did. I would have sounded an alarm, but I knew Mr. Eisenberg would criticize me for not paying attention. The waves were alluring, but on the other hand, you didn’t see the Dean barbequed on a daily basis. My head swiveled like a tennis fan’s.

  “Mr. Good? Mr. Good? Mr. Good. . .”

  “Huh?”

  “Let’s concentrate on your situation, and not worry about what’s going on in the quad.” He closed the blinds to help me focus; thus sealing the Dean’s toasty fate. “Now, where was I? Oh, right, the constant interrupting of others. . .”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Ahem. What about these other negative remarks: insubordination, sarcastic attitude, narcolepsy. . .”

  Narcolepsy? Bored, I nodded off. When I woke up twenty minutes later, he was still reading from the list.

  “Not that this meeting is tedious Mr. Eisenberg, but I don’t have all day. Can we stop with the glowing character references and cut to the stultifying point?”

  “All right, we’ll move it along. What are your strengths?”

  “Strengths?”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Look, how about just finding something groovy for a guy with lots of weaknesses? I’m brutally strong in that department.”

  “I’m sorry, but apart for the careers you rejected, you are not suited for anything.”

  I defended myself. “You’ve never seen me roll joints.”

  “As I was saying, you have no aptitude for anything but the nefarious careers you rejected. That, and scoring exceedingly well on tests. In fact, you’re at the very top of the classes you don’t attend. You’re a freak of nature.”

  “Really? Thanks!” I patted my crotch w
ith pride. “Make sure you put that in the file.”

  “It’s not a compliment.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  A big sigh. . .probably of jealousy. “Sorry, Mr. Good, with your ability to twist reality, becoming a sleazy lawyer is what you’re best qualified for.”

  “I was afraid of that. Aren’t there any other options?”

  Malicious as a prosecutor, he smiled. “Join the Army and die in Vietnam.”

  Chapter 4

  Lizardo

  (Santa Barbara, 1971)

  With Spring Break over, graduation lurked like a slasher in a closet. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be in law school in the fall, on the fast track to the dreaded American Dream. With time short, the pressure was on. I needed a plan. On a more immediate note, I needed more weed. Our favorite drug connection had been gone for a month. I was down to shake and freaking out when Lizardo finally called with great news.

  “Howzit, Mikey, I’m back from Hawaii, brah. Be right over.”

  “Thank God!”

  My excited roomies, Doc, Mr. P., and Far, joined me in receiving Lizardo like visiting royalty. As our dwindling stash had disappeared, we’d become enraged with our friend, but magnanimous, we forgave him the moment he showed back up with the Magic Suitcase. The Magic Suitcase, an ugly green faux-Naugahyde affair constructed of dozens of goodie-stuffed zippered compartments, looked as if someone had grafted a bunch of fishermen’s vests together. Larger pockets held pounds of weed and a scale, while smaller ones held ounces. Another series of pockets held ounces of hash: red or blonde Lebanese, Nepalese Temple Balls, or best of all, hand-pressed patties of gooey black Afghani Primo. There were pockets dedicated to dexies, bennies, and fierce black beauties, in case it was time for term papers, mid-terms, or finals. Others had downers: reds, yellows, and rainbows, in case it was time to get stupid. He even had in-betweeners for squares—the beige kind mother gave you that didn’t do anything at all. Grace Slick had warned me about those and I left ‘em alone. If someone wanted to trip, Lizardo had acid, mescaline, peyote, and psilocybin. Other stuff, too.

  “You dig licking toads, Mikey?”

  I shrugged, doubting that I would.

  “I know!” ranted our dealer. “Who doesn’t, right? Got some biggies from Australia.”

  “What’s that like?” asked Doc.

  “Only totally groovy. Some trippy side effects come as a bonus: brain damage, warts on your tongue, liver failure. . .” He went on like that for a while, then held out a cane toad the size of a soccer ball. “Go ahead, Doc, take a lick. Only five bucks.”

  As the tasty toad pissed all over Lizardo’s hands, Doc said, “I’ll pass.”

  “Your loss. Hey, anybody in the mood for cobra venom?”

  “You’ve got cobra venom?” asked Far.

  “Of course. As if I would let you down. Not only do I have venom, I’ve got whole snakes. Fresh from Thailand.”

  “I thought you were scoring seedless weed from Thailand,” complained Doc.

  Lizardo shrugged. “A little mix up in the shipping manifest. But don’t worry, guys, these cobras are top quality. Feisty fellas, too. Loaded with stony venom. Get ‘em while they’re frisky. Because we’re pals, I’ll let you have two bites for the price of one.”

  Lizardo was a hell of a salesman, but not that good, and he found no takers.

  “Hope you brought something stony for us, Lizardo. Besides toads and cobras, I mean.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, Mikey boy. In fact, I’ve got some weed that’ll blow your minds.”

  “Ah,” said Doc, “so you didn’t let us down?”

  “Me? Let you down? Wait’ll you smoke this stuff.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I can’t sell you any, but. . .”

  “How is that not letting us down?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got other stuff, too. And you better stock up, guys, ‘cause I’m having a close-out sale.”

  “What do you mean by close-out sale?” I asked.

  “I’m moving to Hawaii. Which means you guys are gonna need a new connection.”

  “After all this time together?” said Mr. P. “Don’t be such a dick.”

  “Instead of being happy for me, you guys are pissed off?”

  “Well, yeah,” I answered. “What the hell did you expect? Breaking up with us out of the blue.”

  “It’s not you guys, it’s me.”

  “You sound like my ex-girlfriends, only sincere.”

  “Let me cheer you up. At least, temporarily.” Lighting a fat doobie, he coughed like a coal miner.

  “Jesus, Lizardo,” I asked, almost afraid of to take a hit, “what is that stuff?”

  He passed the joint, managing to wheeze, “This is what we smoke in Hawaii. Kona Gold, man. Da kine pakalolo.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just smoke it.”

  I took a toke, then convulsed for half a minute. “Aw, man, this is some sweet stuff. So—hack—smooth. Tastes like. . .”

  Coughing to death on a second toke, I couldn’t even find the words.

  “Quit bogarting that joint,” insisted Far.

  About to asphyxiate, I passed it around. That way everyone could choke to death. What are friends for?

  “Tastes like mangoes, doesn’t it, Mikey?” asked Lizardo, a guy now so cool he’d become familiar with exotic tropical fruit.

  “Yeah, mangoes,” I agreed. “Exactly what I would’ve said.”

  And I would have, if I’d ever eaten one. If this is how they tasted, I wanted to eat a million.

  “You’re really moving to Hawaii, Lizardo?”

  “Yep.”

  “What about grad school?”

  “Who are you, my dad? Screw grad school. I’m a pot grower now.”

  I felt envious. I’d love to have said those very words myself. To my dad. Except he would’ve killed me. Lizardo explained he’d met a grower named the Man of Fire in Kona who’d needed assistance finishing a crop. “Also, a hot hippie chick named Vicky.”

  He’d only come back to California to organize his stuff and liquidate his inventory. With his own high lottery number, Lizardo planned to spend his time getting high, getting laid, and growing buds in paradise. The simple beauty of his new lifestyle blew my mind.

  “Far out,” I said, pretending I wasn’t pissed off. Hypocrisy seemed classier than whining.

  “So, despite the glowering, you’re happy for me?”

  “What are you, nuts? You’re the only reliable drug connection we know.”

  Everyone laughed at that. Reliable drug connection was an oxymoron.

  “Sorry, Mikey, but after spending time in Hawaii, I can’t take it here anymore. Plus, I already scored a groovy little coffee shack in Kona.”

  “A what?” asked Far.

  “It’s a funky little pad.”

  “Made out of coffee?” asked Doc.

  Lizardo clarified. “Not exactly.”

  “Because that would get all soggy when it rained.”

  “It’s not made out of coffee, Doc.”

  “But you said. . .”

  Lizardo sighed. “Pretend I didn’t. The point is, guys, Hawaii is totally outtasight. It’s got groovy weather, amazing scenery, a warm ocean, da kine wahines. . .”

  I pictured a tropical paradise with me in it. And da kine wahines? They sounded incredible. “What are wahines?”

  “They’re the chicks, man.”

  “They taste like mangoes, too?” I hoped so.

  “You dig nature, don’t ya, Mikey?”

  “You kidding? Mr. Eisenberg called me a freak of nature.”

  “Well then, you gotta check out Kona. Da pakalolo is da kine, brah.”

  Gone only a month, and the busy Lizardo had already grown pot, dined on tropical fruit, and picked up a new and indecipherable language. I couldn’t help but feel impressed. Not to mention, insanely jealous. His new life sounded a lot mo
re fun than law school.

  “I do need to check it out. Also, the what is the what?”

  “The pot is the best.”

  “Oh. Don’t they speak English over there?”

  “Only sort of.”

  Finally, after just one tasty joint of Kona Gold, I saw my life’s mission defined. At least vaguely hinted at. Lord knows the world didn’t need another shady lawyer. On the other hand, it definitely needed more pot growers. Especially if they could grow Kona Gold. I would go to Hawaii and grow da kine like my new hero Lizardo. If I grew enough, I could change the world. Mom and Dad would not be stoked, but John Lennon would be so proud of me.

  The next day, no longer buzzed on Kona Gold, a move to Hawaii seemed more a dream than a likely reality. It’s not like I had any gardening skills. Or, as Mr. Eisenberg pointed out, any other kind—a big part of my insecurity and a real damper on my options. Then again, neither did Lizardo. He was just like me, except he did have enough money to buy drugs wholesale. If he could make a reckless life-changing decision without any thought, why couldn’t I? I couldn’t believe how many reasons Mom and Dad found for me.

  On the bright side, I’d stopped listening to their nonsense.

  Chapter 5

  Expert Traveler

  (June, 1971)

  With finals over and a degree on my wall, I could fly to Hawaii, check out Lizardo’s scene, see if I could find my path like he did. Or I could if I had some traveling money. Dad hadn’t changed his mind about my terrific trust fund idea. Determined I become a lawyer, he wasn’t on board with my other ideas, either.

  “Change the world with better marijuana? Make pot legal? End war? Eighty-six Uncle Dick?”

  “Now you get it. After that, I’ll enjoy life and travel a peaceful world.”

  Not getting it, he turned to Mom. “Talk some sense into your son.”