I spent that day smoking weed and driving around in my car. Even though I had been caught once and went to court, I didn’t give a fuck—I had nothing to lose. I saw a moving company in Wakefield that was hiring, so I pulled over and put out the joint that I had smoked. I walked in, high as a kite, and filled out a job application. A lady came out and interviewed me, and I realized what a loser I had become. There I was, wearing a tan hoodie and beanie and reeking like weed. After a couple of questions, she hired me on the spot. I must be in the twilight zone, I thought. I looked around and saw who worked there and finally got a grip; I wasn’t any better than these guys. Deep down in my heart, I knew that I had the potential, but my depression and drug use had taken over at some point; the world had stolen my heart and ambitions.
That was it, another moving company job for ten dollars an hour. This is really what my life had come to. I had gone to the ATM afterward to see if I had any money left at all, and found a big surprise that cheered me up. I had expected my bank account to say twenty bucks, but opened it to see three hundred and twenty dollars. At first, I thought it must have been a mistake. I canceled the transaction and put my card in again, expecting a new balance, but there it was again. “Hello, money!” I said as crisp twenties poured out. Since I hadn’t accounted for this, it was like free money, I figured. I’m not sure what happened that day but I wish it hadn’t, because it seemed to open a door for me that changed my life forever.
I would start my new shit job in a couple days. Until then, I figured I would get as high as possible and tell my mom I had a job, so she would be happy. Since I had some extra money (thank you, magic ATM), I called my drug dealer. Rory was sleeping, so I drove over to my dealer’s by myself and went up to his attic. He had pounds of weed on his table and was also growing it in his closet. His parents were much older and had no clue what was going on.
“I’ll take a half ounce,” I told him, “Here’s three hundred.” Yeah, you guessed it right—I spent all of my money on marijuana.
“Why don’t you just take an ounce?” he said.
“I don’t have that money,” I replied.
“You know a lot of people that smoke weed, right?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said.
“Here, take an ounce for free and sell it.” Keep my extra cash and smoke weed for free?
“Fuck this three hundred dollars,” I said, “Let’s make some more.” I mean, he had been selling weed for years and had thousands of dollars’ worth of it for sale. “Let’s do it!”
He tossed the ounce of weed to me and I knew as soon as I felt the nuggets in the bag that I was hooked in, and that my life was taking a turn for the worse. It felt so good to hold that entire ounce; maybe one day I would be able to hold even more. I took out a nugget and smoked it to my head as I drove home with an ounce of weed in my glove compartment. This was perfect; I could just tell my mother I was working, and instead smoke weed all day and sell it to my friends.
There I was, an eighteen-year-old, small-time drug dealer. If only my father could see me now. I felt like the man as I drove through our small town, in my tan Honda Civic that held an ounce of nugget; I passed the cops as they looked at me and didn’t care. I told Rory that I was going to start dealing weed, and his friends began to call my cell phone and ask for twenty bags, eighths, and ounces. I sold the ounce in one day, made fifty bucks for myself, and had even smoked a whole bag myself. This is awesome. By the end of the year, I should be making thousands, I thought as my high mind raced.
I needed more weed, so I called my dealer. He smiled when I came over; we must have gotten so high that I felt like I was in outer space, so high that I could feel my body twitch and shake in slow motion, my hair growing by the second, and my throat closing up as my mouth went dry. After a beer fixed that, he gave me my two ounces and I was on my way.
Over the next week, everyone called me for weed; I was the cool local dealer who would smoke with you and drive anywhere to sell you weed. My prices were better than anyone’s. Over the next couple of weeks, I bought a scale to weigh out my weed for the perfect amounts. My mother thought that I was working at the moving company, but the truth was that I was out selling weed, smoking weed, and making money.
My routine during that summer wasn’t preparing for college or taking the SAT’s, but instead it was to wake up whenever the fuck I wanted and check my cell. There would be ten or so missed calls, all regarding weed, of course; my friends had kind of vanished and all I cared about was making money to pay my bills. The crowds that I met were awesome; I’d go from the jocks to the burnouts, from the hippies to the psychos, from the stoner girls to the first-timers—everyone got high. The last time I had been this popular was when they used to call me Ice! Did they love me, or was it just the weed? Did they fake-smile at me for a discounted bag? Whatever the reason, I was never alone and everyone knew my name.
On the days when my brother and mother were home, I didn’t talk to them. I would stuff the weed in my underwear and walk past them quickly; my mother knew I was up to something, but she wasn’t sure what. Jared spent every minute with Vanessa.
When I wasn’t out smoking weed, drinking, and popping pills, I was at home counting my money, over and over. Even though it wasn’t all mine, I loved the smell. Sometimes I would take ounces of weed and sit in the bathroom, bagging them up individually and counting. I had been selling for almost a month now and could pay for my car loan, gas, car insurance, and could even smoke for free. I mean, why would I ever work again? At this rate, I can make thousands a week.
The summer was here, which made me angry because I should have graduated this year. Kids I had played sports with were going on to college and to better lives; their parents sent them to beautiful four-year schools, all paid for; they got new cars paid for by their parents, and their lives were amazing. Most of my old friends were in serious relationships while I was, well, a dropout with no education, ignoring my family and selling weed, and I still haven’t even met the new half-sister I knew I had. Fuck my life, I thought as I slouched in my car and smoked a joint to my head.
One afternoon, I headed home after picking up a quarter pound from my dealer. I drove home slowly, as usual, looking out for the cops, knowing that I had already been on probation and that the cops wanted my life to be over. A middle-aged man was standing on my porch when I arrived home. He was talking to my mother as I pulled up, my arm hanging out the car window, wearing my gold watch and smoking a cigarette.
“Logan,” my mother said when I got out of the car. “Remember Rodney? We’ve been dating for a couple months now.” My heart dropped and filled with hate as my blood pressure rose rapidly.
“Hey, what’s up,” I said calmly, and walked in the house. I didn’t want my mother to see the hate in my bloodshot eyes, so I went upstairs to bag up my weed and count my money.
With the summer being here, a lot of old faces from school would throw parties before they went off to college. I knew I had a drinking problem, but had never realized how people saw the real Logan Michaels until one of these parties. A girl, Ashley, was having a rager just across town, so Tyler, Rory, and I hopped in my Honda with some weed and liquor. We had the bottle open, drinking and smoking in the car like we always did on our way to a party. I wish I hadn’t gone to this party because when we walked in, it seemed like my entire high school was there, including my old friends who I hadn’t seen in forever. I walked in, wasted, my hat turned sideways, and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth. Everyone smiled when they saw me and gave me love, but they knew I wasn’t the same guy anymore.
The one thing that never changed about me was my sense of humor, though; I guess I had gotten it from my mother. She had been through a hard divorce, raising two kids despite her pain, and she could always smile no matter what the circumstances. I figured that if I lost my sense of humor, then I was really in trouble because that was all I had left in this world.
As I chatted with my old friends, they told me h
ow great life was and blah blah blah; it made me fucking sick how fake people were these days. I realized that I was officially distant and hated that reality. I sipped my Hennessy out of the bottle and my hate grew stronger. I bumped into a couple of kids from high school and snapped. A fight broke out, and I felt my body strength triple as I threw down kids twice my size. Rory and Tyler had to hold me back as I cursed like crazy. We jumped in my car afterward and I burned out over the grass and into the middle of the street, wasted; if I had been pulled over, I would have been jerked out of the car and arrested.
Somehow, we made it back to Rory’s house even after I had driven on the wrong side of the road for almost the whole way back. I thought of my mom’s boyfriend and my hate grew stronger as I swallowed the last of the Hennessy and threw the glass bottle out into the road. Even Tyler and Rory knew that I was gone. BANG! “There goes Logan, blacked out again,” I heard Tyler say as I passed out on the lawn.
“I’m an alcoholic,” I said to myself, as I fell onto the grass. I knew I was, because even after a night like that, I wanted to do it again and again and again. I have plenty of stories about my drinking that I could tell you about forever, but after falling down a flight of stairs, waking up naked, fighting multiple people, waking up wearing tights, throwing up at parties, and driving drunk every night, it’s all pretty much the same old story. What would really get my heart racing, though, was when the cops would follow me as I drove drunk. Some nights, I would pray to God that I would make it home as my eyes saw double. I can’t count the number of times that I had passed out at the wheel and had scraped another car or a guardrail, or drove onto someone’s front yard. I had no clue how I had even made it this far. I drank every day that summer and, by the time summer ended, I was up to a half a pound of weed a day.
•••
My brother would be starting his sophmore year, and I felt awful because I was sure the teachers would judge him immediately when they learned he was my brother. And Rodney was always around the house, which irritated me; I mean, I would see him more than I saw my own father. He worked crappy dead-end jobs and always came around with a six-pack of Heineken beer. When my mother wasn’t home, he would drink one with us. Most nights when I would come home, practically blacked out, he would be sitting on the couch and would listen to me talk about my dreams and ambitions. The one night I slipped up was when I told him about my little business venture.
“Rodney,” I slurred. Burp. Wake up, Logan! I continued, “Rodney, want to make some real money?” Rodney looked seriously at me, waiting for me to reply. “Here’s the plan, Rodney—”
“Rodney? Logan?” My mother yelled.
“I’ll tell you another time,” I said before I stumbled into my room and passed out. I could hear my mom and Rodney arguing all night as I slammed the pillow over my head. Jared was in his room with Vanessa, probably smoking and having sex. I had no clue what he did anymore besides probation work, smoking weed, and hanging with Vanessa. On top of that, I hadn’t seen my father for a while. He wanted to see me, but had his own problems with his psycho girlfriend. She hadn’t come near my mother lately, or at least my mother hadn’t seen her; she probably was still stalking her and Mom didn’t even know.
School started for Jared, my friends went off to college, and I was making money selling drugs to kids. My mom’s boyfriend noticed my newfound wealth.
“That’s a nice gold watch.”
“Thanks,” I replied, cocky.
“We never finished our conversation that night,” he said. I instantly knew this meant trouble as I opened my ears to listen.
Rodney was a city guy. He had grown up in Lynn, Massachusetts, he’d had a tough life, and had been in and out of trouble.
“Logan, I know that you sell weed,” he said. “It’s obvious; I don’t think your mother knows, but your brother mentioned he heard some kids telling him about it.”
My stomach tightened as I realized that Jared knew I sold weed. I had tried to avoid this because, even though I was a shitty role model, I hadn’t wanted to get him involved.
“If I got you a pound of weed, could you sell it?”
“Yeah, I could. Easy,” I said.
“I’m gonna talk with my dealer and see if I can buy a pound; we can split the profit fifty-fifty,” he said. I knew that I shouldn’t have said yes, but my eyes could see the money and my greed took over.
“Sure, let’s do it.” I figured that if I could get half a pound of weed from my dealer and a pound from Rodney, I could make over a thousand a week in profit, and smoke for free every day. Screw working for someone else. No one telling me what to do every day? This is the dream.
Sometimes, when I looked in the mirror, I’d decide that life was easier when I’d forget who I was. The weed made me depressed when I was coming down from a high, and the problem was that I smoked excessively so that I’d never have to face myself sober.
I looked in the mirror one rainy day, and I swear I saw a man who wasn’t me. This man was distant; he was shallow, selfish, and had low self-esteem. My heart hurt after I saw this man, because I knew this man had more potential than the life he was leading. This man deserved the girl of his dreams; he deserved a perfect family; and he deserved to be happy. Who am I kidding? I’ll never be happy, I thought as I turned away from the mirror. I never wanted to look back at this man again.
Chapter 11
MY EYES BLEED GREED
My heart raced faster and faster as the cop drifted into the lane behind my Honda Accord. My eyes were bloodshot and the marijuana had me paranoid. I guess I had a reason to be paranoid, though—there was a pound of weed in my trunk. The thought that, at any moment, the cop could turn on his blue lights and bust me made my heart beat even faster.
Each second that passed felt like an hour, until I arrived at my mom’s house and let out a deep sigh. Rodney was there when I walked in and he smiled at me while my mom looked relaxed, finally having gotten a day off from work. She had run out to get some food to cook for us that night. Once she left, Rodney had me come outside to his car. He popped open the trunk and tossed me a pound of weed. My eyes lit up as I felt the greed take over my body. I stuffed the bag of drugs in my pants and went upstairs.
As I passed Jared and Vanessa, I could tell that they knew I was up to no good, but we didn’t speak. I think that Jared knew I sold marijuana, but he never said anything. My mom then arrived home to make a beautiful dinner: pork chops, corn, mashed potatoes, and warm sourdough bread. We all watched TV in the living room, and the smell of a home-cooked meal made me feel warm inside. My mother worked a lot, and she loved having the chance to cook a nice meal for her family. As we all sat to eat, I couldn’t help but think of my father and the sister I had never met. I wondered what Dad was doing; Is he eating alone? Did he think about me at all? We were so close in distance, but it felt so far.
After dinner finished, I ran upstairs to my room and saw that my phone had over twenty text messages from kids looking for weed. I bagged up individual portions and hopped into my car to make some money. I knew this road had to end one day and that I couldn’t do this forever, but the rush was amazing. I had met so many new faces, and I would feel like their savior as I handed them weed; they would smile and hand me the cash. That night alone, I sold a half-pound of weed and went back to my dealer’s house to get another half-pound. We chilled, smoked, and drank together, laughing with our handfuls of cash.
I left the dealer’s house at midnight, driving home drunk with another half-pound of weed. I swerved down the street and almost crashed into the neighbor’s mailbox. Some nights as I drove home, I thought of simply closing my eyes for as long as I could and driving into a tree. I didn’t want to live this life anymore; I needed a way out, and I knew that I couldn’t sell weed forever. Sooner or later it would come to an end, either on my terms or the law’s. What the hell am I going to do?
The more money I made and the more marijuana I sold, the deeper I got in the drug game. I had m
et my dealer’s dealer who had visited one time while we were all smoking. He was shallow, grimy, and seemed to have no cares in the world. He must have come over with five pounds of weed and an eight-ball of cocaine. We sniffed lines, drank, and smoked until my eyes were popped out of my head. He drove a brand-new Mercedes, had a faded, graying goatee, and always carried a gun.
That was the first time I had seen a gun up close, and it scared the shit out of me. I acted cool when he’d put it out on the table, but it made me think: if I keep in this game, would this be my life? I had gone from an all-star athlete with good grades and a great family to a faded, shady drug dealer. I was uncertain about who I had turned into, but the money was coming in so fast that I couldn’t get out of this game.
•••
By the end of that fall, I was inundated so deeply that it was to the point where I had forgotten about life. I hadn’t talked to my family in weeks and was only focused on making more money. I had officially chosen the lifestyle of a drug dealer. I was selling pounds of marijuana, and the characters I met started to get shadier and shadier. I would meet people in alleys, back streets, and strange houses where I had never been before. It was nerve-wracking; but I had never had to deal with people trying to rob me. I was a regular guy in a world of tough guys.
The night had been beautiful, a warm seventy degrees in mid-autumn. Rory, Tyler, and I all went over to our dealer’s house to drink, smoke, and blow lines of coke; the usual. I had left all of my drugs at home that day; I had wanted a night off from dealing, to just have a chance to chill with the boys. My dealer had recently picked up a five-pound shipment of marijuana. Of course, we rolled blunts and smoked one after the other until we were high out of our minds, on top of being drunk. Just when I felt relaxed from the alcohol and marijuana, it happened.
The Crossroads of Logan Michaels Page 15