Now, as I have mentioned before, Jesus is one of those people who likes to
get drunk or high to the point of complete inoperability. Simply put, there is
no middle ground for him, and this usually results in having to baby-sit him
when an event like a party occurs. I have no patience for that kind of shit, and
would usually revert to yelling at him until he sobered up enough to maintain
some semblance of capability. On this particular night however, there was no
helping him out—he was T-K-O.
As the party wound down, a group of my friends, including Jesus, piled into
my sweet red Celica and we hit the road. There wasn’t enough room in the
luxurious interior of my car for everyone, so we
played paper-rock-scissors to see who had to ride in the trunk. As Jesus
could not use his hands to make any of the regulation hand gestures, he of
course lost, and was henceforth stuffed in the trunk. As the Celica is soooo
very sweet, we were back to Jesus’ house in record time, and I was even kind
enough to pop the trunk for him. After honking loudly for a couple of minutes,
and playing chicken every time he tried to get out by burning out and slamming
the brakes so he would fall back into the trunk, I courteously got out of the
car to help him out.
"Jesus was the only one packing heat at the party the night
before, and things were really dry that week."
With all the raucous
laughter from my friends as a result of fucking with Jesus, I hadn’t
stopped for a minute to think about my precious cargo. Turns out all
the coarse movement had caused the grimy fuck to puke on my golf
clubs. This enraged me like none other and I began screaming at the
bastard to get the fuck out of my boot. He continued gargling his
own vomit and babbling like Skip Bayless on Cold Pizza so I
was forced to pull him out using sheer force. I stood him upright,
spun him around ‘til he was facing his front door, and gave him a
gentle push. He made it all of ten feet before landing flat on his
face, in a soft patch of crabgrass next to some dog doo-doo. Still
angry with him about puking on my Titleists, I drove off, never
thinking that patch of grass would serve as his bed for the night.
The next day I called Jesus to see if he wanted to smoke. One of the things
I forgot to mention was that Jesus was the only one packing heat at the party
the night before, and things were really dry that week. He began questioning me
about the end of the night and how he ended up sleeping in his front lawn. I
told him I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about, and all I knew was
that he had asked me to practice his chipping at 2 a.m. and had yakked on my
golf bag, and oh, I would need him to clean them up after we smoked.
He told me that was kind of a problem because his mom had found him passed
out on the lawn that morning and had to drag him inside and help him into bed.
While doing this she had taken his pants off to wash out the grass stains and
found his eighth of the diggity-dank. She had brought him breakfast around noon
and began questioning him about it, and all he could come up with was it was
somebody else’s. This was just great, I thought. Now he had no weed, we had no
weed, and fuck man, what the hell was I gonna do on a Saturday afternoon hung
over as hell?
At this point we began formulating a plan to get the weed back from Jesus’
mom. And by that I mean, I began screaming at Jesus uncontrollably until I was
able to pound through his thick skull what I thought the best plan of action
was. We decided to run with his original excuse, that the smoke was somebody
else’s. My friend Berg was in town for the week from Maine, and he had
attended the party with Jesus and I. Since he was equally interested in
procuring some fatty lumpkin (and also would be going back to Maine next
weekend), he would make the perfect candidate for our job. Convincing Berg took
some serious work, but I kept reiterating those same two facts: 1) He was
leaving in a week and would never see Jesus’ mom again, and 2) This was our only
shot at smoking. He finally threw his hat in the ring.
After Jesus laid the groundwork with his mom, I drove Berg over to his house
under the cover of darkness. We had smoked a resin-ball on the way, so we were
pretty blitzed once we got there. I wished Berg the best of luck as he got out
of the car, but I could tell he was pretty nervous about the whole ordeal. I
told him worst case scenario to just haul ass back to the car and we would blow
this Popsicle stand.
I sat back in the Celica, crossed my fingers, and put on some Allman Brothers
to relax to.
Ten minutes later the front door opened, and there was Jesus’ mom! My heart
skipped a beat as I contemplated what fate would befall me had things gone awry
during the exchange. But I was soon reassured as she waved to me and showed Berg
out the door politely. She stood there in the doorway as Berg calmly walked back
to the car with a shit-eating grin on his face. They had really done it, I
thought—they had pulled off
the caper of the century.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of olive skin and greasy
hair. It was Jesus! He had booked it out the side door of his house, through his
garage, and was making a beeline for the car!
“Wholly-whumpus motherfucker!” I thought to myself.
We had briefly gone over a plan to meet out behind his house ten minutes
later to hit the road for the ensuing smoke session, but this dramatic dash for
the getaway vehicle wasn’t a part of it. By this time Berg caught sight of him,
he had increased his pace to an easy trot in anticipation of the fervent pace of
Jesus’ exit. He arrived at the car winded from his asthma, chain smoking.
“What the fuck are you doing Jesus?!?” I asked.
“D...
D... DRIVE!!!” he screamed through gasps of air.
I floored it in the Celica and we balled out of there, my last image of that
ridiculous scene being Jesus’ mom, arms crossed, outlined in the doorway by the
light emanating from the inside, watching us peel out with a look on her face of
sheer disbelief. As we made our way to the broken down SAAB out behind the old
church that we used to smoke in, one thing became clear: It was the last time
any of us would ask Jesus’ mom for some pot.
