Well, this semester Mrs. Plante’s really riding my ass. Giving me shit about my focus in class. Keeps lecturing about how much potential I have as a writer. Blah. Blah. Blah.
She almost busted me yesterday.
I’d done a few bong hits at lunch and had a real sweet high going. Mellow, with nice colors. Then I went to class and sat near the window so I could watch the trees sway in the winter wind. I loved the way they bent with every gust and the high made the greens really pop.
“Joy.”
I kept staring.
“Joy?”
Janice kicked my chair and I sat upright.
“W-what?”
One kid sucked in a breath, imitating a toke on a joint. A few kids in the back snickered.
Mrs. Plante gave me the teacher stare. “Do you have any ideas for new articles?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe…” I tapped my chin. “Hey, the World Music Fest is coming up. It’s going to be rad.”
“Good idea,” Janice said. “Everyone is talking about it. Yeah, a few articles about the bands or acts.”
I nodded. “Like Cheech and Chong. They’re a crack-up.”
“We are not going to feature drug-using comedians,” Mrs. Plante said.
“But they’re funny.”
“Janice is right. Cheech and Chong are hilarious. Have you ever listened to Up in Smoke?” Craig straight-edge said.
“I don’t know about this, kids. It’s one thing to write about the dangers of marijuana, with statistics. It’s a whole other animal to write about people that encourage drug use.”
My high had started to wear off by now and I could think. “But Mrs. Plante, aren’t Cheech and Chong like the storytellers and poets of long ago? Don’t they put a mirror in front of society to help us laugh at ourselves? That’s what art is all about. Isn’t it?”
“Joy, you never fail to amaze me.” Mrs. Plante nodded. “You’re right. Comedy is an art form. Shakespeare had comedies. And while I wouldn’t call Cheech and Chong Shakespeare, they do reflect on our times. I’ll allow you kids to write an article on them or other bands at this music festival, but I reserve the right to reject anything that’s inappropriate.”
We all nodded, smiling. Mrs. Plante could be pretty cool.
Forty-Two
Joy
I got it! I can’t believe it, I’m actually going. In six weeks, Joy Chapel will be head-banging to Nugent, Cheap Trick and Toto at the most amazing, rocking, gnarly, friggin’ concert in the whole world.
I read the numbers 006239 again, and with tingling hands smoothed the precious paper with the circle and wings over a page in my journal. No, I wasn’t high, just blown away. I was the six-thousandth person to hold one of these tan tickets saying Wolf and Rissmiller Concerts Presents—Califfornia World Music Festival at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. Two f’s in Cali because we are fucking freaks. Oh yeah.
Paid twenty-five bucks. Been saving my money since Christmas. I know, Kyle is the saver in this family; but since this concert is going to be full-on epic, I tucked every spare dollar in my ballerina music box and only pulled out a couple of bucks when Frankie was selling some Thai Stick. Hey! Pot like that doesn’t hit our town every day.
Even my parents had noticed the commercials on the radio and TV. Mom said it sounded like Woodstock in the ‘60’s. She never got to do much of that stuff since she’d had me so young, but I knew she dreamed about it. Sometimes, she’d get this wistful look on her face during a TV show about teenage parties or rock concerts. I feel kind of guilty for getting in the way of all the amazing times she could have had. Without me, she might have lived a pretty cool life. Probably never would have married that asshole Ronny.
I think this concert is going to touch on something, beyond. Like there’ll be this hippie vibe everywhere and I’ll only have to reach out to find kind hands enfolding mine. Smiling eyes are going to look out from John Lennon glasses and sing about giving peace a chance.
For once, I felt a part of something… well, something big and, I don’t know, better. I mean, it’s all people talked about. While changing for gym or hanging on the Quad or munching out at Mickie D’s, everyone jonesed about how amazing it would be. Cruisers up and down Broadway rocked out to Nugent and Cheap Trick, their cranked tunes and sweet-smelling smoke wafting out of open windows.
Bitchin’.
One Friday night, I saw a black Camaro with five dudes all bobbing their heads to Surrender. “Mommy’s alright! Daddy’s alright! They just seem a little weird!” they sang, hair flipping back and forth.
Wish Mom was alright, I thought but cried, “Cheap Trick rocks!” from the back seat of Janice’s Toyota.
The tickets went on sale at 10 a.m. Saturday, February second. Just in time, I finally had enough money for that beautiful voucher, that flower-power piece of cardstock, that sublime pass to wonder and amazement. Just one problem. We lived in a small town, boring-ville where there were no ticket sales. The closest place was Tower Records in LA. And I didn’t have parents that would let me drive their Lincoln anywhere but to my stupid job at Jack in the Crack, much less over the grade to the city.
But I had friends.
“Come on, Janice. Give me a ride so we can go get our tickets,” I begged.
“I don’t know. What do you ever do for me but smoke my weed, keeping the reefer to yourself forever?”
“I promise I’ll never bogart your joints again. You’ll get the first hit. Two. Five. Hell, I’ll just sit back and get high on the fumes. Please. It’s going to be like, like… beyond.”
She gave me long stare and argued that I always said shit like that. But we had to get those tickets! Going to that concert was all I thought about. Well, that and foxy Paul Janssen. If I went to the fest, he’d think I was cool and ask me out for sure.
Something deep in my bones told me that this concert was my destiny. That if I missed it, my life would be out of whack. A shakiness, like I got when Ronny’s eyes turned red and he raised his fists, settled in my gut.
So, I started to beg. And bargain. Begged some more.
After several minutes of promising to pay for her gas, buy munchies, bring joints, and then give her my first-freakin’-born whenever that happened, she agreed to give me a ride to Tower Records. Since we’d never waited in line to buy tickets before, we decided to leave super early in case they sold out.
I set the alarm on my clock radio, the same black General Electric analog one I’d first heard Surrender on a few months before, to go off a little before 5:00 am. The face had only three numbers because the on, off, and wake to music buttons were where the six would be. But you could tune it to umpteen music stations and damn, I’d checked out just about every one. Still I came back to 105.4, KRQK, time and again.
Why? It rocked!
Hair brushed as straight as I could get it, my wait-in-line-blue-Dittos-Zorie-flip-flop-I’m-trying-to-look-like-a-total-Cali-teen ensemble on, I stood on my front porch checking the wad of cash in my wallet. Yep, got it. I nodded after the fourth check. But of course, Janice was late, so I made sure that the money I’d saved for so long was still there about eighty more times between brushing the frizz out of my hair, wiping the dust off of my sandals, and reapplying blue eye shadow.
Finally, forty-three minutes after she said she’d come, with my scalp sore from all the times the brush had passed over it, Janice rolled up in her ‘76 Toyota Corolla. Lime green with bald tires and a scary rattle every time it went over forty, but it was all hers, as she’d proudly defend to anyone who tried to put it down. She’d thrust a hand into her hip and say in her New York accent, “It’s paid fah. And not everyone has a tricked-out dash with New Yawk fuzzy dice.”
Janice cracked me up, acting like she was cool just because she’d bought car dice while visiting her Grandma in Queens. Always with the accessories. Barrettes. A macramé belt. Hoop earrings. She was constantly building and rebuilding herself, like an ever-evolving android trying to become human. Still
, guys thought she was hot, with the clanging bracelets and the way she said her ‘R’s’ all drawn out like a vowel.
When she honked and waved, I didn’t wave back but stomped up, arms crossed, showing her my ticked-off body language. But she didn’t apologize or even mention being late. Of course, that didn’t surprise me. Even though I was paying for everything including gas and grass, she still made sure I knew she was doing me a favor.
I thought of saying something. Didn’t. Why was I always such a wuss? Freaking terrified that if I said one angry word, she’d hate me forever?
Cause maybe she would.
Even at 9:17 AM, there was already a line down the street waiting for the store to open. Girls in high-waisted jeans and peasant tops. Dudes in rock t-shirts and huarache sandals. One pacing fat guy, old enough to be my stepdad, wore a purple jump suit that made him look like a bunch of cartoon grapes. I giggled at a couple of disco dorks in skintight polyester pants, their silk shirts unbuttoned all the way to hairy navels. Gross.
We drove a little further and turned into the crowded Tower’s parking lot where the sea of cars was host to a full-on party. Dudes sat under open hatches smoking bowls, car stereos cranked head-banging tunes, and chicks so gorge you’d think they were out of Teen magazine swayed to the rockin’ rhythms. Nearby, frisbees flew over hoods and skateboards jumped curbs while bottles and bongs passed from hand to hand.
My jaw dropped all the way to the vinyl seat.
“Where’s a fucking spot?” Janice grumbled, cruising up another aisle of filled slots.
Eyes glued to the surrounding spectacle, I pointed to an empty slot in the next row. Janice immediately gunned the rattly engine and zipped around the corner to snake a space before anyone else could get it.
“Got your money?” I asked, after Janice pulled up the squeaking parking brake.
“Don’t have enough. I’ll get one later.”
What? We were going together. That was the plan, I thought, wondering if I should probe further. She’d been bitchy for the whole ride, barely speaking to me, even turning the stereo off when I tried tuning it in to big city FM stations. I decided the less said, the better. “It’s cool, I know you’ll get one.”
I hoped. She was my ride.
Little bubble butt swaying in her tight Calvin Klein’s, Janice led the way through the waves of partiers to the end of the line, where she immediately began chatting up a surfer named Chris. Amazing how fast her mood changed with a cute guy around. I swear that girl knows how to flirt; full-on purrs every word while tabby-moving her hips. And Chris obviously wished he had a bag of catnip he could feed her all day.
I just stood there, thumbs tucked in my baggy jean belt loops, wondering why guys didn’t give me the sort of attention they did Janice. I mean, I wasn’t that bad, was I? Last summer, one counselor named Pete even called me Sister Golden Hair every time we’d had guard duty together. Good call, bleaching it before camp!
Even though my invisibility cloak seemed to stay on the whole time, I didn’t mind. Waiting in line was killer! Never seen so many joints passed around. You’d think the cops would be on parade, but I only saw one black and white that morning and so many people were smoking cigs, it masked the other smoke.
Soon, the store opened, and the line was shuffling forward. I didn’t know whether to be jazzed to be moving, or bummed to have this party come to an end.
After a surreal hour of watching Janice purr at hottie Chris one moment and then bitch to me about the wait the next, we were inside the biggest music store I’d ever seen. The latest Cars album played in the background, joining the buzz of excited ticket buyers and shuffling feet. Huge rock bands posters plastered the walls above shelves of funny bobblehead toys. A black light room beckoned from the back, with lava lamps and glowing posters of guys on choppers, gorgeous black chicks with perfect bodies and big ‘fros, bright peace signs, and of course, huge marijuana leaves.
I love the vinyl and incense smells of record stores, inhaling as soon as I enter to fill my lungs with sandalwood and Arabian Musk. Then I exhale and breathe in the fainter odors; wood of the record bins, Love’s Baby Soft perfume lingering over the cassettes, and the dust rising off the tiled floor. There’s nothing like strolling between those record bins, finger running over each plastic-sheathed album, where punks mingle with surfers, disco wannabes look through the hits, and a few moms with Farrah-feathered hair try to find that perfect birthday gift.
Paradise.
Today, a red-eyed Stoner obviously just back from a recent bong hit in the parking lot smiled from behind the counter. He took a sip from the Mountain Dew bottle in front of him and asked how many we needed.
I cleared my throat few times and then managed to croak out, “Umm, one ticket. California World Music Festival.”
“You sure you don’t want the Texas Jam, Farmer girl?”
“W-what?” Were my pants that baggy? Do I look like an old farmer?
“Working you.” His blue eyes twinkled as he winked. “Fest, should be the shit.”
“Totally,” I said, staring at all the pipes in the glass display case, imagining how many people could get high with them. Started doing calculations in my head. If one bong could be shared with six people, and a pipe with two, that’d be…
Got so lost in the dream, Janice had to answer the next question. “Cash.” She nudged me and I shook my head before passing the handful of bills and coins over the counter.
“Not enough,” he said, after counting the last few dimes. “Still need $0.47.”
I rummaged around in my purse until I found a quarter, a few nickels, and one penny. I looked at him apologetically.
“I’ll toss in a penny for a little fox like you,” he said, with a smile that made my stomach do a flip-flop.
Back in Janice’s car, I pressed that treasured ticket to my chest and gushed, “If that’s what the-wait-in-line party is like, just imagine how awesome the concert’s gonna be.”
“Yeah, awesome,” Janice said, not sounding as enthusiastic as I expected.
I turned to look her square in the face. “You’re still going, right? We’ve been planning this for months.”
She kept her eyes on the road as she spoke. “Sure, as soon as my shithead of a brother pays me back what he owes me.”
“Cool.” I leaned back against the seat and hugged that precious slip of paper.
Forty-Three
Joy
“Where was that article?” I tapped my chin with a pen and then began to riffle through the magazines splayed out on the kitchen table. After picking up Rolling Stone and thumbing through a few pages, I tossed it back in the pile. Then I grabbed a copy of Creem and started to read an article on Cheech and Chong.
“People’s experiences, man. How can you say they’re right or wrong?” Tommy Chong said, when asked about promoting drug use.
Fuck yeah. Experience. Higher than high. Like Music Fest is going to be. I nodded and copied the quote in my Trapper Keeper.
When the front door banged open, followed by a basketball bounce, Mom shouted, “No balls in the house!” from the master bedroom. How she was able to hear it way back there, I didn’t know. Must have been a mother-radar thing.
“’kay!” Kyle called back. With admirable skill I’d never give him props for, my junior jock brother spun his ball on one finger and strutted over to stand opposite me.
I ignored him. Copied another quote. That ball had to stop spinning some time.
It did, but now he tossed it from one hand to the other in annoyingly loud slaps. “What are you doing?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Homework? Something for journalism class?”
“No, I’m digging a pit, your grave if you don’t shut up.”
“Ha-ha.” He hugged the basketball. “I hope it’s not going to be like your article on marijuana. It sounded like you thought people should smoke.”
“Have you ever thought that maybe the world would be a better place if p
eople toked instead of drank? I mean, when was the last time you heard of a high dude killing someone or crashing a car?”
He shrugged.
“Friggin’ never. Because people get mellow when they’re high. Like this guy, Tommy Chong. Check him out. ‘It’s what people go through… in order to get some use of living on Earth. So how can you make any judgement? I can’t. All we can do is be funny and make people laugh.’”
“I don’t think Dad would want you quoting those druggies.”
“Oh, please. You think your perfect father never got high? I bet he and Mom toke up at every party they go to.”
“No way,” Kyle argued.
“You’re so naïve. Even the president’s son smoked pot. Got kicked out of the navy for it.”
“Mom and Dad drink but—”
“—but nothing. Everyone gets high nowadays. Except maybe boring jocks like you.”
“If I start filling my lungs with that crap like you do, I’ll never make varsity by sophomore year.”
“Mwah?” I said, placing a proper hand across my décolletage. “I know not what you speak.”
“Whatever. Just keep it hidden. Dad’s been stressed…”
That hit home. Ronny had been on the verge for a while now. Ever since I ran away, things had been as tense as the last three seconds of a tied basketball game.
Ronny moved like Kyle’s basketball, spinning one moment with a blind pass the next. Even if we had a ref. blowing the whistle, he wouldn’t stop half-court, but body-slam a teammate before basking in the glory of a hook shot.
And I sure as shit didn’t want to become part of that kind of game anytime soon.
“Okay, I’ll keep my notes to myself. Dork.”
Forty-Four
Joy
Why did I ever say Mrs. Plante was cool? Because she isn’t. Instead, she’s a disapproving critic who won’t cut me any slack. I’ve rewritten that article on Cheech and Chong five times and she still says, “I’m not feeling it. Something is missing, Joy.” Meanwhile, she has accepted all of Janice’s essays. And one was about adopting kittens. Kittens! Really? I mean, are we like in second grade here?
Finding Joy Page 16
