About this same time, an older neighbor friend of mine who sold weed convinced me I could make bank dealing at school. He said I needed a bankroll to get started. I had no idea where that would come from. Then I remembered that Mom kept a stash in her dresser drawer. She tried to save 10 percent of her income to tithe at church. Could I really sink this low? Damn right I could.
When no one was around, I went upstairs to her bedroom to steal the cash. I was amazed to find she’d squirreled away a wad of bills totaling eight hundred bucks! Wow, I thought, that would be a lot of weed, but, man, could I launch my business in a big way with all that bread.
Then, from out of nowhere, something awful happened. I momentarily discovered a conscience and a tiny bit of perspective. My sweet mom, who worked her ass off to save money to give to the church and generate nice karma, was about to be robbed by her drug-addict, alcoholic, degenerate son. I couldn’t do it. I closed the drawer.
I started away, but with each step I could feel my newfound sense of right and wrong beginning to wane. Shrugging off my unwanted conscience, I hurried back, yanked open the drawer, and grabbed her bankroll. Fuck the better angels of my nature! I peeled off a dozen twenties—hoping she wouldn’t miss them—and put the rest back.
I rushed over to my neighbor’s house and exchanged the cash for a cigarette pack full of joints. The next day I brought my wares to school. Word quickly spread: Heyde’s in business. The joints began selling like gangbusters. At every bell break, kids gathered around my locker. In one day I’d gone from pariah to the most popular guy around, and all it took was committing a felony at school and an unforgivable crime at home.
Not only was I the most popular, I was also the most paranoid. Several times while I was in the middle of dealing, a teacher would walk by on her way to the principal’s office—causing me to panic. With my luck, I knew I was bound to get busted. So as soon as the traffic cleared, I ripped out the back panel of my locker and stuffed the pack of joints in there. I convinced myself that was a smart move, like a drug dog couldn’t smell it if they brought it into the school.
My judgment was obviously impaired. That’s enough reason not to get high on your own supply. When dealing, it’s imperative to think clearly; however, I was a druggie who smoked as much as I sold.
The next day, when a rumor circulated that they were bringing in a search dog, I totally freaked out. Luckily, I got the weed out of school in time, but on the way home, my luck changed when I ran into one of my supplier’s friends. Almost thirty and a total loser, he was someone to avoid. However, before I could make my escape, he confronted me. Knowing I had the stash on me, he insisted I give him some. When I told him I couldn’t, he grabbed my arms and started shaking me down. I tried to run away, but he chased after me. He easily caught up with me, ripped my shirt, reached into my jacket, and grabbed the pack of joints—taking a handful.
That shakedown left me totally wrecked. I decided then and there to sell the few I had left as quickly as possible, hopefully make my mom’s money back, and return it to her dresser drawer before she discovered it missing. If this plan succeeded, I vowed to never do that shit ever again.
Though I did manage to sell the joints and replace her money, a few days later a “friend” broke into our house and stole all of it . . . all $800! When Mom discovered it missing, she collapsed in tears. She’d worked for months to save it on a teacher’s salary, and it was gone in an instant.
“Do you have any idea who stole it, Jeremy?”
“No, Mom. I wish I did,” I said sympathetically. I was officially a thief and a liar. I felt really awful, but I couldn’t say I knew who stole it or she might discover I’d originally taken it to buy weed. What a shitty path I was on, one that made me hurt the people I loved. But not one I would abandon anytime soon.
By sophomore year, I was getting drunk every day after school. Jarred and I would go to an older neighbor’s house and ask him to buy us beer. We thought he was cool as hell, buying alcohol for us minors. With my parents still at work, we’d sit on my screened-in porch and try to do homework while we smoked cigarettes and got wasted. We weren’t getting much homework done, but at least we weren’t out breaking the law, something we’d been doing with more frequency—especially on weekends when we had more time to get in trouble. One such weekend, while my folks were shopping in Evansville, we hit on an amazing beer-and-pot-induced plan: “Let’s go steal shit!”
Wasting no time, Jarred and I walked to a local convenience store where I’d pilfered things in the past. The trick was to wait until the cashier was busy checking out another customer.
We wandered around waiting for one such opportunity. It wasn’t long until the perfect scenario developed. The customer was a tall guy who conveniently blocked the cashier’s view. Seeing my chance, I began stuffing shit into my jean jacket. I stole a magazine, Visine, gum, cassette tapes—whatever I could get my hands on—whether I wanted it or not. I looked like Large Marge from Pee-wee’s Big Adventure. Jarred loaded himself down as well.
Somehow we managed to get out of there without being stopped.
When we got back home, I was surprised to see my parents’ car in the driveway. We quickly stashed the loot in the backyard, behind the incinerator, and went inside. My folks were standing in the family room—waiting for us. Instantly I knew we were in trouble. Apparently, the minute my parents had returned from shopping, Jarred’s mom had called, saying the clerk at the convenience store had seen Jarred stealing. Since I’d been with him, she said I’d probably stolen, too. Oh, yeah, and one more thing . . . she’d called the cops.
Mom and Dad were furious. Dad told us both to get in the car. I was hoping Mom would stay home, but she insisted on coming, too. When we pulled into the store’s parking lot, the cops were already there. Without explanation, they put Jarred and me in separate cars. I should have been terrified, but because I was still drunk I was, in some fucked-up way, enjoying the whole experience—I thought it made me cool. All it really did was confirm I was just another clueless juvenile delinquent.
As I sat in the cop car, still buzzed from the beer, I suddenly remembered I had a bag of weed and a bowl on me. Total freak-out! What if I got searched?
As the cop drove me to the police station for booking, I carefully slid the weed and bowl out of my jacket pocket—cramming them down the crack of the backseat. The cop kept eyeing me in his rearview mirror, but I stared back, stone-faced. However, once at the station, while another cop read us our rights, I started smiling and couldn’t stop.
“You think this is funny, boy? I can wipe that smile off your face real quick!”
“No, sir . . . I’m sorry . . . I wasn’t . . . I’m not laughing . . . sorry,” I answered, like the smart-ass I was. All I could think about was how I’d managed to stash marijuana in a police car. I only wished I could have been there when it was finally discovered.
When the cop finished processing our paperwork, he said we’d be informed of our court date. On the way out of the station, the cop who’d driven me stopped us. He knew Jarred and pulled him aside.
“You’re lucky I didn’t nail you guys for drinking. I could smell it on both of you.”
All I could think was, We’re even luckier you never checked our coat pockets.
Jarred left with his parents, and I got in my folks’ car. It was a horrible, guilt-ridden ride home. They barely spoke, but the vibe was deadly. Mom was heartbroken to think her son had stolen from a store and been arrested. Even though I was barely capable of feeling anything at the time, it hurt to see her crying. Thank God she didn’t know all the other crap I was into. It would have killed her.
Once home, she disappeared into the house, but Dad held me back.
“Can’t you see what you’re doing to your mother?”
He could have said what a total disgrace I’d become, and I wouldn’t have thought a thing about it. But knowing how much I was hurting Mom really got me. I was thoroughly disgusted with myself. I went up
to my room and passed out.
The next day, it was obvious she was avoiding me. She’d hurry past, not saying a word, but she looked really sad; that killed me even more. For the first time in years, I had a moment of clarity. I realized I cared about someone other than myself. I didn’t want my parents to think their son was a piece of shit . . . even though I was one.
Jarred and I were given probation for our little shoplifting spree. I knew I was facing six months of not being able to fuck up, and it seemed like an eternity. In addition to this probation period, we were also required to do sixteen hours of community service. I’d seen inmates of the county jail in their orange jumpsuits picking up trash along the highway, so I figured we’d have to do that or some other mindless activity. True to form, they made us unload Christmas trees onto a vacant lot, where they were being sold by the Kiwanis Club.
We did this for two Saturdays, eight hours each day. It was actually fun because we’d smoke weed and cigarettes whenever we took a break. Fortunately, there wasn’t any drug testing, so we just had to keep from getting caught, which we managed to do.
Having completed the sixteen hours, we received a signed statement as proof. We acted contrite and convinced our parents we’d learned our lesson. From now on, I was determined to keep my nose clean. Yeah, right.
To celebrate my emancipation, I hurried to another friend’s house, showered, and prepared for one of our wild weekends. His folks had gone somewhere, so we invited some other friends over and we all smoked pot and drank whiskey and Little Kings beer. It was cheap and packed a mighty punch. We got so drunk and baked that some of us decided to become blood brothers. (Uh-huh: he said blood.) Using a big hunting knife, six of us held on to the sharp blade, slicing our hands open. We then took turns shaking hands all around, happily mixing and mingling our bright red body fluid. Luckily, the AIDS epidemic hadn’t yet spread to the hinterlands, but there was definitely an epidemic of IDIOCY.
Stoked, the newly formed Fraternity of Blood Brothers decided to celebrate by going to the high school and kicking in windows. I was always down for some good old-fashioned destruction of property. I approached what I thought was the English teacher’s room and began kicking in her window. I could hear my “brothers” around the corner, destroying one window after another. What a great way to celebrate the commingling of our blood and my newfound freedom.
Our depravity didn’t stop there. Following our felonious assault on the school, we drove to a graveyard and threw glass beer bottles, shattering them on the gravestones. It was a moonless night, and sparks flew every time bottles collided with granite. Even worse, we turned over a bunch of old headstones. We were fucked-up idiots thinking we were having fun, but we were really just disrespectful little thugs who hadn’t learned a damned thing. We went from shoplifting to criminal trespassing and destroying public property. Alcohol and drugs made it all seem “normal.”
The fun just kept coming. We hung out, drank more, and around midnight someone got the brilliant idea to drive to a car lot and smash out car windows with a crowbar. Hell yeah! Long live DOP: destruction of property. Just another fun Saturday night in the old burg.
We piled into a friend’s car and headed for a car lot on the outskirts of town. The music was blaring and the joints were burning.
Back in the day, there was no security and this place didn’t even have a fence to keep intruders out. In fact, other than a little outside light by the office, the cars sat in total darkness—just asking for it. The six of us were happy to answer the call.
The minute we arrived, I grabbed the crowbar and started smashing windshields like I was possessed. I destroyed three or four brand-new cars before it occurred to me that there might be a security camera recording my deviant behavior. I looked toward the little office building and determined that this low-budget operation couldn’t afford anything so high-tech. As we were leaving, I decided to get in one last shattering and nailed another car.
Subconsciously I must have decided to punish myself, because I cut the shit out of my hand on the last windshield; not the hand I’d sliced in our fraternal bonding but the other one. My blood-splattered clothes made it look as if I’d been on a killing spree.
We jumped back into the car and headed back to my neighborhood—stopping to burn the rest of our communal joint.
As we sat there toking, I got the fantastic idea to drive my friend’s car. Stoned, he agreed. Though my head was whirling about, I climbed behind the wheel, floored the accelerator, and tore through the neighborhood. I was underage, drunk, and high, but that was a minor point. This was the perfect ending to a really fun night. As that thought danced around in my brain, I was returned to the present by a chorus of people shouting in my ear.
“Look out! Jeremy . . . hit the brakes!”
Before I could skid to a stop, I grazed a parked car. Had I not reacted quickly, I could have wiped out several parked along the curb. Having experienced enough driving for one night, I climbed into the backseat and passed out.
I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I had absolutely no self-control. It was all or nothing. Whether it was alcohol or drugs, I had to consume everything until it was gone. I was an addict, with a need to fuel the fire. The more I drank, the more I smoked, the more I wanted. When we couldn’t get booze, weed, or pills, we started huffing gasoline. Yeah, you heard right: gasoline.
At first, huffing took place at the house of a friend whose father worked nights. We’d huff gas out of an old Pinto parked out back. All of us took turns, our mouths pressed to the opening of the gas tank like little piglets sucking their mama’s teats. It was unbelievable the hallucinogenic buzz I’d get: visions of fantastical shit. Once I looked over at Jarred and he’d turned into a storm trooper from Star Wars.
In case I’ve made it sound the least bit inviting, just know huffing gas was totally disgusting. Not only did we reek of it, it polluted our taste buds. It made cigarettes taste like putrid, unleaded shit: totally rank. Not only that, it could result in irreversible brain damage.
Huffing became our default drug. We’d rake together fifty cents, fill up a gas can at the station, and take it to my basement. Within minutes we’d be blasted out of our minds. In my hallucinatory state, I’d see people turning blue. I saw Jesus. Buddy Rich. Scarecrows. Together, we’d have quite the conversation. Nothing ever caused me to hallucinate like huffing gas. I’d dropped acid and ingested mushrooms, even though I didn’t like them. They made me queasy and the buzz was too intense. I’d have to drink soda just to get the mushrooms down. Acid was my favorite, but gas the most hallucinogenic. Usually I’d huff till I passed out; other times, to the point of having convulsions. It never occurred to me I might die, or what kind of damage it could do to my brain. It was just comforting to know if I couldn’t find anything else, I could always huff gas.
One day after school, sitting in my neighbor’s car with an old rusty gas can we’d found in his shed, we were listening to Master of Puppets and huffing away like morons. We smoked one cigarette after another—mindless of how easily we could have blown up the entire car and each other. After a couple of deep inhalations, I started convulsing. My eyes rolled back in my head and I slipped into unconsciousness. My buddy shook me, but I wouldn’t come to: I convulsed even more. When I didn’t respond, he punched me several times in the arms, chest, and finally in the head. When I finally snapped out of it, drool was dripping out of my mouth, all down the front of me. I’d really scared him, and when he told me what had happened, I got frightened, too. It didn’t stop me, though. It didn’t even slow me down.
As if I weren’t getting into enough trouble, with Rob’s help I managed to get into even more. Not only did we share our love for drumming, but he was also into some heavy shit that made us bond even faster. He’d perfected a real con-man personality. He could slip into his nice-guy persona so convincingly that my parents trusted him. However, that trust ended on a school night when I was late getting in.
Totally stoned
, we tiptoed into my house. Who should be sitting in the dark, waiting? Dad! When he flipped on the light, it scared the shit out of us. I’d been coming in high a lot, and he was hip to it. When he confronted me, I thought he possessed some fucking psychic intuition. But in actuality I was so baked, a blind person would have seen it.
We’d already solidified plans for me to stay at Rob’s house and party the upcoming weekend. However, Dad took one look at us and said, “You’re grounded!” He glared at Rob like he could see right through him and told him to forget about me staying with him anymore. Then he headed upstairs. That’s when I snapped.
“I’ll fucking stab you!” I said through gritted teeth.
I turned to Rob and started saying what a dick my dad was, but before I knew it, he stormed back downstairs. Grabbing hold of me, in one swift motion he picked me up and slammed me into the wall. I was stunned, and so was Rob.
“Go home,” he told Rob, and then escorted me to my room. He said he was taking away all my music. Just try it, I thought.
When he got home from work the next day, he came into my room carrying a hammer. Before I could utter a word, he grabbed a tray of my best cassettes—Slayer, Metallica, and Venom—and smashed them to pieces. He ripped down my posters, picked up the rest of my cassettes in the big cassette holder, and started out, ready to toss them into the trash. I had to think fast.
I wanted to say how much I hated him, but instead I pleaded, “Please don’t throw away all of those tapes. At least let me give them away to someone.”
I couldn’t believe he bought it, but he finally agreed. I guess he figured he’d made his point. I invited my good friend Harvey over and gave him the rest of my tapes. I asked him to just hold them for me until the time was right to give them back. He agreed. Brilliant! I’d managed to keep from losing all my music, even though I deserved to have it all taken away and more.
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