"He Was Only 16" - Submission #38

I don't recall exactly why it happened. I don't remember if it was a singular event... a flashpoint... or if it developed over time. All I know is that the word on the street was that my former buddy, Rod was after me and was patiently awaiting the opportunity to fight me... to teach me a lesson of some sort. And he became very vocal about it. Everyone knew. He made sure of that.

I have never been one who has sought the spotlight. I've never enjoyed being the center of attention. I tried to avoid being that guy. It was particularly dreadful when my name was on the lips of many for all the wrong reasons. This was one of those times.

As horrible as this time was for me... how much worse would it have been if we had the social media that we have today? I can only imagine. It would have been brutal.

Rod and I were really good friends at one point. We hung out together all the time the summer

after 8th grade. We used to hike along some old, abandoned railroad tracks north of town, looking for the ideal spot to build a fort. We even drew up plans with sizes and dimensions. We searched for wood and other building materials and when we found some, we'd haul it out to our build site. This was going to be the coolest hangout spot ever.

We never built the fort. But that was okay. It was the fantasy and the planning that was fun and helped us forge that bond of friendship that summer.

In less than two years’ time, that friendship had not only eroded into nothing but had morphed into hostility. Violent hostility.

It was the tail end of my sophomore year of high school. 1975. The weather had warmed up after months of frigid temperatures, snow and a collective case of cabin fever for the teens of Madrid, Iowa. Outdoor activities had picked up for everyone... except me, it seemed. I was hiding out. Other than attending school, I was in total seclusion.

I went to school. I came home from school. And the routes I took were as stealth as I could make them. Avoid the busier streets, cut through the back yards as much as possible and

hide behind bushes until a street looked clear before crossing it.

Rod was a bit crazy, at least that was my perception and this is what concerned me. He didn't seem to have much discernment and discretion. I wasn't sure what he might be capable of. In retrospect... I'm sure I blew this out of proportion but nevertheless... this caused me great anxiety. I would fall asleep each night and wake up each morning... with him on my mind. It consumed me. It put me in a perpetual state of anxiety.

There was never any indication that my "friends" had my back. They were silent. I was an island. "Lonely" doesn't quite capture it. It was far, far beyond that.

Rod drove a royal blue, late model Nova. Nice set of wheels for a kid. I made it my number one priority to scan the landscape for that vehicle... no matter where I was and what I was doing. And it seems I saw it often. It was as if he was stalking me... which... he probably was.

Living on the main drag of town, there were times when I would walk out my front door... and there was that blue Nova... slowly driving by with the driver staring a hole through me. Sometimes he would turn onto the alley that ran behind my house and he would cruise by as though he were casing the joint.

To be clear, Rod was not the reason for all of my mental and emotional turmoil. He just helped create one more situation... among many... that made life miserable for me during that period of time. If every other aspect of my life would have been good… then I probably could have handled this squabble with Rod. But my existence was a dark cloud. My life sucked. I hated it. I REALLY hated it!

So, I'm just going to say this... I have never shared this with anyone for obvious reasons… I thought that ending my life might just be the best option available for me. Why not? Nobody would really care, right? Some might even be happy about it. That was my mindset and rationale.

 

I made a mental list of ways that I could carry it out... a gun to the head, a leap from the viaduct onto the railroad tracks, a bottle of pills. Strangely, I felt a sense of calm and peace as I contemplated these options. Anything that offered an escape from the misery gave me momentary solace.

I considered leaving these thoughts out of my writings. It's dark. It's highly personal. It's sensitive. It's embarrassing. But... it's the truth. It happened. If I leave it out, I'm not showing the transparency needed to paint an accurate picture of this period of time in my life. I was a mess.

Suicide is not the answer. It is never the answer. As I look back across the decades that have passed since this time in my life, the amazing wife, the tremendous children, the beautiful grandchildren that God has blessed me with... the precious friends, the momentous events, the multitude of undeserved blessings that God has bestowed upon me... I can tell you with the utmost confidence and conviction... to be patient... persevere... work through those dark seasons of your life... because God has a plan. Life will get better. You will be stronger. Do not rob your influence from the individuals who need you now and in the future.

Those are my thoughts now but they were not my thoughts then. My decision was made. I was really going to do it.

1959 – 1975

He had his whole life ahead of him.

He was only 16.

"Alone Again, Naturally" - Submission #37

The summer after my freshman year offered me the solace of baseball. I loved baseball. It was my happy place. Many of my earliest memories of life included baseball. I spent countless hours throwing a rubber ball against a wall to field ground balls or tossing a ball as high as I could to see if I could track it down and catch it. I’d lay on my back in my bedroom and repeatedly toss a ball up with my right hand and catch it with my left. Often, I would just take a baseball bat and work on the mechanics of my swing. In my mind, each swing was preceded with the fantasy that I was up in a crucial situation in the World Series. And every swing represented me swatting the game winning hit… while my adoring fans roared.

.

I’d like to think that I was a pretty decent player. I pitched and played shortstop. Two coveted positions on the diamond.

There were two teams that represented Madrid for our age group of the Senior League in the region. My team was the Sox and our evil, cross-town rival was the Dodgers. It was actually a pretty fun competition and we were the top two teams in our league.

Lovell Gordon was our coach and his son, Terry (we called him ‘Bubbles’) was our catcher. Kevin Gibbons and I rotated on the mound.

We did well that year. I think we won the league. I had made the All-Star team the year before as one of the younger players in the league and so I had every confidence that I would make it again as one of the older ones. Plus, I had a good season.

Coach Gordon was assigned the task of picking two players to represent the Sox on the All-Star team. I was confident that Kevin and I would be chosen. I was half right. Kevin was chosen… deservedly so... and Bubbles was the second choice.

I was devastated.

I’m still bitter about that.

As it would turn out, I would never play organized baseball again.

I don’t remember a whole lot about my sophomore year of high school. I certainly never dreamed it would be my final school year in Madrid. But as it turned out… it was.

Most of that year was shrouded in loneliness, fear, uncertainty and emotional pain. I was just surviving… trying to make it through each day. My family situation and social life continued on its downward trajectory.

The only semi-bright spot was basketball season. Again… sports to the rescue.

I played on the JV team and started every game. We only had six players on the squad, so being a “starter” wasn’t all that impressive. But I do remember the six players… Don Friedmeyer, Kevin Gibbons, Rod Isolini, John Horton, Randy Norton and yours truly.

My singular highlight was scoring 21 points in our very first game. I was as hot as a pistol. I never scored in double figures again.

I have a number of odd, random memories from that basketball season. One of them was a game, in our home gym. We were locked in a heated battle with only a couple seconds left to go in regulation. The score was tied and Kevin Gibbons was at the free throw line. He had a chance to win it for us. I was at half court, bent over, hands on my knees… begging God to let us win the game. I despised the very thought of losing! I tried to make a deal with the

Almighty… “God, if you allow Kevin to make this free throw, I will quit smoking. Yes… I will quit smoking cigarettes and pot. I promise!”

Don’t judge. You’ve made similar “deals” with God, right?

Kevin sunk the free throw and we won. God held up His end of the bargain… but I didn’t. I broke my promise later that night… in my bedroom. A celebratory cigarette… in the dark… alone again, naturally.

Randy Norton threw a party for the team when the season ended. The party included the essential elements... booze and chicks.

Randy had one of those “cool dads” who left us alone to party with a “You boys behave!” admonition as he winked and drove away. Yeah right. We’ll “behave” alright.

That night quickly became somewhat of a blur for me as I became quite the mixologist. I combined various liquids as though I were playing with a chemistry set. They tasted horrible at first but it didn’t take long before the taste became a nonissue. My mantra became pour and consume.

Apparently there was another party, with similar refreshments being served across town because about an hour into our shindig, a couple guys delivered one of their partiers to Randy’s house. It was a girl named Lynnette, whose older sister was with us.

I think the guys that dropped her off… did so because they were scared. They had to carry her to the house. We were drunk but Lynnette was blackout drunk. She couldn’t talk. She couldn’t function. She was only 14.

I felt sorry for her. I sat on the floor by the couch where they laid her and tried to brush the hair away

from her face. Somebody had brought a bucket and set it down next to me. It was great timing because within seconds she began heaving. I grabbed the bucket with one hand and held her head up with the other as she heaved and vomited.

When she was through, I grabbed a box of tissues from the end table and began wiping around her mouth. She would occasionally open her eyes and then close them quickly as she tried to form words but her ability to speak coherently failed.

Eventually Lynnette passed out… completely.

Looking back, she really should have been taken to the hospital but we didn’t have common sense enough to make that judgment. I assume that she had never really drank before and didn’t know her limits. Painful lesson, I’m certain.

I thought about her the next day as I was working through my own hangover. I called her house to see how she was doing. She answered the phone. I had never really talked to her before and because she had zero recollection of the events from the previous night, she was awfully confused as to ‘why’ Bart Munson was calling her.

I explained… in detail. She was confused and embarrassed. I just laughed it off and told her that she had a great story to tell people in the years to come. I expressed my relief at how much better she sounded compared to the last time I’d seen her.

We ended up talking on the phone for a couple hours. So I called her again the next day and talked for a long time again.

After that, we became an item. She was the only girl that I ever gave my class ring to. She was the last girlfriend that I had in Iowa.

But what an odd start to that relationship.

The end of basketball marked the final stretch of the school year. Events would unfold that would push me to my limit and would be confronted with life changing... or ending... decisions.

"Bad Butterflies" - Submission #36

For the sake of context, I suggest you go back and read “So I started a Gang” Submission #20. I quote from that entry here:

“A few days later, Brian “Huffy” Huffstutler got wind of the newly formed gang and was dying to be a part of it. We were at school, on a break after lunch. We stood in front of the three-story school building, near the street.

“What do I have to do, Muns?” Huffy pleaded, “Name it!”

Thinking back to the “jump-in” initiation from the book, I modified the protocol as I told him to turn his head away from me and turn back when I told him to a few seconds later. Huffy obediently turned his head as I slipped my heavy chain bracelet over the knuckles on my right hand.

“Ok Huff, turn around.” I said

He turned his head and before he could focus his eyes, I slugged him on his left cheek as the chain dug into my knuckles, taking the skin with them.

Huffy fell against the tree and slithered down in a squatting position with his face in his hands. He stayed that way for quite some time as a small crowd gathered. Eventually he got up and smiled. A welt in the shape of the chain links protruded from his cheek.”

I think it was the spring of 1974… April or May. The weather was starting to warm up and the final semester of my freshman year of high school was winding down. It had been a horrible year for me and I could not wait for the school year to end.

I had become so insecure that I didn’t even want to be seen in public for fear that I’d be whispered about and pointed at. I felt like a leper that was to be avoided at all costs. Even the guys that, at one time, were my very best friends… Marc Carlson (Carlo), Mark Gibbons (Sparky) and Greg Drake… seemed cold and distant. They quit calling me. Quit coming over to the house. Quit including me in their plans.

It was painful… emotionally… even physically.

At the end of each school day, my routine was the same… rush to my locker, throw my books on the top shelf, scurry out the south door and walk home. My route was always the same… south on the sidewalk that ran parallel to Highway 17… past Dunns Sure Save grocery store, past the bowling alley and down to 2^nd Street where I crossed the highway and finished my trek a block west on 2^nd.

One day as school ended, I started my departure routine. I arrived at my locker and before I could spin the lock combination, I glanced to my right and noticed a small group of guys standing with Brian Huffstutler (Huffy) near his locker. They were all staring at me. Odd.

I opened my locker, tossed my books on the shelf and then slowly looked around the locker door… they were still there. They were still staring. Huffy was smiling… sort of an evil grin.

Something was up.

I felt a sliver of dread run through my body as my chest tightened and my mouth grew dry. I had butterflies in my stomach. They weren’t good butterflies… like when you were excited about something… they were bad butterflies that came with the feeling of impending doom.

As the hallway began to empty out, I stood at my locker and started pulling out my books… one at a time. I would slowly leaf through them, my brow furrowed… intently searching for… nothing. I was killing time.

Occasionally, I would cast a stealth glance to my right, past my locker door. Huffy and his posse were still there… talking, laughing… shooting looks in my direction.

My stalling tactics lasted a good 20 minutes. I ran out of books and papers to peruse. I couldn’t stand at my locker all night. Whatever was going to happen… was going to happen.

The hallway was now quiet as most of the students had vacated the building and headed home. I slowly closed my locker and headed toward the door.

I remember being greeted by a bright sun, blue skies and warm temperatures. The coat that I had worn that morning was now tied around my waist. I headed down the diagonal sidewalk, still on school property. I was walking at a brisk pace. I didn’t look back.

The school property ended where the diagonal sidewalk intersected with the sidewalk that ran north and south… parallel with the highway. On the other side of the highway, a truck of stoners… Huffy’s friends, had parked on the shoulder of the road. They were waiting for a show.

At about that moment, I heard Huffy’s voice… “Hey Munson.”

I turned around and the first thing I saw was the glimmer of the bright sun reflecting off a silver chain that was wrapped around Huffy’s clenched, right fist. The blow hit me on my right jaw.

Sweet revenge, huh? Good memory, Huffy. Payback time I guess.

Huffy wasn’t an imposing figure and despite the fact that his punch was aided by a chain, it didn’t knock me down. Heck, it didn’t even wobble me.

One of the guys in the truck hollered, “He ain’t down yet, Huffy!”

I looked at Huffy… waiting the second punch but it never came. If it did, I would have defended myself. We would have had a full on scrap. But as it turned out… we didn’t.

Why didn’t I swing back? Why did I let him hit me without a physical response? Did I feel overmatched? No. Not in the slightest. Then why?

I thought about this often, sometimes obsessively… over the next days, weeks, months… even years.

In my mind… this fight wasn’t between Brian Huffstutler and Bart Munson. It was the guys in the truck against me. It was Kevin Gibbons against me. It was Carlo, Sparky and Greg against me. It was all of my former friends against me. It was my family against me. It was Madrid, Iowa against me.

I could fight back against one guy but I was overwhelmed with the size and scope of my enemy. At least… my perceived enemy. And we all know the saying, “Perception is reality.”

I stood there. Hands at my sides.

Huffy sneered at me. Told me what he thought of me. Advised me to watch my back. Then he jogged across the highway and hopped into the bed of the pick-up truck as it headed toward town.

My route home changed that day and for the remaining time that I lived in Madrid. No longer did I walk along Highway 17 to 2^nd Street. That whole way was high traffic. The most traveled roads in Madrid.

Instead, I crossed the highway almost immediately and would jog behind the Dairy Sweet and would walk through backyards. Every time I came to a road, I would stay hidden by a house, or shrubs until I could see that no cars were coming from either direction. Once the coast was clear, I’d sprint across the street and duck in between houses again. I would follow this zig zag pattern until I reached the houses across from my own house on 2^nd Street. Because that was the busiest street in town… I’d sometimes wait minutes before the road was clear of cars in both directions and then I’d sprint to my house.

I did this every school day for more than a year. I learned what houses had dogs in their backyard and which houses didn’t. I learned who had sheds, canoes, vegetable gardens and who hung their clothes out to dry.

I didn't want to be seen. I didn't want to be a target. 

I hated life and I wanted out.

"Eroding Friendships" Submission #35

Continuing the theme of eroding friendships…

Although the neighborhood kids were the first friendships I had developed when I moved to Madrid during the summer of 1969, Kevin Gibbons was the first friend I made once school started. He was in my class and we quickly formed a bond. Being the “new kid” in town and at a new school, I was very thankful to have a buddy that could help ease my transitions.

Kevin came from a good, solid family. He was the younger of two boys born to “Pinky” and Ramona Gibbons. His dad was a real estate agent and had actually been the one who sold us our house on Union Street. He also had a distinctive hue of reddish hair and thus the nickname “Pinky,” … I think.

Kevin invited me for a sleepover one Friday night during the fall of our fifth grade year. I was super excited and I counted down the days as that Friday night approached.

I remember marveling at the structure of the Gibbons’ household… the cleanliness of their house, the strict order of planned events during my visit and the precise time of “lights out” when it was time for us to retire for the evening.

It was different… but I liked it. Actually… I loved it. I ached for a family life that resembled the Gibbons family. But that was nothing more than a pipe dream for me. It would never happen.

Kevin and I remained pretty good friends over the following years. Not “best friends” but good friends as our closeness ebbed and flowed through the seasons of our lives. He was a good athlete and we played on a number of teams together. We were the two pitchers on the Madrid Sox during our early teen years and we pushed each other, in a healthy way, to be better ball players.

Sometime early in our freshman year of high school, our relationship began to take a turn south. Heck… it wasn’t only Kevin… it was most everyone that had once been considered a friend. I seemed to be the common denominator in these deteriorating relationships and thus, most of the blame was likely attributable to me.

Living on 2^nd Street, I lived on what was considered the “main drag” of town. Every time someone “scooped the loop,” which most every driving teen did with regularity, they passed my house. Just a few blocks west was the downtown area. So we had frequent car, as well as foot traffic traveling by our humble abode.

One brisk night in the fall of 1973, my freshman year, I heard some muffled voices emanating from outside of our front door. Dusk had long since passed and it was fairly dark outside. I walked into our den, which had windows overlooking our porch and front yard… just to see if I recognized the travelers passing by.

As it turned out, the “travelers” had stopped and they seemed to be eyeing my 10-speed bike that I had wedged between the handrail leading up to our front porch and some bushes. Not an unusual practice. I never felt there was much of a threat to have my junky bike stolen… so I rarely, if ever, felt the need to lock it up in my garage.

The bike was “junky” but it was my sole source of transportation to and from school and around town. Without it… my feet handled the assignment. I preferred my bike.

I strained to make out the shapes and faces of my visitors as my curiosity grew. There were three of them. They seemed to be about my age.

The streetlight over their left shoulders illuminated them just enough for me to notice that one of

them was wearing a jean jacket and I knew of only one guy that wore a jean jacket as his go-to fashion statement… and that was my old friend, Kevin Gibbons.

My suspicion was confirmed when I heard him laugh. It was Kevin. His laugh was as distinctive as his jacket. Who was he with and what were they doing?

Thinking that nothing nefarious was afoot, I started to turn and make my way out the front door to greet my buddy when the trio suddenly grew quiet and Kevin pulled something out of his pocket. I froze and squinted my eyes trying to identify the mystery object.

He raised the item, secure in his fist and thrust it downward onto the back tire of my bike. It was a small pocket knife.

His first attempt didn’t puncture the tire. He tried it two more times. No luck. The group chuckled. Finally, on the fourth try… POP! Success. Tire… dead.

Not content with just disabling the back tire, he went after the front tire. Learning from previous experience, Kevin punctured it on his first attempt, to the delight of his, still unidentified, cohorts. And with that… they vacated the premises in a dead sprint.

I stood there for what felt like about ten minutes. Motionless. Stunned. Angry. But more than anything… deeply hurt.

It really wasn’t about the bike so much. As I said… the bike was junk. This was about the death of a longtime friendship. This was an act that I would never have expected from Kevin Gibbons… Pinky and Ramona’s boy. The kid from that buttoned up family that had befriended me four years earlier when I was new to town.

I was the only one home. I wouldn’t have told anyone had they been home. This was yet another component, added to the private storm that swirled within me. I walked upstairs and went to bed.

I didn’t sleep much that night. My mind kept replaying what my eyes had witnessed… over and over again. The only deviation my mind allowed was when I pondered how I would approach Kevin when I saw him at school the next day. What would I say? What would I do? Would I say or do anything at all?

The next morning, I walked to school.

Second period, Art class. Our teacher was “Jake.” Yeah… that’s what Mr. Stoudt allowed us to call him. Jake… the cool, relevant, hip teacher. This was the first class of the day that Kevin and I shared. In fact, our assigned seats were right next to each other. We picked them that way… the first day of school… back when we were friends.

I reached my seat first, knowing that Kevin would arrive shortly. A few seconds later, I felt the back of his hand gently tap me on my right arm as he dropped his books on the shared table in front of us. “Hey.” He said… still standing… wearing his jean jacket.

It was a normal greeting. Just like every other day. Obviously… he didn’t know that I knew.

“You know what’s really fun, Kev?” I didn’t let him answer. “It’s really fun to pop the tires on your friend’s bike. That’s REALLY, REALLY fun! Don’t you think?”

I looked up at him… standing… staring straight ahead with an awkward and forced grin on his face. I think he struggled… initially… with how to respond to being unexpectedly confronted.

I wanted him to apologize. I wanted him to tell me that he didn’t know why he did it and that it was a dumb stunt. I wanted him to lie to me if he had to. I wanted him to still be my friend and I was more than willing to let bygones be bygones.

“Yep.” He finally offered, as he took his seat. “That really IS fun.”

I stared at him. He stared back, his smile was gone.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Another friendship… over.

"The Equity of Friendship: Overdrawn" Submission #34

What I am about to write about, starting with this and the next several blog submissions, is a narrative of events which ultimately led me… drove me… to the most transformative decisions and moves of my entire life. I am going to attempt to portray my life during a miserable two year period. My chronology might be a bit off on some of the events but I’m confident that the details are highly accurate as they are burned deeply into the most inner recesses of my mind and spirit.

I attended Madrid High School (Iowa) my freshman and sophomore years and they were arguably the worse two years of my life. I lived in a constant state of anxiety, depression, questioning, fear and self-loathing.

I had no idea who I was or what I wanted to become. I had no role models to emulate. I had no adult to counsel me. I had no discernible path to follow.

I viewed God as a lucky rabbit’s foot who existed for the sole purpose of bailing me out of jams and the fact that I seemed to perpetually be in hot water, rendered His existence in serious doubt.

I have chronicled in detail the instability and total dysfunction of my home life… a mismatched blended family, checked-out alcoholic parents and the constant threat of verbal and physical warfare.

So there’s that…

But what drove that undesirable, miserable lifestyle even further into the bowels of a living hell was a distinctive downward turn in my social life. My friends… or, in most cases… my former friends.

Life is tough enough to navigate through the ups and downs of puberty and the transition that is supposed to lead to adulthood. For me… the discomfort and awkwardness of those years were greatly compounded by my personal circumstances.

Let me hasten to say that I do not consider myself a total victim in all of this. I mean… obviously, there wasn’t a lot I could do to remedy the trials and tribulations inside my home, but when it came to the downward spiral of my life outside the home… I must own some culpability.

The decisions to involve myself with a variety of rebellious acts, behavioral mischief, a lack of effort and engagement at school, drugs and alcohol were mine. Nobody forced me. Nobody pressured me. I, and I alone, am responsible for those decisions and the subsequent fallout.

Actions and attitude… that’s on me.

Then there were the friends…

At best… I was abandoned by many “friends” and at worst... I actually became the “sworn enemy” to

some. Kids can be cruel… and sometimes, we bring a little bit of the cruelty upon ourselves. I brought a lot of this on myself… I think. I mean… how else could it have happened?

One night, I was at a basketball game at the high school. There was a group of us sitting in the stands, top row… with our backs against the brick wall. Rod Isolini, me, Don Friedmeyer and Sparky (Mark Gibbons.) Sitting in that order.

We were always cutting up in some fashion. That night was no different. I don’t remember what was said exactly… but Donny cut Iso down with a verbal jab of some sort. It was clever and cutting. I was sitting between them… and I began to chuckle at the quip. Suddenly, Iso put the butt of his hand against my forehead and slammed my head against the brick wall.

He was ticked and in my mind, he was displaying his wrath against the wrong guy… Donny is the guy that cut him down… I just laughed.

I couldn’t figure it out… until years later. The truth of what was happening during those years was a revelation to me and at least gave me a viable working theory into the complexities of teen relationship dynamics.

Relationships are built and maintained with an emotional currency that is difficult to explain. And the more equity that is gained in a friendship, the more withdrawals we are allowed, while maintaining the strong bond of friendship.

In other words, when we screw up with a close friend… we lie to them or we gossip about them… when we somehow disappoint them… maybe laugh at them… we, in essence, make a withdrawal against our friendship. But because we have years of relationship equity built up, it doesn’t destroy the friendship. It just temporarily weakens it.

But when you continue to make withdrawals… and you have ceased to make deposits… you eventually become overdrawn and the fundamentals of the relationship become compromised… usually for good.

That’s what happened between me and Rod Isolini that night. He and I used to be close friends but over time, my smart aleck attitude obviously wore thin with him. And that was totally me… if I had the choice between making a humorous, cutting remark against someone with a good possibility of making the audience chuckle and being sensitive enough to refrain for fear of hurting their feelings… I’d choose the humorous, cutting remark every time.

Donny made the joke and I laughed at Rod. Donny still had equity in his friendship with Rod, the public humiliation of my laughing at him officially put my account in arrears. He chose to retaliate physically.

Our friendship was over.

It would only get worse between Rod and me. Much worse.

"The Protocol of Stoners" Submission #33

A continuation from Submission #32

We grabbed our coats and made our way out to the high school parking lot.

It was January in Iowa or to put it another way… it was face-numbing cold! The ground was covered with a thick blanket of snow and the wind was whipping out of the north at a brisk pace.

Huffy and I trudged towards Hallsy’s dark colored van, hands thrust deep into our pockets, the snow crunching loudly with every step. We piled into the van, already occupied by Hallsy and someone else… I really can’t remember who… I just remember there were four of us.

We pulled out of the school parking lot and headed south on Highway 17 and then made a left on Highway 210, by the bowling alley. We called it the Slater Road because, well… if you stayed on it for six miles… you’d end up in the town of Slater. Yeah… we were a clever bunch.

I don’t recall the conversation, or if there was any conversation at all. I just knew we were on a journey that would end with yet another experience that would contribute to my downward spiral. I was nervous.

Oddly enough, we ended up at a cemetery two miles east of Madrid, just past the railroad tracks. We pulled into the entryway and Hallsy maneuvered the van toward the back corner. The snow was deep and you could hear the tires spinning several times as it felt like we might get stuck. We ended up next to an old shed as we tried to hide our presence from any traffic that happened to pass by.

With only the faint light from the moon, you could see the tips of tombstones sticking out of the snow. It was so eerily quiet with only the wind gusts providing a sound. I was creeped out. Just the four of us and a bunch of dead people… prospective Democrat voters. Why did we pick a cemetery as the location to get high? Oh well, I guess it added some flavor to the story that I would eventually share.

Huffy pulled out a box of Marlboro cigarettes and popped open the top. Alongside the neatly packaged, filter tipped cancer sticks were a couple, hand-rolled joints. Doobies.

He pulled one out and fired it up, as he took a long drag. He made a hissing sound as he inhaled deeply, his lungs filling with smoke and then he held his breath for a few seconds before exhaling, creating a massive cloud inside the van.

“Interesting,” I thought. “There seems to be a technique happening here. Who knew?”

The joint was passed around, which I thought was odd. How come I couldn’t have one of my own? I never passed a cigarette around to my friends… or a bottle of beer. Weird.

The protocol of stoners.

When the joint came to me for the first time, I tried my best to employ the same technique I’d seen demonstrated by my more experienced comrades. I wanted to fit in. I wanted to look cool. I wanted to look like I’d done this before but all four of us knew that wasn’t the case and that fact became painfully obvious when I sucked the smoke into my lungs and my lungs immediately said, “OH NO YOU DON’T!”

It felt like someone had slit my trachea with a razor blade. I coughed so hard, I swear a piece of my lung came flying out. My coughing spell lasted for several minutes, which apparently was hilariously funny to the other three guys. They howled with laughter. It was as though I was a pledge to a fraternity and they were putting me through a little hazing but to be honest, I wasn’t having very much fun.

I took my turn several more times, albeit with gentle drags… trying to take it easy on my reluctant lungs. When it was all said and done, I felt a minor buzz but that’s all. Bad quality weed or a failure to correctly inhale? Maybe both.

The deed was done and we needed to head back to town.  Hallsy popped the van in reverse and pressed on the gas. We could hear the tires spinning but the vehicle wasn’t moving. He pressed down harder and the tires spun faster… but we didn’t move. We were stuck and as it turned out, stuck pretty good.

Three of us hopped out and pushed and heaved as Hallsy attempted to maneuver the wheels to such an angle that would gain some traction. No luck. We entertained the notion of walking back to town but quickly dismissed it as a “bad idea.” So we kept pushing for probably a solid half hour.

Finally, we broke loose and the van started rolling backwards. We jumped in, dying to get some heat on our frost bitten hands. I looked down and noticed that Huffy wasn’t wearing any shoes. He didn’t even realize it. They had both come off as we were pushing the van. He found them… stuck in the snow. Maybe the quality of that marijuana was stronger than I thought!

It was spring and the weather had warmed considerably before my second experience with weed. My buddy, Kevin Gibbons and I had scored a “nickel bag” and I had purchased a small, home-made pipe from… someone… I don’t remember who.

There was a dance being held in the log cabin at Edgewood Park and we thought it would be a great idea if we showed up stoned.

Kevin met me at my house. My parents were home and so we decided to find an alternate location to smoke our pot. It was still light outside. We decided to head toward the park and figure out a good spot along the way.

That “spot” ended up being the Christian Church, a block west from my house. On the backside of the church, hidden by some overgrown bushes, was a porch, tall enough for us to comfortably crawl underneath. Perfect. Nobody would see us.

We filled the bowl of the pipe and lit it up. We passed it back and forth, as I had learned from my “stoner pals.” I don’t recall how many bowls we made it through but before we crawled out from under the church porch, I was higher than a kite. This felt totally different than being drunk.

I felt like I was in a cartoon. I didn’t feel real. I kept looking at my hands and my fingers, as though I'd discovered them for the very first time. 

My surroundings looked like animation and everything suddenly turned very humorous. We laughed the entire way to the park and once we got to the park, I became the best dancer in the place… at least in my mind.

Getting high became a routine activity after that. Whenever I wanted to escape the reality of my miserable existence… and it WAS a very miserable existence… I got stoned.

I stole money from my parents to buy my dope. I became brazen enough to smoke it in my own bedroom… often. My sanctuary. A room in the house that my parents never, ever visited. A blessing and a curse.

For me… life sucked. I didn’t know if I wanted to continue living it but getting high allowed me to escape those heavy thoughts and dark questions… even if it was only for a little while.

"Up In Smoke" Submission #32

In the 1950’s, the term “stoned” was coined to describe somebody that was “under the influence.” Similar to “drunk” or “high.” In the late 1970’s, a derivative of that word, a noun, “Stoner,” entered the American vernacular and was used to describe, primarily, one who frequently smoked marijuana.

So, even though we weren’t actually using the term “stoner” in 1974, at Madrid High School… we had our “stoners” and everyone knew who they were. Steve “Hallsey” Hall, Brian “Huffy” Huffstutler, the Udorvich boys… and a number of others.

I can vividly remember many occasions passing one of these guys in the hallway or in class, usually before our first class of the day… and smelling the strong and distinct odor of pot. And you knew what they had been doing on the way to school or in their cars out in the school parking lot.

The smell stuck to their jackets, their clothes and their hair. Their half closed eyes and dazed smiles were further evidence of their impairment. I often thought that if I knew they were high, surely the teachers knew also. But they never said anything or did anything… at least not that I was aware of.

I didn’t hang out with this group much. I mean… we knew each other… heck, everyone knew everyone in Madrid. But other than being friends for a bit with Huffy in junior high… I wasn’t part of the “stoners.” But my curiosity about getting high was something that began to creep into my consciousness during my freshman year of high school.

I sat by Huffy in a couple of classes and I began to ask him about his experiences with weed. I asked him about the difference between getting high and being drunk. I asked him about cost and availability. I learned that it was packaged and sold in denominations such as a nickel bag, a dime bag or a lid.

He didn’t divulge who the dealers were but he assured me that he could procure it for me if I ever wanted some and could produce the cash. Huffy was as good as a used car salesman. His words intrigued me and his stories fascinated me. But I wasn’t ready to commit to an actual transaction.

One Friday night in January of 1974, the whole town (it seemed) had packed the gymnasium for a basketball game. The Madrid Tigers boys’ basketball team was state rated in the top 10 and the community was abuzz. We were not used to that level of success from any of our teams. It was an exciting time.

The team was led by a couple of seniors… Kevin Munson (my cousin) and Jim “Coba” Nicoletto, who had captured the imagination of high school sports fans across the state. Coba was a gifted, 4-sport athlete who nearly had his athletic career ended the year before in a freak accident during a baseball game.

Coba, who was the varsity catcher, threw off his mask as he prepared for a play at the plate. The runner barreled into him at full speed and his elbow crashed into the area around Coba’s right eye. Jim Nicoletto would never see out of that eye again.

The whole town lamented the loss of Madrid’s best high school athlete and wept over the fact that his senior year would be a total loss… athletically speaking. The problem was that someone forgot got to tell Coba that he was done participating in sports.

A couple games into the next football season, the townspeople were shocked to see Coba suited up for the game and standing on the sidelines. They were even more surprised to see him inserted into the running back position during Madrid’s first possession.

Coba finished that game with over 200 yards rushing and a legend was born.

Yes, he played basketball too, despite the fact that he was blind in his shooting eye and he competed at a level far beyond anyone’s expectations. His leadership and his skills on the court led the Tigers to a #8 rating in the state that season.

Now… what does this story about Jim Nicoletto have to do with the “stoners” and my first experience with pot? Other than the fact that I was watching him play on the night that I first smoked a reefer… absolutely nothing. It is just a great story and I wanted to tell it!

It was almost halftime. I didn’t see him at first but I suddenly smelled the aroma of cannabis.  Huffy had seemingly appeared out of nowhere and sat next to me. He had never sat next to me at a game in his life, so I knew something was up.

“You wanna take a ride?” He grinned broadly as I pondered his offer.

“Where to?” I stalled.

He repeated the question with exaggerated pauses between the words, as though he were speaking to someone from a foreign country. “Do… you… want… to… take… a… ride? Yes or no?”

I caught on to his cryptic utterings. At least I thought I did. This must have something to do with the topic that we had been discussing nonstop for a few weeks… his friend, Mary Jane.