CHAPTER 1
Fuck Thursdays. Some folks might not like Mondays. Or they start early with depression Sunday and the associated dread of Monday as an afterthought. But me? Fuck Thursdays. I can’t speak for anyone else, but in my personal experience, Thursday is just cursed. Whenever I incur the wrath of the Gods of shit and misfortune, it always seems to happen on a Thursday. The day Dad left? A Thursday which also happened to be the day of Little League tryouts. Spoiler alert. I didn’t get in and Mom didn’t tell us that Dad had gotten out. Let’s not forget the day the snooty bitch Miss Hildebruch convinced my mom I needed to redo the 8th grade? It was a Thursday, of course. The day my dog got hit by some jackass who sideswiped us both? Also, a Thursday. The day I got arrested just out of high school on conspiracy to manufacture charges? You know it, let’s all say it with me now. Fuck Thursdays!
It doesn’t even add in every time I had a break-up or lost a job. Practically every time it occurred on that wondrously pus-filled zit of a day Thursday. It had gotten to the point where I was in an honest personal debate on the merits of taking a holiday from the world every Thursday. Maybe I could get so stoned I could render myself into a weed coma and wake up on Friday. Whatever method I employed would work, as long as it ended with me not leaving my bed. I dread Thursdays so much I occasionally wondered if I was doing some “architect of my own destiny” or “self-fulfilling prophecy” shit.
Occasionally, Mom or my sister Jeanine would convince me to see a shrink for a while. I usually quit going when they kept telling me the same general horseshit, which was typically after about three months. Those overpaid idiots always told me if I expected an event to occur, I would look for some way to make it a reality. For example, by blowing things out of proportion when they haven’t even happened. I called it preparing for the inevitable, but according to “the experts” I was supposedly manifesting these Thursday disasters. That these events weren’t fate, yada yada. Ya, fuck those guys too, along with Thursdays.
The main reason I don’t sleep through every Thursday was mainly because I needed an extra few bucks to cover my weed and audiobook habits. To be fair, my rent is damn cheap and I make a decent income. But alas, my love of weed, literature, and fair trade artisan drip coffee ran much deeper than my pockets.
Hell, I’d be sober most days if I hadn’t learned years ago there was a way to stay in weed by utilizing a basic economic theory. Mass quantities lead to lower prices per unit! It was simple, Step 1: buy in bulk, step 2: retail the product Step: 3 use the profits to buy reefer from myself. It really worked well, but there was at least one notable problem. The crux of the matter is I am not really a big “people person”. Therefore, I rely a little too much on my sparse but deep-pocketed clientele. They aren’t exactly the best at dealing with the answer “sure, I can do that tomorrow”. Instead, typically opting for the “it’s cool, I’ll call the next guy’’ approach.
I couldn’t take Thursdays off of my delivery jobs either. At this time of year, weekends were slow. Some weekends, my phone might ping once or twice for a pickup, or it would be a case of driving 19.6 Miles with no tip. These kinds of cheapskate requests were something I had seen more and more often lately. So often that I’ve dubbed them the “good luck asshole”. It’s not that I didn’t work jobs that didn’t tip before, or that I wouldn’t in the future. It’s just I’m not going out of my way for a mere $3.99 delivery fee. On top of that, 30% of it went to some programmer in California or some crap. With the current cost of gasoline $3.99 minus 30% could end up being Free .99 and me wasting my time.
It was curseday, I mean Thursday at about 7 A.M. or in my book half a pubic hair past dawn. As is only proper at 7 A.M. I was blissfully dreaming when I woke up to my phone blaring Rick Ross’s “husslin’”. I must have forgotten to turn off my ringtone. I started reaching around to silence the phone while muttering to myself about how “morning people are masochists”. Once I felt the phone’s glossy screen against my fingertips I engaged with an internal dilemma. I could get up and face a potentially cursed Thursday or ignore the phone and self-justify by telling myself it’s my birthday and curseday at once and I should try again tomorrow. The combo was just one short of a trifecta of bad omens, a “dufecta” maybe? I sensed the call was likely about to go to voicemail when my subconscious piped up. “Dumbass, what are you going to do on your birthday if you’re broke?”. Whether it was my imagination or just the manifestation of my internal dialogue, I couldn’t argue with its point.
I quickly picked up the call and rasped out the word “Ello?” in a voice reminiscent of a gravel driveway being poured and raked. Fighting against my stupor, I tried to clear my eyes and coughed before uttering a much more human-sounding, “Hello! Sorry about that.” “Billy! Billy Bob, my boy, bring me something good. What’s good, my friend?” And this is what I get for not checking my caller ID. It was Richard, the deep-pocketed prick. He earned his short form title simply because his name was Richard, and he was a dick. Bastard had more money than he seemed to know what to do with, a tidbit he was quick to avail to anyone in no uncertain terms. And finally, Richard shall forever in my book be a “Dick” because I have told him a dozen times a dozen over my name is Robert. Not “Bill”, not “Billy”, and most certainly not fucking “Billy Bob”.
Ok well sure, my Mom and my sister call me Billy. Probably because Robert was, well is, my Dad’s name. None of us want to think about him, not to mention utter his name even 12 years after he left. At this point, I’m pretty sure Richard calls me “Billy” just to piss me off. The fact his parents had the prescience to name this guy Richard was uncanny. It made me wonder if he was old money and they knew the monster they had conceived right off the bat.
“Hey Rick, yeah, I got something you’ll like. My guy calls it ‘Hillbilly,’ imported from some mountain range in Georgia. I tried it for the first time last night, and while it didn’t leave me wanting to listen to banjo music, there’s no denying I was pretty damn blazed." “Hot damn man! Billy got that hillbilly weed! Soueeee!” My eyes popped open as I almost threw the phone away from myself. I had just woken up and didn’t want to listen to Richard doing pig calls in my ear. Of course, even if I hadn’t just woken up, I still didn’t want to listen to Richard and his swine song.
Once his reverie seemed to end, or maybe as I caught him in between calls, I finally interjected enough to ask how much he wanted. “I’ll give you $60 for a quarter” he offered. Slightly insulted, I relented with “This one’s on my tier one list dude, no price breaks.” There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if I had asked Richard to answer a math question. The kind in which he needed scratch paper and a pencil to solve. “I don’t know man, I just don’t know. Imported mountain weed does sound cool and all, but I don’t know if I’m trying to drop a hundred bucks right now.” Despite needing to make some cash, I was relieved at the prospect I might be returning to sleep instead of trying to please a Dick. “Okay, so I guess I’ll hear from ya later, then?” For a moment, I heard muffled noises on the other end of the line. It sounded like Richard the Dick was arguing with some chick.
Personally, it boggled the mind how life worked for some people. Despite being a genuine asshole, somehow Richard the Dick had a way with the ladies. I always did my best to be polite, understanding and patient with most women. Everyone except Jeanine, really. But despite doing my best to be a genuinely nice guy, somehow I couldn’t score to save my life!
I sat there for what seemed like a very inconsiderate amount of time to have one’s weed dealer waiting in suspense. It sounded like the argument ending abruptly when I finally got a response. In hushed tones Richard said, “fuck it man, ya just be here in 15 minutes.” This was getting to be too much and my slim patience was waning toward non-existence. I growled into the phone, “You just woke me up, so you’re lucky I even answered.” Realizing what I must have sounded like, I quickly got the better of myself and my hasty temper. There was a tense pause before an audible grunt, as Richard finally relented. “Fine, whatever. See you in a bit.”
As we ended the call, I asked myself once again why Richard always wanted to argue about money. The dick made it obvious to anyone who would listen that he had a thousand problems, just money wasn’t one of them. I shouldn’t care honestly. I need to be friendly with these people, but they’re not my friends. Friends want more than your weed. At least I think they are supposed to? Oh well, just goes to show apparently I am not exactly an expert on “friendship”.
It wasn’t long, maybe 30 minutes before I locked up my bike across from Richard’s condo complex and got ready to go up to what I called “the opium den”. As I made it down the hall and approached the door, the overpowering smell of cigarettes assaulted me. I mean, sure, I smoked too, but it smelled like I was outside of a bar at last call. But thank God for minor miracles. This time I wasn’t greeted with the wafting aroma of sex and hot rubber.
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Strolling up to the door I knocked out a quick shave and a haircut rhythm before I heard Richard yell “it’s open!”. Quickly fortifying myself and my temper I slapped on my best “why yes I do want to be here, really!” expression and opened the door to step inside.
Sure enough, Richard was sitting on the couch sporting only one sock and a pair of leopard print boxers. Laying next to him I saw the gal who was the flavor of the week. She had passed out on a nearby futon. It doesn’t surprise me, Richard was a self described man of variety. Upon further inspection, I also heard what sounded like someone butchering a Carrie Underwood song in the shower. I guess Richard went for two scoops of loving this time.
“My savior! Sit down man, let’s toast one.” Richard said as he waved for me to close the door. “Morning Rick, yeah I’m down if you’re sporting, but I didn’t bring anything extra. I’m still kind of out of it and I didn’t think to grab some.” While it was a technical lie, I just didn’t feel like bringing more than the two eighths. Who wanted to match bowls with some guy who’d woken them up to a swine soliloquy first thing in the morning? Richard seemed nonplussed and just shrugged as he threw some money on the table. I dropped the two seemingly empty packs of “Camel Wides” on the table as well and glanced around one more time. I was hard pressed to find a spot amongst the detritus that wasn’t occupied. The slovenly sight reminded me, I need to get a tetanus booster.
“Hey, Billy, can you grab the bong?” Richard said as he pointed to a 5.5 ft monstrosity recognized simply as the green monster. While he pointed with one hand, the dick quickly swiped the cigarette packs in a frenzied manner with the other. Well shit, the Dick was spun out again. Once the weed kicked in, his high was going to drop like a rock out of the sky. He’s really not pleasant to be around while his brain tries to switch polarities. Sensing a mood swing was nigh, I grabbed the cash and told myself I’d better make this quick.
I looked over at the “Green Monster”. It was a basic bong of a simple construction, being made of a long PVC pipe. There was a bottom cap and half-way down its mast was a metal stem with a flared scoop for loading the herbal remedy. Despite being a humble ghetto-rig the Green Monster had earned its title. The damn thing was notorious for making people barf. Few could handle the thick smoke clouds which were milked from its deep, bubbling bowels. Despite attempts to assuage the effect by cooling the smoke with water and sometimes even ice cubes, the hits were still incredibly harsh. So harsh it made most folks question if this was supposed to even be an enjoyable experience anymore.
Shaking my head in indignance before quickly looking back and forth between Richard and the Monster I weighed my options. Who’d want to use the “Monster” as the instrument of a “wake & bake”? “The monster? Really? Mind if we just pipe one real quick?” I asked timidly. At my obvious reticence, Richard just grinned, showing off his car salesman’s white teeth, and I wondered off handedly how much he spent on dental bleach. “Nah man, pay the toll. If I smoke you out, you gotta use the piece I call.”
Still coming out of my morning stupor and aided by the discomfort of my surroundings, I recalled the last time I was here. Thinking of the last time I was here reminded me, the Dick still owed me! “Where’s my 20 bucks? Do you remember you were short last bag?” I barely heard a mutter as Richard pulled bags of weed out of each of the Camel Wide packages. “What’s that?” I said, looking Richard in the face, my smile faltering as he avoided my gaze. The dick just shrugged and said in a more audible tone, “I don’t have the change. I’ll give it to you next time.”
My eyes narrowed as I watched Richard toss a few buds into his herb grinder while pointed his index finger at the bong again. My temper was flaring for the second time in less than an hour and I sniped. “Not cool man… what if I really needed 20 bucks?” He stopped twisting the herb grinder and got up in a huff to go pick up the bong himself. When he sat back down and began loading the “Monster” he offhandedly offered to give me back a gram and a half with the excuse, “I don’t even have pants on. C’mon man, I’m not going to the store to break a $100 right now.” Fucking Dick didn’t even ask if I could break a hundred. It’s not like he knew I couldn’t make change without giving him back some of his own money. I hated being pushed around, and I was close to losing it.
Richard started clicking the button on a long slim candle lighter which barely reached the scoop like bowl of the bong. So far, I feel like I had been pretty damn patient, but I needed weed S.T.A.T. if I was going to keep from punching Dick in the Richard figuratively speaking. I reached out and snatched both the bong and the candle lighter straight out of his hands and went back to my standing position by the door. Richard just stared at me as I put my lips to the bong, struck up the lighter with a couple of quick clicks and ripped the whole bountiful bowl of herb down to myself in one hit. As the signature “ploop, bubble” sound of a bowl being sucked through echoed through the air, Richard just stared incredulously at me. I choked out a few words between coughs. I tried to say “Ass hat fee, not cool man.” but it sounded incomprehensible. “Bullshit man! This is my house!” Richard yelled at me despite vanilla or whatever her name is being passed out right next to us on the futon.
The consequences of taking the damn bong hit in my bravado had me almost falling over coughing and retching. It was as if I was just punched in the solar plexus and I was trying to remember what air was like. Richard seemed to relish my suffering, and it was obvious he considered it more than fair retribution for my snatch move. I passed him back the empty bong and lighter before we did the usual niceties for a few minutes. I wanted to leave right then, but I needed to wait for my eyes to quit watering.
I heard the shower shut off and Richard offered another hit off “the Monster”. After a moment’s consideration, I declined. I just didn’t want to be there but, I used the explanation that I still have to do a bunch of driving once the lunch rush starts. Despite Richard’s cajoling for me to just hang out for a little longer, I extricated myself and got back to my bike. I really didn’t want to be there once he started coming down from his meth high and devolving into the Uber Dick.
Once outside, I stood where my bike was just a few minutes earlier. But instead of my bike, I found a citation posted to the fence where it had been. “What the fuck!?” I swiped the citation and glanced it over. Apparently, under R.C.W. some shit or another, my cheaper ride had been impounded. According to the citation, the act of chaining my bike to the iron gate around the historic Meyer home was some sort of private property violation. On the bright side, it would be available for pickup tomorrow for the cost of $100 per day of impound. So essentially the cops had kidnapped my bike and were extorting me for its safe return… can I get a fuck Thursdays?
As I headed back toward home, I considered if I could salvage some of my morning. Thinking coffee might be the answer, I stopped by one of our local java chains. This particular franchise was one I rarely visited due to the price, but I knew them for giving out free birthday drinks. As I made it through the not abnormally but still somewhat long line, I asked “Howdy! Still doing free birthday coffee?” The barista smiled at me and said in a saccharine sweet voice, “Yeppers! We’ll just need to see your app coupon. What can I get ya?” My heart fell to my stomach as I arched an eyebrow. “App… coupon? I thought you just needed ID?” The barista maintained an overly chipper tone as she informed me. “Yes, we now do it directly through our app.” Curbing my disappointment I said, “Ok, you folks; have free Wi-Fi. I’ll download the app real quick.” I turned away to go find a seat when the barista yelled behind me, “Sir!”. Once she had obviously regained my attention, she quickly iterated, “Actually, it takes a business day for the app to register. Sorry about that.” The barista had the decency to drop the perky miss sunshine spiel for a moment, but at her words, my disappointment had reached a grand crescendo.
I woke up to a Dick… er… Richard. Not a literal dick, thankfully,. Sure, it would be flattering I guess, but I am not a man of the penile persuasion. To keep things fresh today, I also got extorted by the boys and girls in blue. But this was almost too much… no fucking coffee unless I paid out the ass. It was a struggle at a level I cannot express, but kept a polite tone and said thanks to the barista before walking away empty-handed. In the moment, I wanted to cuss the gal out something vicious. But what would be the point? She’s just some wage slave. It’s not their fault my day was going the way it was. So far, the morning had just cemented my point. Fuck Thursdays.
I finally shambled halfway back to my modest apartment when my phone went off. My more than moderate weed high dissipated as I heard a ringtone that chills my very soul. It was “Mama said” from The Shirelles. I really wanted to let this one go to voicemail, but I knew today wasn’t about me entirely. On the other hand, this has been a penultimate Thursday, and it’s not even noon. I was looking at the picture of my mother on the incoming call notification and considered silencing the phone and calling her back once I wasn’t so stoned. In the end, arguably good judgement had won out and I let the call go to voicemail.
Maybe it was because I was looking at the phone, maybe I was just in my little bubble of inobservance, but I didn’t even notice the truck barreling toward me as it skipped a traffic lane. I sure didn’t see it, but I felt it, it didn’t hurt. It was more like the absence of feeling, something I’d never consider if I wasn’t experiencing it firsthand. I was aware enough to realize my situation and only could think to myself, “wow, must have been some really good weed. I don’t think my leg should be doing that” before darkness swallowed me and I lost consciousness.