Subject: ASP-PRE5-Last Chance To Turn Back Date: Tue, 17 Apr 2001 23:26:41 GMT And here's the last (5th) segement of recent posts under the general title, "The Pre-Adventures Of Smacks Past" As I indicated these five segments are/were meant to be a finale, perhaps...what do they call it today??? A Prequel!!!...Gasp! to an earlier part of my story that I began writing about 5 years ago. These five segments detail the first time the urge/curiosity made itself known to me way the fuck back in 1959/60 until after a few years of growing curiosity I got my wish. Enjoy. Gizmo ______________________________________________________ Last Chance To Turn Back I reached the proverbial "fork in the road." On the journey into drugs and addiction as also with other things that were to come, this was to be one of many "forks in the road." After my second attempt to get pot and get high, I was beginning to wonder if I should pursue this course any further. A few months earlier I had blown off a budding warm relationship with a girl that could easily have matured into something wonderful. But I was cool, or thought I should be cool, or was trying to be cool. I told her I didn't want to "go steady" at such a young age. And so she was one of many quality woman that who's heart I had broken. Crossroad, crossroad, crossroads. "But if you go this way and not the other way, what would life have been like if I selected the other direction" I wondered? Even at that young age, even before when I was still eight, nine and ten, I was always the philosopher, always the experimenter, always wondering internally, always searching, always looking for "something more." And yet it was this little scientist in me that was in no small way filling me with the desire to find out about pot and drugs. "Could I have done any of it any differently than I did" I would ask myself many times down the years? As it was at that moment I was kind of convinced that maybe it would be a good idea to just forget about all this drug stuff. Stick with the music and vocal harmonies that intrigued so much. Try to do good in school, play better basketball, continue to hit on the girls and make sure I did not get thrown out of this one, because as my father warned, "if you get thrown out of this high school" your gonna end up in Evander Childs or worse, "The 600 School." I certainly knew about Evander Childs high school on Fordham Road in The Bronx. That was a pretty seedy public school even for it's day and time and I knew that it was not a cool place to go to high school by any criteria. "The 600 School" was a reformatory as near as I could figure. It was the last stop before being permanently ejected from the school system. After that, it was the street, prison, or god forbid a job that you could expect if you were a total fuckup. But I was not a total fuckup. A partial fuckup maybe, but not total. Actually I was not really a fuckup at all. I was just really a very mischievous and curious kid that often stuck his nose into things that were, how shall we say….dicey. So I gave the drug search a rest for now. Trouble was that "for now" didn't last that long. By the beginning of March the urge was back and this time with a vengeance. The main topic of conversation with Ray at school, Dennis up the block, a new found friend, fan and neighbor named Gino and my rhythm guitar player and drummer was not quantum thermodynamics, unless you wanted to consider the combustion of burning marijuana as a thermodynamic. Nope, the main topic after chicks, was pot. When the hell were we going to be able to get some and really try it. The urge was strong. Hell it was like we were already hooked. Looking back, maybe we were. Cause after all, when does "addiction" begin? When does a person really got "hooked?" It was an interesting subject. A lot has been written about the subject of "when does a person get hooked?" A lot of nonsense too. Is it the first shot of heroin, or the 10th shot that hooks you? Why do some people use alcohol or drugs for years and years but never seem to let it "take over" their lives? So just what the hell was this thing called addiction. Again, looking back I can remember saying to myself that I already felt like I was hooked. And looking at my own desires and behavior there was no doubt that for all intent and purpose, I was hooked. Shit, guess I better go get a fix. And I did not have long to wait. By the end of March, things were "looking up" as it were. Me and my friends had all been putting in for extra credits to see who was going to finally be able to "make the score." I should have been a bit more superstitious about the first night I really got high, cause it was April 1st. April Fools Day! And boy was the joke ultimately going to be on me. There was going to be huge April Fools Day party at Jessica's house on Pitman Ave, off Wickham. Lots of us were going to be there and we couldn't wait for the night to come. Lots of friends, lots of babes, lots of music. I've mentioned it before, and I will be mentioning more and more about it from time to time in this narrative, but the particular part of the Northeast Bronx where I grew up and had my teenage years was awesome. There were dozens of kids age 12 to 18 on almost every block. Wow. Anyway, around that afternoon, Dennis told me he finally met someone up on the Avenue that he knew how got high and that person assured him that if we got up there around 8 or so there was going to be this guy who was selling nickel bags of reefer. Fuckin A. Couldn't wait. This sounded like the real thing. I took my pipe that I bought last month with me to make it easier, since none of us really knew how to roll a joint yet. Well, we all met at my house around 7 o'clock and headed on up Pitman Avenue and finally 237th Street until we reached the avenue. It was starting to get dark. Dennis looked for his buddy and in a few minutes found him by Vinnie's Pizza Parlor. The rest of us laid back and Dennis went over and talked with him. Dennis came back and told us that everyone was waiting for this guy to show up. There must have been another four or five dudes there, waiting. Some of them looked kinda rough around the edges. Some of them looked like dope addicts actually. I had been in this neighborhood long enough to recognize some of the more unsavory types. The Unk Jays, as William Burroughs would write about them. With the loose fitting leather ¾ length jackets, the peculiar nervous gait when they walked and a certain pale death like pallor on their faces. I wondered if this was cool or not. I even asked Dennis about it. He said that it was okay, cause he knew Augie and Augie and him were old acquaintances. Finally the dealer showed up and in no time everyone was around him. In a matter of minutes three or four of the folks who were already there transacted some business with this guy and split. Me and Dennis went up to him with Dennis's friend Augie. Augie asked Dennis how much we wanted and we told him, $5.00 worth. I remember asking the dealer, (yeah, I was the one doing the deal and holding the five bucks) is this good stuff? "Yeah" came the reply. "What kind of pot is it" I asked as though I knew what the fuck I was talking about. I had heard that pot came in a few different types from my reading and stuff. I can still remember that reply. "Regular Dynamite Pot" the dealer said. "Regular Dynamite Pot." That phrase burned itself into my brain then and is still there to this day. "Regular Dynamite Pot." Visions of explosive fireworks and explosive psychotropic effects were filling my head as we headed away from White Plains Road. Quickly we made our way toward the back of the train yards just east of 241st Street, where the No. 2 train made it's last stop at this most Northern tip of The Bronx. We headed over in the now darkening nightfall to the "cover and safety" of the desolate empty lots just outside of the train yards. I took the little 3 by 5 inch folded brown manilla pay envelope of pot and opened it up and smelled it and passed it around for everyone to do likewise. Damn it smelled good I remember thinking. A wonderful earthy smell. Everyone agreed and were filled with anticipation as I poured enough into the pipe to fill it about ¾ of the way full. Finally we stopped in the empty lot and struck a match. And lit it up. And started inhaling it. And passed it around. (Hmmm, another interesting aside; The New York City IRT Line. The White Plains #2 Train ended at 241st Street! End of the line! Or the beginning of the line if you were heading south into Harlem, Manhattan, of Brooklyn. And it was April Fools Day. More fool me. Copyright Gizmo 2001