PART I
1974
CHAPTER 1
August 1, 1974
Michael Borjan sat on his bed listening to Elton John belt out “Bennie and the Jets” on WDVE. He was reading the July issue of National Lampoon that he had stolen from Mead’s. The Indian patterned fringed vest handed down from his brother laid at his feet. He stuffed the last of the stolen Twinkies into his mouth, savoring every bit of creamy goodness. His mother shouted at him through his closed bedroom door. He turned up the radio. She began to pound. He sighed, hid the magazine underneath his pillow, and unlocked his bedroom door.
“What you want, Mom?” Michael asked as his mother walked into the room.
“Where did you get those?” His mom pointed at the empty wrappers of Twinkies strewn across his bed.
“From Mead’s,” Michael said.
“Where did you get the money for that?”
He answered with just a shrug.
“Never mind. I don’t want to know. I need you to go get me some cigarettes.”
“I just came from Mead’s,” Michael whined.
“Afraid Mr. Mead is going to catch you shoplifting? I don’t care if you just come from there, get on back and pick me up some Slims. And don’t go pinching any more Twinkies.”
Michael picked up his vest. He ripped the dollar bill from his mom’s hand and rushed by her and down the steps. “Two packs, Michael, and I want my change.”
He stepped out in the street. His first thought was that he was going to take that dollar, go buy some weed, get high and then just take off. Screw her. Life since dad left had been a complete mess. Dad couldn’t stand working for the steel mill anymore and had just picked up and left. Mom wouldn’t tell them where he had gone. Then, his older brother, Steven had taken off, too. He probably figured out where Dad had gone and went to join him. Why the bastard didn’t take him, too, pissed Michael off to no end, but he didn’t need them. He could make it on his own. Michael thought if they could do it, so could he. Why the hell not? But first, he was going to get some pot. He had heard of a guy that sold it but had been too afraid. How much did pot cost? He had no idea. Cigarettes were only thirty cents a pack. Even if it was double that for a little weed, he would still have forty cents left. Maybe he could buy some more Twinkies. His mind was made up. He was going to get himself nice and toked and that was that. What was she going to do? Kick his ass out of the house? She needed him and the money he made working at McDonald’s. She needed the food he brought home, too.
It was only a short walk to the Grassman’s house. He knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. A crash came from inside followed by a curse. Michael laughed. The door flung open. The short, wiry man looked at him with dark probing eyes. Then, he smiled.
“What can I do for you?” the man asked.
“I was hoping I could buy some weed,” Michael said showing him the dollar bill.
The man smiled at the dollar bill. He had the yellowest teeth he had ever seen. “Come on in.”
Michael followed the man through the house to what looked like a living room. There were packages stacked against the walls and food wrappers scattered throughout. He cleared off a spot on the couch for Michael and they both sat down. The man reached underneath his couch and pulled out a shoebox. Michael watched him carefully. The man held the shoebox out with his left hand. He took his right hand and waved it over the top like a magician. “Voila,” the Grassman said as he whipped the lid off the shoebox. Inside were some rolled cigarettes and a baggie containing what looked like oregano.
“Is that weed?” Michael asked.
“It is. Take one.”
“How much?” Michael asked.
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s see if you like it first.”
“Of course, I like it,” Michael said. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Now, now, Michael, you’ve never smoked pot before.” The man’s yellow grin grew bigger as he reached the cigarette towards him.
“How do you know that?”
“I know a first timer when I see one.”
“How did you know my name?” Michael asked.
“I’m the Grassman, Michael. I know everyone and everyone knows me. I knew your brother. I know your mom.”
“My mom smokes?” Michael asked.
“Of course,” the Grassman said. “Everyone does.”
“I work my ass off and she’s using my money to buy herself weed,” Michael said. “What a bitch.”
Michael grabbed the rolled-up cigarette out of the Grassman’s hand, who motioned for him to put it between his lips. Michael did as the Grassman suggested. The Grassman took out a pack of matches and struck one. It ignited and the Grassman held it up to the cigarette between Michael’s lips. “Now, suck in, but don’t blow it out.” Michael did as he was told. The smoke filtered down his throat and he began coughing. The cigarette fell out of his mouth, but the Grassman reached out quick as a cat and caught it. The burning end laid in his palm for a moment, but the Grassman showed no signs of pain. He took it into his mouth and took a drag. “Like this,” the Grassman said.
He handed the cigarette back over to Michael, who tried again. This time the smoke went down and into his lungs and he exhaled it through his nose. “That’s it,” the Grassman said.
They smoked for about an hour. Michael couldn’t feel his feet anymore. They laughed insanely about idiotic and ridiculous things.
“So, you want to leave home?” the Grassman asked.
“Yeah,” Michael said, his head spinning.
“Ever thought of running away?”
“Yeah,” Michael said. He laid his head back on the couch cushion and closed his eyes.
“Hey, wake up,” the Grassman said. “Write a letter and I’ll take it and leave it for her.”
“What should I write?” Michael asked.
“That you’re fed up with living here. That you’re taking off. Not to bother looking for you, because you’re never coming back.”
“Yeah,” Michael said. “You got paper?”
The Grassman placed a piece of paper in front of Michael. Michael scrawled the letter out in pencil while the Grassman went and got some beers for them. When he got back, Michael had finished. The Grassman looked at the note on the table and read it out loud.
“Mom, I’m leaving. I can’t take living here anymore. Don’t try to find me. I’m never coming back.” The note sounded familiar in Michael’s mind, but he couldn’t place it. The world slipped and slithered around him.
The Grassman handed Michael a glass of beer.
“Beer, too,” Michael said. “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to pay for all of this.”
“Don’t worry about it Michael. Think of it as a going away gift.” He took a sip of his beer and Michael did the same. Michael sat there for a few moments. He felt dizzy and wanted to throw up. He wasn’t sure he liked weed very much, but he didn’t want to throw up in front of the Grassman. He laid his head back on the couch cushions again and closed his eyes. Everything started to spin faster and faster. Then, everything went black.