Friday Night: Act III

Written By: Dan “The Man” Sklut

Catch up on Act I and II

Fred Markeson, age 20, took one last drag from his dying joint before crushing it into a cracked ceramic ashtray. He let out a tired sigh, sending clouds of smoke billowing from his nostrils and mouth. The one dim light, hanging from his crusty plaster ceiling by a rusty old chain, shone through the quickly dissipating smoke, making visible all the floating dust and debris that no one ever seems to notice. He collapsed into the only real piece of furniture in his dingy one-bedroom apartment: an old, beaten leather recliner. It was the kind of ratty, damaged affair you would find sitting in an alley, waiting to be taken away before the sun hit it and the smell really spread.

Fred decided to tidy up. Unfortunately, there are only so many different ways one can arrange a pile of empty beer cans, so he went with the tried and true beer-amid. A loud buzzer echoed around the hollow drywall, almost rattling the cans out of place. Fred changed out of his moldy old bathrobe into a moldy old wife-beater and shorts, and went to the intercom.

“Hey, Fred. It’s Trey. Buzz me in,” crackled Trey.

Trey Mendez burst into the apartment with a wild, hasty look in his eyes.

“Listen, man, I’m in a hurry. Can you help me out?”

“Well, hello to you too, Trey.”

“I wish I had time to shoot the shit, but this is pretty urgent.”

“You have one day to live, right?”

“No man, I’m in a rush to get some weed!”

“Whoa, say that a little louder, man. I don’t think the neighbors behind the inch-thick wall heard you enough.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right, they don’t care, anyway. They’re on meth. So, whatcha want?” asked Fred, pulling out a briefcase from under his recliner. He opened it, releasing an aroma so extremely powerful that the meth addicts next door started screaming about killer skunks coming for them.

“I got White Widow, German Rhino Freakout, Master Kush, Ultimate Master Kush Level 5, Unicorn’s Delight, Prancing Domino; the list goes on. Take your pick.”

“It’s all the same!”

“Well duh, it is. What, you think I painstakingly categorize all this shit? I just give my weed stupid names like Chrome Tropix, and the potheads start drooling! If you were any one of my other clients, I’d start rattling off some bullshit about different strains, tastes, effects, and all that other stuff. But we go way back, Trey. I wouldn’t fuck you like that.”

“Speaking of fucking, that’s why I’m in such a hurry. I’m actually going to get laid tonight!”

“With a girl, right?”

“Of course with a girl! My girlfriend called me up and told me to come over and do her, and on my way there, she told me to get some weed.”

“So you’re just going by her word that she’s going to have sex with you?”

“Yeah, I am. Why shouldn’t I?”

“I’m just saying, women will trick you, lie to you, and basically do whatever it takes to get what they want. They’re sneaky, Trey. You can’t trust ‘em. They’ll ruin your life, just like they ruined mine.”

“Are you talking about that chick at the bus stop? Because if you are, then explain to me how you being gullible enough to pay $400 for a freaking cup from a complete stranger is a woman’s fault.”

“That was my rent money! When I realized what had happened, I tried to trick someone the same way that woman bamboozled me, but as it turns out, no one really believes you when you offer them a magic cup. I couldn’t come up with $400 by the end of the week, which was one day from then, so I got evicted! All my possessions were in there, and they locked me out! So I had to move into this shithole. I was so depressed, I overslept for work one day, and when I got there an hour late, they fired me on the spot! So I have to sell weed to idiots like you to make ends meet!”

“Yeah, that really does suck. But does that really mean all women are like that?”

“I don’t know, man. Look, here’s your weed. It’s twenty bucks. Now go. Go smoke weed and get laid. At least one of us deserves to be happy.”

*********************************************************************

Trey Mendez, age 17, was shaking. His life was flashing before his very eyes, all the way up to him buying some pot just an hour earlier. Sweat was pouring down his forehead; his heart was beating a spicy salsa rhythm. He pulled his car over in front of an old abandoned brick building. The police car pulled over behind him. Was this really it for Trey Mendez? Was he going to get arrested for being in possession of marijuana? Or for breaking curfew? Or for wantonly stealing condoms and gum from a convenience store? Or, even more outlandishly, for conspiracy to commit statutory rape?

The police officer walked up to Trey’s car. He was a big, beefy man with a flattop and a thick mustache. Trey could see his name tag. It read “OFFICER BERNDT SCHWEITZER.”

“License and registration, please. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

Shit, this is it. I’m doomed. This guy means business. Okay, just play it cool. Be cool. Chill. Deep breath. You’re fine. Now, maintain.

“No, sir,” answered Trey, handing over the requested items. His voice was shaking and cracking, and the pit stains on his shirt grew to the size of soccer balls.

“I caught you speeding and swerving a little back there. Have you had anything to drink tonight, son?” asked Officer Schweitzer severely, as he shone his flashlight directly in Trey’s eyes.

“No sir,” said Trey, who couldn’t help but exude a guilty vibe. Anyone within a 100 foot radius could have picked up on that.

“Really? ‘Cause it looks like you spilled a drink on your shirt, boy. Damn, you’re sweaty,” remarked Schweitzer, whose hand instinctively hovered over his gun holster. “It’s about 60 degrees out here. Are you on something? Step out of the car, please.”

Trey, not wanting to die, complied. The cop quickly began nosing around the glove compartment, the place where 50% of most idiots hide their contraband, and where 100% of those idiots get busted. Oh shit, it’s only a matter of time before he finds the-

“I smell something funny. Sir, are you in possession of marijuana?” asked Schweitzer. He was definitely asking rhetorically, since he was holding Trey’s baggie to his nose.

“Um, I can explain that, sir,” squeaked Trey.

“Wow. Usually I have to look around more to find a stoner’s stash. Why would you hide it in the glove compartment? You must be new at this. You hide it in the airbag, man. The airbag. We’d never look there.”

“Uh… yes sir.”

“This car is registered in your parents’ names. Do they know you’re going on pot-fueled joyrides at midnight?”

“No sir.”
“Well, at least you can sneak out pretty well enough,” said the policeman, still smelling Trey’s baggie. “Damn, this stuff is skunky! It’s triple bagged, and it still reeks! Wait a minute… this you got this from Fred Markeson, didn’t you?”

“Uh… yes, sir.”

“Well shit, son, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? I can’t hassle any friend of Fred’s. I’m gonna let you off with a warning, son. You just stay out of trouble.”

“Yes sir.”

“Oh, and next time you see him, tell him the Unicorn’s Delight was way better than the Chrome Tropix. Had more… pizzazz. You drive safely, now.”

“Yes sir.”

Astonishment? Incredulity? Relief? Joy? How could these words even come close to describing the feelings Trey was experiencing at that moment? Imagine a falling boulder being pushed away half a second before it landed on his kneecaps, and that might paint a proper picture of his mental state.

Trey sat in his car, wiping off his sweat and tears, thanking every major deity in the Greek pantheon from Athena to Zeus, with a special emphasis on Dionysus (he had already shown gratitude to several modern gods and spirits, but just wanted to cover all his bases). He looked in the passenger’s seat of his car, and lo and behold, his weed was still there! Berndt got his pot for free from Fred anyway, so there was no point in him being a dick and taking Trey’s.

The five minutes it took to get to Tracy’s apartment were silent and contemplative.

Just one thing left to do now: make sweet love to Tracy. Wow. What a night, man. I am drained. Am I even in the mood anymore? Wait, what the hell am I saying? Of course I am! All of this night’s trials and tribulations were testing me. Tonight was my rite of passage. I snuck out of my house a boy, but goddamnit, I will come back a man.

Trey arrived at Tracy’s apartment at last. He parked his car, and called Tracy.

“Look outside your window, baby.”

“Trey! It’s about damn time you got here! I was ready to call the whole thing off. I can’t risk my parents seeing you, so you’re going to have to climb up to my window.”

“Tracy, no. No. No. No. You’re on the fifth floor.”

“Relax, I’m kidding. I’ll buzz you in.”

Tracy let Trey into her room, and took a whiff of him.

“Wow. You smell like sweaty garbage and dead French people. Go take a shower, Trey. Then come to bed. I’ll be waiting.”

As Trey showered up and Tracy lit up, they both had the same thought running through their heads:

Finally.