Trash of the Gods

Chapter 1.

I originally met Robert in the sixth grade. Not even twelve and he was an orphan living with his Aunt. I didn't know this about him for the first two weeks I knew him, I only found out about it when I told him a yo'mama joke and he punched me as hard as he could in the stomach.

I apologized, of course, when he told me his parents were dead from heroin overdoses and the matter blew over in a few minutes, but I'll never forget the anger in Robert's eyes that day, and the bizarre joker like laughter he had not two seconds after the fact as he pointed and laughed at my cringing from the gut.

I don't think he was ever really mad I made a joke about his dead mom, I think he was mad that I exposed his soft spot. Robert was very kind and giving person, but he viewed the world as a prisoner does, one instance of softness and they'll all be out to get you. That was Robert's way of thinking. Because he never grew up with a mother, she had died far away, caring more about heroin than her own son. In a way Robert was probably more like his parent's than he ever knew in the end.

Robert and I were sort of meant to be friends. Out of a sixth grade class of 60 from a Bukoskieaque Middle School, Robert and I were the only ones who actually seemed to like reading and learning. Neither one of us like our teachers or our school, but the one thing that kept us interested in school was the reading. The only problem was that Robert hated the books the school offered for our required reading, I thought they were okay but Robert pointed out to me how they were patronizing and low brow and stupid, how we were capable of reading better. I took refuge in our school's supply of Agatha Christie's and indulged on Hercule poroit, my dad watched those shows, and I wanted to be like my dad.

Robert's obsessions by age 12 were Brave New World and 1984, both of which I had never heard of yet nor would I read them until much later in life. That's why I started hanging out with Robert, he was always so much farther ahead of the curve than I was, and all I ever wanted to do was just catch up with him.

It wasn't long after middle school that Robert introduced me to pot and LSD. Ever the Huxley fan, "The Doors of perception have been opened to you" he said the morning I woke up and came to school with my first acid hangover. He then flicked me in my third eye and walked to class as I rubbed my forehead, annoyed with him yet again.

I was only fourteen at the time, and I had developed a new obsession. My identity became marijuana and drugs I thought it made me a badass. Unbeknownst to me Robert had already tried cocaine and had a frequent supplier, our pot dealer Andy.

Andy was a fat piece of shit. The 26 year old guy with an ugly goatee that your mother warns you about. The 26 year old man who makes his living by selling weed to teenagers. The 26 year old addict who is so desperate for customers and company he gives a free supply of heroin to a teenager.

Yet like a blind fool, I had no idea what was really going on, or if I did I pretended not to. I was so wasted most of the time it's hard to remember what I felt and when sometimes.

Andy was the leading pot dealer to the druggie crew that hung out by the strip mall outside of school. This place became a hot bed for creepy drug dealers and malicious perverts harassing teenagers, and Robert and I were among the customers to frequent the place constantly. For most of the school it was just a place to score drugs then bounce, for the drug people like us, it was the place where you hung out.

Before long the place was a cop magnet, and everyday my friends and I found ourselves on the other side of the law.

One day the heat was on heavy, so Robert said, "My aunt's not home lets go to my house."

I was a little surprised to realize that despite how long I had known Robert I'd never actually been to his house. I met his Aunt before, but for some reason Robert's house was never our base of operations.