Peace is nerve-wracking. Always waiting for the big shot: the next bomb; the next stretch of a muscle. In peacetime, it’s all Martin Sheen and the ceiling fan, clashing clusters of stringed instruments, a lonely piano they used to play during intoxication but before the drug raid.
The drug raid was “Charge of the Light Brigade” all over again, in set design at least. I watched pale bodies scramble into the woods behind the slacker’s hand-me-down mansion. I didn’t write a poem about it.
A poster on the wall in science class contrasts the anatomy of a gamey druggie with the chiseled form of a law enforcement agent. As one druggie ran for his life in the soon-to-be-planned-community woods, shots fired over his shoulder. Out of breath, he knew which side of the athletic coin he’d be on after that night, provided he survived the chase scene.
Many a druggie will head south to the border, to join the patrol, only to be turned away. Many more will turn themselves in.
This little druggie did just that. Broke down, sobbing at the polygraph, thinking to himself this isn’t going at all the way I thought it would. Maybe this is why students are discouraged from spray painting “Smoke Weed Everyday” in the locker room.
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