there is no truth behind the gates of eden... (squeeee!)

my pal rich recently posted a brilliant story of teenage drug use and random catastrophe that left everyone only slightly worse for the wear. it led me to think of similar experiences, so why not, let's hear a couple.

i'm a fan of the marajuana. i'm not the only one. most of my teenage years were spent either trying to get stoned or finding dumb things to do while stoned. being a half-clever kid, we came up with some pretty good stuff.

one night, the thought came to a few of us to go to the local nickel arcade. this was in the late 80's, actual video arcades were really a thing of the past, nintendo was better, cheaper, and portable. we had weed, a borrowed datsun wagon, and a few bucks. a night of air conditioned darkness punctuated by the glow of video from refrigerator sized machines sounded fun and easy. why not?

the pretty boy had the car. a model citizen, he was smart, good-looking, and respectful. and christian, though at the time he seemed to be trying to shake that. he picked me up at the local elementary school, where i had compulsively snuck a pull or two off a one-hitter. the ol' brown wagon had no stereo, but pretty boy had thought ahead: he provided what could only be described as the most comical portable stereo ever. circa 1968, it was about the size of a attache case, used 12 d cell batteries to power it, and boasted a single 3" speaker. it sounded worse than a telephone receiver. the pretty boy had recently discovered bob dylan ("did you know he's a christian?") and was playing "the gates of eden" over and over again. the only frequency that lil' tape deck could really accurately reproduce was the harmonica blast ol' bobby lays out after the chorus. it made me laugh uncontrollably. the pretty boy would imitate bob's mom every time it played with a "yeah! blow, bobby, blow!".



next, we went to pick up the genius. my best friend for years, this guy's a mess to describe. suffice it to say that he was down for adventure, wherever it may be.

so, we scoot over to the wonderland, which is housed on the property of a large mall. it was night, the pretty boy didn't want the stench of weed in his car, so after surveying the scene, we decided a walk around the back of an abandoned restaurant located right next to the arcade. light up near the grease trap, or what have you. so we did.

and it was beautiful. i pine for the days when strong herb really put me out of my head. nowadays that i'm all growed up, i'm stoned, but i could waterski, negotiate a bank loan, drive the car with my knee while cleaning a spilled milkshake and text message my boss. but back then, it packed a wallop, and i liked that. soon enough, me and the other two are stoned and giggly, and paying no attention to anything around us. just burning one, and that's all we care about, life is fun and giddy, and the night is a blank canvas for us to paint with our teenage "oh wow man"'s and so forth.

but that changes quickly when we are ambushed from either side of the building. one moment, i've got a pipe to my lips, and in a quick flash of uniforms, badges and k9 units, i'm up against the wall, both hands up against it. two authority figures and a dog. i've only got my brain to help me out of this one, and it's coming up short. i can hear the terror in the pretty boy's voice as he's asked for ID. i'm the furthest away from the other two and the cops. it's dark, and i can tell there is a dog near me, but my stoner vision is starting to distort, and i can't make heads or tails out of how things changed so quickly. the genius has an attorney for a mother. often, it's irritating. now, any time the two authority figures ask a question, he responds with "AM I UNDER ARREST?"

the genius is directed to get up against the wall, right next to me, while they grill the pretty boy. they are all smart ass, asking where he came from, and if he knows how much trouble he's in. i'm hoping silence will reward me. the genius asks over and over, insistently: "ARE WE UNDER ARREST?" i shoot looks over and over, silently imploring him to shut the holy hell up. secretly, i'm fascinated by moments like this, time slows to a crawl, and you go deep into your mind looking for a solution. i always come up short.

"ARE WE UNDER ARREST?"

i finally make solid eye contact with the genius. we're on the same wall, hands on it like we're trying to push the place over. he slowly looks back, and something catches his eye. he's better trained than i. he pulls a hand off the wall and says "you guys aren't cops, are you?".

i'm at a loss. i don't even know what to do, cops or no cops. the genius gets a good look at the badge. MALL SECURITY

"you guys aren't even cops. fuck this, we're not under arrest. let's get the hell out of here". the authority figures, in my mind, shrink by about a foot each. the dog changes from a german shepherd to a border collie. unfortunately, the pretty boy is still being harassed and is moments away from weeping openly.

mall security. they try and enforce some sort of big-manisms, telling us they have the right to detain us until the "real" police show up. the genius acts like he doesn't even hear them. "screw you guys. pretty boy, let's go. these guys can't do shit". i'm surprised when no one lays a finger on us as we turn and walk away. they promise that if we ever come back to said mall, we'll be arrested for trespassing. the genius grabs pretty boy by the jacket, leading him out. we walk back to the car. all the while, mall security is threatening us with all they have left; we'll report your license number, the cops are on their way, you'll never shop at this mall again, etc.

we left that mall, fully shook. still so stoned. we drove back to our own neighborhood, screaming, pounding the roof of the car, listening to bob dylan so loud that it was nothing more than a distorted conversation. afraid to go home, we drove around the construction of the new housing developments, spinning circles in cul-de-sacs, trying to release the adrenaline we were pumped full of. the pretty boy went home, and the genius and i skated back to his house, where we listened to jesus and mary chain's "psycho candy" over and over again, trying to chill out.

not long after, the pretty boy gave up the dangerous life, and fully invested himself in christ. he married a ecuadorian girl while on a mission, and i lost touch with him after that. every so often, the genius and i laugh about that night, and i admire his ability to rise above fear and confusion, no matter his state. in the last few years or so, i understand that moments like that are not my strong suit, and i've come to grips with that.

coming up next, the goofball story about the night before my sixteenth birthday, the night of ten thousand maniacs.