11.Mendel had taken the leap.
He was the last in his current group of friends to do so. It was about time. It had been far too long. Up until this point he had only been a partaker of the smokable sacrament, the fruity nuggets. Up until this point he had only been a customer. But now both feet were in. He had walked through the door and fully joined the party. Mendel was now an official marijuana dealer.
The opportunity had fallen in his lap, which Mendel took to be a sign from Jah. Vickie, the resident mother hippie of Highland Park, had gotten her hands on a half pound. She was willing to give Mendel half of that on credit, and whatever profit he made after she was paid back was his. Vickie loved Mendel. He was her favorite from his generation of youngsters. Ironically, this favoritism was due to the fact that Mendel was the least like a criminal. Mendel seemed the most likely to have a future, to be destined for something. Now Vickie was giving him his first push into criminality.
But it wasn’t really that criminal. It was just weed dealing. Ganja wasn’t a drug. It was a way of life. It was a daily activity. No different than a cup of coffee in the morning or a drink at night. No worse than any psychotropic medication everyone and their brother and sister seemed to be juiced up with nowadays.
The first day Mendel got the bag from Vickie he assumed he would immediately feel a sort of freedom. The freedom of the new him. He had been repeating to himself that he was up for the task, even though his inner thoughts were screaming quite the opposite. Every cell of his body thought this was a bad idea. He didn’t have the constitution for it. It was bad enough to lie to his parents about getting high; Mendel’s parents knew he got high. And even though his mother grounded him when it was too obvious, or when it aided in his mistakes, she mostly just let it go. She felt like a hypocrite coming down too hard on him. She and his father had done more than their fair share of weed smoking when they were hippies. She once even smuggled two pounds in from Jamaica. It had been taped to her body. She thought nothing wrong of it, and still wore the memory with pride.
Mendel drove down Sheridan Road with an ounce of his new product in his glove compartment. That’s all he would travel with at once for fear of being pulled over. Plus if he sold an ounce in a day that was quite enough. He had a deal that if someone bought the whole ounce, he’d give it to them at a discount for $300. That made him a whole profit of $200 that he would split with Vickie. Leaving him with a whole $100.
Mendel was on his way to Brian Tullenfeld’s, and he was sweating profusely. He had smoked a little too much. Make no mistake, at this point, he was quite good at driving baked but this time he had smoked just a couple hits too much, causing his heart to beat just a little too fast. It also didn’t help that every car that passed by looked just a little too much like a cop car.
Cops are like bees, he thought. Never know when they might sting. Mendel always thought it was ridiculous advice to stay still when a bee was on you. Even if staying still would keep them from stinging you, how was one supposed to stay still when they felt the tickling of little legs on their skin? A tickle that could, at any second, be followed by a sharp stab. Cops were no different. At any moment he could see those red and blue lights start to flash. That was their sting. Or maybe the sting was being arrested, and the lights were the leg tickle? Whatever the case, cops fucking sucked. And Mendel wondered that if cops sucked for him, what were those city cops like? What if Mendel were Black? Oooooh, then cops wouldn’t be bees. Cops would be like wasps, or those killer bees that were in Asia that every once in a while found their way into Seattle, or something like that, and then killed the regular bees. Mendel then thought how unfair it was to bees to compare them to cops. Just as it was an insult to pigs to call cops pigs. Mendel liked bees and pigs. He certainly liked them more than human beings, let alone cops.
Whoa, I’m stoned, Mendel thought to himself. Good thing, though. Wouldn’t want to have to deal with Brian Tullenfeld sober.
Brian Tullenfeld was one of these JAP putzes who, their whole childhood, thought they were going to grow up to be Michael Jordan. He really thought that. That just because he could beat a bunch of Jews in basketball he’d grow up to be not just a basketball player in the NBA, which was totally fucking impossible, but the best basketball player of all time. However, this was purely a second-grade-through-junior-year-in-high-school dream. And now that they were both seniors, the grim reality had started to set in, for Brian Tullenfeld, that that dream was dead and he would, most likely, just end up working for his father in the kosher hot dog business. In the meantime, he, like so many idiots like him, decided to start numbing this dread out with the help of Ms. Mary Jane.
Slinging nugs to Brian Tullenfeld had sort of a sweet existential vengeance for Mendel. Mendel’s dreams were still quite possible. He most certainly could be the next comedy superstar. It was all ahead of him, and for Brian Tullenfeld it was all behind him. And now Brian needed him. All those years he had not given two shits about whether Mendel lived or died, and now he needed him to help reduce his inner fear of his stupid future of punching a clock and having an all-too-normal life. They’d probably both smoke weed for the rest of their lives, but Brian would continue to use it as an escape, whereas Mendel would use it as the cherry on the delicious hot-fudge sundae of his rich and famous life.
Mendel arrived at the Tullenfeld house, which was, by most people’s standards, a mansion. However, by the standards of most Highland Park residents, it was merely . . . a house. A characterless, run-of-the-mill stone house.
That was Highland Park. Middle-class effort with upper-class money. The Tullenfeld house was no exception. Mendel knew to park on the street. He also knew to walk around to the back. He then knew to enter into the little guesthouse next to the pool. This wasn’t so much a guesthouse as it was Brian Tullenfeld’s pathetic boy cave.
Mendel entered the boy cave, and there, sitting on a strawberry-red beanbag, was Brian Tullenfeld with his big beautiful eyes, messy light brown hair, and thin physique. He still had that basketball body. He hadn’t been getting high long enough to lose that. He also hadn’t been getting high long enough to avoid getting way too excited about doing a drug deal. As Mendel entered, Brian Tullenfeld jumped to his feet.
“Freudenberger! Whattup, dog! I thought you’d never come.”
Mendel kept his cool.
“Sit down, dude,” Mendel commanded, using a deeper voice than his normal register. Brian did his bidding, apologizing for being overzealous. Admitting that he still didn’t totally know how this kind of thing went.
“That’s all right,” said Mendel. “I used to be the same way . . . like . . . five years ago. It takes learning. Unfortunately, sometimes you learn the hard way. I got a lot of friends who have gotten shot doing this shit wrong on both sides of the deal. Brains domed the fuck out.” Brian’s already huge eyes widened even more.
“Wow. You know people who’ve been shot?”
“Of course I do, dude. What do you think the game is? Just high-fives and nice-to-see-yous? It’s fucking dangerous out there. It’s fucking grimy and scary as fuck. And it’s the realest game there is. Now how much you want, Brian?”
“I was thinking an eighth.”
Mendel scoffed. And boy, did that scoff feel good. If you would have told him even three years ago that he would be scoffing at Brian Tullenfeld and not getting his ass kicked right after said scoff, he wouldn’t have believed you for a second. But here he was. Scoffing away. Damn, it felt good. Every scoff erased each humiliation he had received at the hands of jocks like Brian Tullenfeld. It almost felt as good as jacking off.
“An eighth?!” scoffed Mendel. “I mean, I guess you can get an eighth if you don’t want it to last you long? Me and the bros went through an eighth in like five minutes yesterday, no joke.”
Brian Tullenfeld scratched his sandy mane. “Hmmmmm. How much do you think I should get, then?”
“At least a half ounce, if you really want it to last you. But maybe you have a different tolerance than me. See, I’m high all fucking day, so it takes a lot to get me properly irie.”
“Irie?” asked Brian Tullenfeld. “What’s irie?”
Mendel scoffed again. “Of course you don’t know what irie means. Irie means stoned, and also happy, and also like cool and relaxed. But in this case I’m using it to mean stoned. It’s a term we Rastas use. You know I’m Rastafarian, right?”
“I didn’t. Does that mean you’re not a Jew anymore?”
Mendel gave yet another scoff. “Yep. I mean I guess I’ll always kind of be a Jew. I got the nose. I got the forehead. And yeah, I’ll admit it, I love money. But no, that’s not my religion anymore. I’m a Rasta now. I believe mighty God is a living man.” With that, Mendel looked to the sky as if he could see Jah staring back at him.
The next thing Brian Tullenfeld did was take a deep breath. His eyes got softer. He nodded like he was experiencing a profound memory. “Wow. You got really cool, Mendel. To be honest, I used to think you were a loser.”
Though Mendel knew this was meant to be a compliment, it was still a shank to his side. It brought up a deep anger. An anger and a shame. And it seemed like a move. A move for Tullenfeld to cut him down so he could swallow more easily the fact that he was in a position of needing something from him. Luckily, this anger and shame was trumped by the sense of power Mendel felt in the present moment. It would be easy to keep his cool no matter what was said to him, because he held all the cards. Mendel had the upper hand. He knew it and so did Brian fucking Tullenfeld.
“Well, I ain’t no loser no more, Tullenfeld. Now do you want to do a fucking drug deal or do you want to keep talking ancient history? ’Cause I got a hippie chick I gotta go bone in an hour. She’s been begging me for it all day.” This was a lie. Mendel was still very much a virgin and still very much uncomfortable around the opposite sex.
Then something happened that Mendel didn’t expect at all. Brian Tullenfeld got silent. Dead silent. His eyes got even softer. He closed them and breathed even deeper. Like he was trying to conjure something in himself that was gone. Like he was looking for something inside that was no longer there. He grabbed his hair and gave it a yank. Then moved his hands down to his temples and gave them a short massage. Then another deep breath, but this deep breath was to help him open his eyes. To help him rejoin the outside of his damaged inner self. This time he shook his head. Shook his head in amazement that this was what he had become. Was it so hard to stomach? Being in this position? Having to be so in need of something from someone that he always thought he was better than? With this he looked into Mendel’s eyes.
“Sorry, sorry. I just meant, you know . . . it’s funny how things change. How people change.” This was a tone Mendel had never heard from someone like Brian before. A tone that was . . . well . . . full of thought. Make no mistake, Tullenfeld knew what was in front of him. Nothing. He knew how boring his future was. This cliché observation almost seemed like he was asking for forgiveness. Not just forgiveness for his mistreatment of Mendel, but forgiveness for believing the lies he had told himself. This wasn’t just Brian Tullenfeld buying weed. He was buying the potential to return to what was. Return to a time where he thought he could actually be something. A time to where life wasn’t just waiting for death. But Brian Tullenfeld was already dead.
“Yeah, Brian, it is funny, I guess? Life is funny, and praise Jah for that.”
Brian’s eyes now started to shed the tears they had only moments ago potentially promised. He grabbed Mendel’s hand. Gripped it with an athletic grip. With all his emotional weakness, Brian Tullenfeld still was quite strong. Mendel was horrified. Jesus Christ, this was a pathetic sight. It felt like the first time he had seen his father cry. It felt like something he wasn’t supposed to see. Funny, though, years ago he imagined he would have enjoyed watching this. Watching such an idiot like Brian Tullenfeld cry, but there was nothing enjoyable about this. Brian Tullenfeld squeezed Mendel’s hand harder to the point that one would think the next words out of his mouth would be some kind of begging. In a way they were. “Mendel. You’re not really a Rasta, are you?”
Mendel pulled his hand away. Again a rage started to build. Not a Rasta?! Mendel thought to himself. How dare this fuck. What won’t he do to serve himself with the illusion that his existence means a fucking turd anymore. But that rage passed through him, and then he just got sad. Sad for Brian Tullenfeld. Sad for himself that he ever let Brian Tullenfeld have any type of power over him that would now cause him to be so defensive against someone so defenseless. So pathetic. So done.
Mendel’s breathing slowed. “I’m sorry, Brian. What was the question?”
Brian pleaded again, “I asked if you really were a Rastafarian.”
Mendel looked back into Brian’s wet eyes. His sadness grew. Not just because he had let Brian get to him, but because of what Brian’s annoying question had revealed to him all too easily. A fact that he could no longer avoid, no matter how loudly he tried to drown it out in his head with contrary thoughts. The truth that he had barely been repressing. Mendel was no better than Brian Tullenfeld. He was actually worse, because in this moment he was in greater denial. Mendel looked away and then hung his head.
“Who am I kidding, Brian. I’m not a Rasta. Of course I’m not. It’s just something I say. I don’t know why. It’s pretty fucking stupid, huh? To live here and have the lives we have and say I’m Rastafarian . . . well . . . that’s idiotic, isn’t it?” Mendel meant every word he said. He wasn’t a Rasta. And what’s more, he didn’t want to be a Rasta. He wasn’t even really sure of how to be a Rasta to begin with. This wasn’t a dream of his. And thank Jah for that, because being Mendel and being a Rasta was no less out of reach than being Brian Tullenfeld and being the next Michael Jordan. It was a path that led to absolutely nowhere. Then Mendel felt that hope. He felt hopeful because he was reminded that his actual dreams were not out of reach at all. Mendel’s dreams were lofty, but achievable. Mendel felt lucky, and he knew in that moment how foolish it would be for him not to feel grateful for such luck. He knew how foolish he was to test that luck in the reckless way he had been. He knew how foolish he had been to pretend to want something different from who he really was. He had been just like Brian Tullenfeld, but unlike Brian Tullenfeld he could stop being like Brian Tullenfeld.
Mendel looked back at Brian. He was in a bit of shock, to say the least. In as little time as it had taken Mendel to come to his senses, it had taken Brian Tullenfeld just as little time to completely fucking lose it. As he watched Brian look around the room for some sort of answer to anything, Mendel took out the ounce of weed. He put it in Brian Tullenfeld’s lap. Brian Tullenfeld looked up. His despair now coupled with confusion.
“What are you doing, Mendel?”
Mendel put his hand on Brian Tullenfeld’s shoulder. “Take it, man. Just take it. You’re gonna need it.”
Mendel walked to the door and turned around. He and Brian Tullenfeld locked eyes. Brian Tullenfeld’s had dried. He smiled at Mendel in a way that he hadn’t smiled since before the fall. Since he was still in line to make basketball history. This would be the last time either of them looked each other in the eyes. From that day on neither spoke a word to the other.
Mendel drove home. He was back in time for dinner. His high had worn off, so his mother was pleased that she was going to get to have dinner with a relatively sober son. He wanted to tell his parents that he had been dealing weed. Wanted to tell them that he had been dealing and now he had stopped. Wanted to see the relief in their faces to mirror his own. But he didn’t tell them. He knew there wouldn’t be any relief. They’d just be upset and concerned, and possibly threaten him if he ever even thought about doing it again. The next day he went to Vickie’s, his “hippie mom,” smoked a joint with her, and told her that he wouldn’t be dealing anymore. She laughed.
“I knew you wouldn’t be doing it for very long, Mendel. You got too much future in you for that.” She kissed him on the cheek. Normally this would have made Mendel feel warm. But it didn’t. The kiss left him cold.
“You’re right, Vickie. I guess you’re right about that.” With that Mendel stood up and walked to the door. He and Vickie locked eyes, and in that moment they both knew, as clear as any clear thing they had ever known, that they’d never see each other ever again.
Mendel drove home, listening to “Box of Rain” ring out from the glorious speakers of his VW van. He smiled. How could he not? His future was too glorious. Too somewhere anywhere anything else.