School had started, and I was finally in the ninth grade.  There was no more getting stuffed in my locker, or having my books knocked out of my hand as I walked the halls between classes.  It was my third year at Millcreek Junior High and I was as old as any other kid there.  In fact, it was a great new start because for the first time I had something cool to brag about, my dirt bike.  Although, I still had to go to the office every Monday and pick up the free lunch tickets they give kids whose parents were on welfare.  However, it wasn’t as embarrassing as grade school when they would just hand them to you every day in front of all of your friends.

One day, I was in the cafeteria with Mike eating lunch when he told me that he got a new job at El Matador (a local Mexican restaurant) washing dishes.  He told me to come to work with him that day and that he would try to get me on.  I wasn’t going to wash any dishes, but I went down there to see if I could get a job cooking.  The kitchen manager was interviewing me when I told him that I had been the night manager of Sandwich World.  He started laughing at me, and reminded me that I was only in ninth grade.  I thought to myself, “Dude, I owned Sandwich World for a few weeks.”  It didn’t really matter that he was laughing at me, because he hired me as a prep cook.  Mike only worked there a couple of weeks but I stayed on all throughout the school year.

There were only a handful of guys that smoked pot at Millcreek.  They were Mike, Rob, Greg, and me.  We never smoked at school because the school was ruled by Mormon jocks.  Drugs, in general, were very un-cool, but I always took a few hits off my pipe as I walked from school to work.  Mark, the kitchen manager, would shake his head at me every day when I walked in because my eyes were so red and glossy.  He didn’t smoke, but I did a good job for him, so he would always have me peel onions first thing.  This way, I had a good excuse for the red eyes, in case the owner noticed.  I thought that this was mighty considerate of him.  After I got my first paycheck, I never went back for free lunch tickets again.  I remember this as a great accomplishment on my part.

I remember dropping my first hit of acid that spring.  The high school kids that lived behind me were having a party; their parents were out of town. 

“Have you ever dropped before?”

“No.”

“We will turn you on, but you have to promise to stay here until you come down.”

I thought just hanging out with high-schoolers was pretty cool in of itself, so I agreed.  However, deep down, I was really scared.  All that I knew about acid was that after Art Linkletter’s daughter had dropped, she jumped out of some skyscraper because she thought she could fly. 

I hadn’t even started to feel anything yet when a couple of the other guys started laughing hysterically and acting like dumb asses.  “I hope I don’t start acting like that,” I remember telling myself.  Then, I mentioned to the guy that gave me the hit that the moon and stars looked really cool.  He agreed, and suggested that we climb on top of the roof to get a better look.

“You don’t think you can fly do you?”

“No dip shit why would I think I could fly?” he said, laughing.

We climbed onto the roof and just stared at the clouds, moon, and stars for about six hours.  We talked about how fucked up it was growing up in a small Mormon town.  Later, I went home, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t fall asleep.  After I finally did crash, I woke up at four o’clock the next afternoon feeling more wiped out than I ever have in my life.  I felt like I had traded every ounce of energy in my body for one hit of acid.