I’m going to share a story about my best friend and me doing something stupid, but I need to vent first.

 I have one final left, and normally I wouldn’t sweat it, but I inadvertently put pressure on myself. You see, my mental health has been an issue this semester. I always have depression and anxiety; it is what it is, but normally, it doesn’t get in my way like this. This semester, however, has been different.

Typically, I never miss any schoolwork, but I’ve been so deep in my head that I missed message board responses in two different classes. One of my classes in particular only had limited discussions, which means they were weighted heavily, and that class also happens to also contain my last remaining final.

I get good grades. I know it sounds like I think my shit doesn’t stink, but far from it. My grades aren’t a result of intelligence; they are a result of hard work and proper planning.

When I say “good grades,” I transferred into my current college with a 3.9 and single-digit B’s. I may get two B’s this semester alone and if I manage to fuck up enough, I could pull my first C ever.

I’ve relied heavily on academic rewards to pay for my education, but the biscuit wheels may be falling off the gravy train, and the finish line is only one year away. Benzos never felt so good.

This Summer, I am excited about not thinking or writing about school. The thought of finals makes me want to smoke a cigarette, something I haven’t done in many years.

Speaking of smokes, let me tell you a story about the time my best friend and I went to the next town over to pick some up, knowing the store we were going to sold to minors.

This was right after my parents died, and I was living with my on-again, off-again addict brother, so my boy’s companionship during this time was invaluable. He was often the only thing preventing me from ending my own life, although I certainly have never told him that. Maybe I told him when I was drunk, actually. I can’t remember but I’ve done and said a tremendous amount of dumb shit while drunk.

Now that he needs me, I’m invisible—classic me.

My buddy used to hang out in the college town next to mine. We lived on a bus route, so we were able to travel to civilization from our neighborhood. Needless to say, kids on our side of town would waste days in the next town over’s “downtown,” and my friend in particular was a complete townie. His sister went to the nearby school, so he had access to college kids at 14.

What did he do with this exclusive access? He sold them drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.

The local college population loved “Tony Massachusetts” and his secret stash, and my buddy’s natural charisma helped with that. That same charisma also charmed the Indian dude at the local grocery mart to sell him Nat Sherman’s and bags of American Spirit rolling tobacco. A great connect.

While we lived on a bus route, we were on the periphery of it, and as such, we only got a bus every few hours. When school was out for the Summer, we saw even less public transit.

This is where I come in. My brother had a bunch of shitbox cars, including a 6-cylinder Camaro and an old ass Pontiac 6000. At this point in time, the Pontiac was an “emergency driver” only, and the last time it was driven was when my brother brought me and a friend to see Star Wars: Episode I the night it came out in 1999.

This car was in rough shape, but it refused to stop running. As my brother was using the Camaro as his daily driver, I took it upon myself to slap some plates on the Pontiac and drive it around back roads. This was the 90s, and getting away with this at that time was extremely easy.

So, yeah, I could drive, but I only liked to do it alone, and I only liked driving on quiet roads, and after another friend of mine had crashed my mom’s old Accord into the dumpster we had to clean out our house, I drove, even if there were other people in the car with me.

This all changed when one day, I woke up to my homie in my bedroom. Upon seeing my eyes open, he immediately launched into his pitch: I was going to grab the car while my brother was still at work and drive him to the next town over for boges.

I was reluctant, as I didn’t want to drive down main roads, and I would have to for part of the drive, but promises of money and piles of free cigarettes lured me in. For some reason, we brought my PlayStation with us, but I can’t remember why it was in the car.

At this point, we head down, get the smokes, and make it all the way back to the end of my very long driveway without a single incident. Just a nice, cautious, slow, drive.

This entire ride, my passenger has been begging to drive, but I’ve been fooled before, so the answer was a resounding no. Even so, that previously mentioned charisma eventually wore me down.

“Can I drive from the end of the street?”

“No”

“What about the end of the driveway?”

“You know what, yeah!”

As we were parked on the side of the road right before my driveway, it was a good chance to switch. Even though technically still on the street, this should be fine, I thought. It was not fine.

This dude stomped the gas, veered off to the right the second he entered our driveway, and hit a fucking tree. His side of the story says that my PlayStation was on my lap and that all I did was yell, “My PlayStation!” as it flew out of my hands. I don’t remember this, but that is absolutely something I would do.

Thankfully, it lived, we lived, and only the car took a hit. The thing still drove even after the crash; it was a real tank. We drove it down to the house and tried to cleverly park it so my brother wouldn’t see when he got home.

What we didn’t know at the time was that my brother had just agreed to sell the car for $500, which he could no longer do.

So, my brother comes home and before we can even hatch our plan the words “I had the worst fucking day ever!” came flying out of his mouth.

We were fucked, but we had to fess up, he was going to see the car anyway. He was so pissed and went up one side of us and down the other, only taking a break to catch his breath. He REALLY NEEDED that $500.

I swear on my mother’s grave that this next part is accurate, and anybody who personally knows my brother could see him doing what he eventually does.

As he is in the middle of his meltdown, I’m taking the heat because I said I was driving to keep my boy from feeling the wrath, and this is where my boy jumped in and saved my ass. “Pusha-B” happened to be holding, and he gave my brother a lot of marijuana, at which point it all stopped. Instantly stopped.

As DMX once said, “If you got loyalty, money will come.” That’s what this moment felt like as my partner in crime handed my brother the weed.

Not to belabor the point, but this was the 90s, an ounce of “Dank” or “Kind Bud” was $400. We were one of the first areas around to see weed this good; everybody around us was still getting stems and seeds in their bags, but not the college town.

There was a grunt of acknowledgment from my brother, who then quietly shuffled off to his room to play Van Halen songs on his guitar and take bong hits.

The lesson here, kids, drugs save the day.