Mike Ramirez found the genie in the most absurd way imaginable. It was ludicrous, the punchline of a hundred jokes. And yet it happened, just like it happened to Aladdin in Arabian Nights.

Mike found the old oil lamp at a rummage sale. He thought it would look cool on the shelf above his dresser. He knew he shouldn't be spending the money, but it was only two dollars. You couldn't even get a cup of coffee for that these days.

"Let me know if you find a genie in there," the seller joked. Mike laughed politely, rubbing the lamp against his shirt.

"No wishes for us!" he said as the woman placed the lamp and in a brown paper bag.

"Oh well," she replied. "Golly, it sure is hot today!"

***

The man in the white suit was standing in the lobby when Mike returned to his apartment building. Mike nodded in greeting, then opened his mailbox. He grimaced at the sight of his credit card bill. The last statement's balance had been $8,452.

"Thank you for freeing me," the man in the white suit remarked.

"Sorry?" Mike said, not really paying attention. He shuffled through the mail. Bills. Collection letters. Late notices.

There was no air conditioning in the lobby. The August sun blazed through the windows.

"Thank you for freeing me," the man repeated. "I am a jinn. I was a prisoner in the lamp. The lamp in the bag you are holding."

"Okay," Mike said agreeably, trudging up the stairs. "Have a nice day."

***

Mike unlocked the apartment door and switched on the light. The man in the white suit was lounging on the sofa, idly examining his fingernails.

"Hey!" Mike shouted, dropping the bag in alarm. "What's going on?"

How had the man gotten in? Mike had walked alone up a narrow flight of stairs to his door on the second floor. There was no way the intruder could have slipped past him, let alone had time to break in.

"You've got about three seconds to get out," Mike said, taking a step forward. He wasn't afraid to use his fists, if it came to that.

The man in the white suit vanished like the sun behind a cloud.

Mike froze in mid-step. He closed his mouth. Opened it again.

"What the ...."

"I don't have much time," the man said from behind him. Mike whirled around.

"What?" he said. "How?"

"I resided in the lamp for many ages. I have much to see," the stranger said. He was standing in the hall, hands crossed, looking at Mike pleasantly. "If you will kindly make your wish, I'll be on my way."

"My wish?"

"As payment for my freedom. Make your wish, if you please."

"Fine," Mike replied. "Whatever it takes to make you get out of here. I wish for money. A lifetime supply. More than I'll ever need. Sound good?"

"Very reasonable," the man answered, giving a wry grin. "You'll neither be the first, nor the last man to make such a wish. Now, I really must go. Farewell."

The man disappeared again, leaving Mike standing alone in his apartment.

***

Despite the strangeness that had just occurred, Mike managed to put it out of his mind. He put the paper bag on the table and prepared a frozen dinner.

Before going to bed, Mike opened his laptop to access his online banking. He had about a thousand dollars left in savings, and he owed $800 for the month's rent. If he didn't find a job soon, he would be in some serious trouble.

Mike typed in his username and password, and saw that the balance in his savings account was $71,985,343.

A glitch. A computer error.

He hit the refresh button, hoping that would fix it, and saw that the balance was now $94,275,821. He clicked it again, and the figure climbed over $100 million.

"I'm going to bed now," Mike said aloud. His voice sounded strangely flat and muffled in the empty apartment. "When I wake up in the morning, everything will be normal again."

He turned toward his bedroom and saw that the living room was occupied by what he first thought to be about a million newspapers. Completely flummoxed, unable to process what he was seeing, Mike took a step forward and tripped over a pile of paper. He went sprawling in it, and realized that it wasn't newspapers but cash. The notes weren't bundled, but arranged in great tottering stacks, thousands in every denomination, a miniature city of banknote skyscrapers. The apartment was filled with the papery smell of them. Mike grabbed two fistfuls of money and stared at the dead presidents' stoic portraits, uncomprehending.

He then became aware of an uncomfortable bulge in the pockets of his pants. He dropped the cash and rooted around in his pockets, pulling out great handfuls of silver dollars. The coins made a pattering sound as they landed on the carpet of currency at Mike's feet.

There was no avaricious joy, no shouts of delight as the mounds of money seemed to triple in size all around him ... there was only stunned confusion.

How was he going to explain this? What would he tell the people at the bank when they asked about the millions of dollars that had mysteriously appeared in his accounts? How would he explain himself to his family? His landlord? The tax collectors? The police?

What had he gotten himself into?

Mike's laptop glowed. He saw that he was still logged into his online banking system. Dimly aware that his pockets had filled again, Mike clicked the refresh button. He observed with a kind of horrified fascination that the balance of his account now exceeded three billion dollars.

Behind him, Mike heard a series of clinking sounds. He turned and saw a wall of thick, shining gold bars, towering to the ceiling. Another stack appeared. Then another. And another. And another.

The floorboards began to creak and groan beneath their weight.

A heavy mist swirls around me, settling for a moment before tumbling away down the gentle flow of my world-weary travelling cloak. He always chooses the most inhospitable climes for our meetings; he calls them 'out of time and space', but perhaps he's just the king of melodrama. And sure enough, his entrance clatters with lightening and flashes with cymbals. I feel a twinge of resentment towards the awe welling inside me as his robes flow and he gently stretches his wings and folds them neatly behind him. When has dismounting any steed looked so elegant?

We have both spent at least a lifetime in the mortal realm and worn well the corporeal clothing of flesh. We have felt the flow of blood fill our hearts and souls with life, and entwined that life with hopes and dreams, desires and temptations, breathing humanity into our mortal vestments. And both return here each time, heavy under the burden of our experiences.

We greet each other with reverent courtesy and ancient respect embedded in time itself. A love, pure beyond the limits of space, flows over me. I smile. My worldly troubles tumble away with the mists of time. I heap the leather-bound volumes onto the stone table before us. He too is laden with manuscripts, parchments and codices.

With flourishing dexterity, my esteemed colleague opens the clasps on the largest volume; the leaves of fine vellum fluttering in the ethereal breeze as he draws up two elaborately carved high backed stone chairs. My movements are heavy and languid by comparison. Fresh from the mortal world, my heart still pumps with salty brine as I remove my cloak and seat myself at his right hand.

His is the 'Book of Life' and it is he who wielded the pen, mightier than any swords crossed through time, from which flows the inky life-blood of mortal men.

My volumes are less austere - no gilt edged pages or flourishing marginalia. Mine are the books of truth, lies and shame, of the choices made, or not made, of how freedom and will have been wielded.

Perhaps it is because our experiences of the flesh of humanity were so different that makes us such an effective partnership. He is all that I am, and that I am is at his will. There was a time when I questioned that will, and for that insolence I was punished, but that shaped us both, who we are, and what we shall become.

Our discussions are nearly always hypothetical, braided with a subtext of fine golden threads of truth. And when these debates touch upon perceived moral values and transgressions, I argue that he who hasn't sinned, who has not experienced pain and pleasure in his soul and in his flesh has never truly lived; I reason that morality is a reflexive social construct created and driven by fear. He ridicules me for what he calls my advocacy of a hedonistic lifestyle that panders to olfactory gratification. He laughs as he says that you can have too much of a good thing.

"But what about truth? What about knowledge? ... What about love?"

This is the argument I have used since time immemorial. As his charges grow and age, surely he has seen the awakening within their hearts and minds; that now they looked beyond the pure reasoning of logical understanding, beyond good and evil and the boundaries of linear time and the conscious mind. This universe he built to hold and nurture them is no longer too immense for their comprehension. Where once they built their own laws and rules to define its existence, now… now they break down those walls, not one brick at a time, but with an apocalyptic force that each day threatened to reveal the master puppeteer behind the flimsy curtains of space and time.

And yet still he sees fit to judge them against measures that they themselves created at a primitive time of their understanding.

And so it comes to be that I lay the crown of thorns he had once worn upon the table before him; a martyr for their beliefs, not his, and remind him of what it is to really live, with salty brine coursing through his veins, entwining his soul, to feel and to succumb to the temptations of the flesh.

And for the first time since the day of my exile, an eternity ago, his serenity wavers, anguish blushes upon his brow, and in that moment I know every hurt, every pain, ever felt by his mortal charges delivered upon himself a thousand times over; that his love lies in his suffering.

And he passes that thorny crown back across the table, that I might see the consequences and the suffering when one loves so completely and gives all that they are to those whom they love.

Perhaps for the first (or maybe the thousandth) time, I take the crown, laden with the weight of human suffering of all time. For all this time I have been in love with humanity, but now I know that it is he who truly loves them. In times of frailty, it was he who takes the burden of their suffering, for he too has suffered in their world, at their hands - at my hands.

As I gently close my book of sins, I watch as he pours his soul into his own manuscript, atoning for each life in his book of destiny.

***

So, I step back onto the sidewalk, amid the bustle, the metro rumbling away under my feet. I feel the weight of the crown upon me, never before has it felt so heavy, but never before have I felt so alive as the thoughts and dreams flow all around me. Deliriously I smile, let myself get caught up in the moment, and true to my nature, I dare those around me to burn up their tracks and really live.

"Look at the dweeb. He can barely carry his books."

"Hair? He's got lots of .... oh I get it. Good one Hal."

Edwin struggled under the load of books and tried not to hear the snide remarks from the jocks. They were just under-evolved apes after all. He navigated the sidewalk to the bus and dropped into his seat. It was carefully chosen to not be far enough forward to look like he was hanging out with the juniors, but not far enough back to draw the attention of the jocks.

At home he dropped his books on his desk and sat down at the computer. This was where he was a god. But before he started up the Kingdom of Destruction game he googled adding muscle bulk. He was amazed at how many sites there were. He started surfing. There were some interesting shortcuts. Edwin ordered some of the more promising ones.

All the sites agreed that exercise was essential. Edwin didn't like exercise, but decided it was an necessary evil. He went down to the basement and polished the dust off his brother's weights. They hadn't been used since Tom went to university. Start small, the site said. He looked at his brother's workout and decided that would be his first goal. He began removing weights.

"Did you notice that the dweeb isn't struggling to carry those books anymore?"

"Other what? Oh, that other one."

Edwin sweated and grunted in the basement. His arms ached and his knees were shaking. He had been at this pumping iron for months now. Even with the supplements he ordered on his dad's credit card, the only change he noticed was that the basement reeked. He finished the set and put the weights down. It was time for more research.

This time he didn't stay with the web sites he found on Google. He went deep into chat rooms and bulletin boards that flirted with the edges of legality. Edwin found some ideas that might help. He broke out his dad's plastic again.

The package came the next week. Inside was a vial of nasty yellow looking liquid and a hypodermic needle. This, the instructions said, was the real deal. Inject two cc's a day and watch the muscles grow. It took Edwin half an hour to give himself the first needle. Then it was back to work.

"What happened to the dweeb? He doesn't listen to us anymore."

"Maybe he's found a girlfriend.... Hey, I'm just saying it's a possibility!"

Edwin was really shifting the weights now. His mom had to buy him all new clothes. He also noticed other things. Things like how the girls filled out their clothes. Some research on the internet showed him some very interesting things. He had never really considered the mechanics of sex before. He was astonished at how many ways there were to perform what was really a simple biological act.

What the internet couldn't teach him was how to talk to the girls. They still saw him as the dweeb and giggled when he walked by, and not the same giggles that Hal evoked. There was one girl in particular. Her name was Hanna and she was Hal's girlfriend. With some careful searches Edwin was pretty sure he knew just how she looked under that white sweater. He pumped iron and dreamed about what he would do if Hanna would only let him.

It was the daydreaming that caused the accident. He was thinking of pliable female flesh instead of putting the weights away. While he was doing lifts behind his neck he shifted his foot and tripped. The bar landed on his neck. That pain was the last thing he felt below his shoulders.

"Did you hear about the dweeb? He broke his neck lifting weights."

"At least he was trying to improve himself."

It was months before he returned to school. He had souped up his wheelchair, but it was no replacement for his body and all the sensations he had been learning about. He could still look though and now that it was spring, t-shirts replaced the sweaters. The wheelchair did what the weights didn't. The girls talked to him now.

What was more, he could use his wheelchair to push other people around. They all thought he was bumping them because he was crippled. Soon the other students were giving him respect. They got out of his way in the halls. When he dropped something the girls would bend over to pick it up and he got an eyeful. He even found that he could grab a quick feel if he blamed it on muscles spasms in his arm.

He was a man now.

Hanna didn't buy it though

"You pervert," she screamed, "just because you're in a wheelchair doesn't give you the right."

"What's up?" Hal asked.

"The dweeb was trying to grab me."

"It was a muscle spasm," Edwin said.

"I'll give you a muscle spasm," Hal said and lifted his fist.

"Hal, don't," Hanna put her hand on Hal's arm, "He isn't worth it."

"You're right." Hal snaked his arm around her waist and they walked away

Edwin watched them to the top of the stairs. They paused for a long kiss. It wasn't fair. All that work to get just a little bit of what Hal was getting. He goosed the chair to full speed. He'd blame it on a muscle spasm. He might even cry a little over their broken bodies.

Then his arm did spasm and he couldn't steer. He couldn't stop. There were screams, then he was sailing down the stairs. He landed on his face. The chair landed on his neck. He never heard the crack.

"Edwin killed himself trying to run over Hal."

"What a dweeb."

Two scrumptious scoops of peanut-butter and chocolate-chunk ice-cream sit defiantly in my porcelain bowl. Gloved in white lace, I bring the spoon to but an inch in front of my nose letting the aroma titillate my nostrils. Gently then, I let slide the delectable cream-stuff into my mouth. A perfect marriage, the silky texture and smooth flavor are!

Victory after victory, each bite precedes the next until I am scraping at the bottom of the bowl from the effluent of ice-cream that tried to live beyond its melting point. I lick my lips of any trace of my deed.

No sooner is my spoon returned to the empty bowl than a door on the far wall irises open with a hiss. In walks a man dressed to impress. His nose is upturned and he carries a dining bell in his left palm as he approaches, taking prideful strides across the black and white checkered floor. What pomp the man walks with!

He arrives at my small circular table, splays out his dining bell, and lifts the lid. Therein, lays a bowl. Two dollops of vanilla ice-cream slathered in the finest chocolate truffle sauce with generous portions of maraschino cherries fill the new porcelain basin. My dirtied dining vessel is taken from me and my spoon is replaced with a gleaming new one.

"Compliments of the chef," the waiter suggests.

I swallow hard clearing my pallet and appraising how apt my body is ready to handle seconds.

"Send him my utmost thanks," I say with a nod of dismissal.
The waiter turns gracefully on his heel and purposely strides off with my soiled dishes leaving me with my decadence.

I shift my weight in my seat getting comfortable and adjust the napkin in my lap. I would so loathe ruining the white duds I am wearing!

I massage the ice-cream into my spoon and chase the chocolate truffle drizzle until my treat is adequately coated. A second gesture is made to secure a cherry. The cherry odor overpowers the chocolate and vanilla as I sniff generously. Still, I find my pallet watering.

I slide the spoon into my mouth. The textures are in beautiful harmony. The acid of the cherry and the sharp truffle really set off the velvety vanilla essence. I swallow it down with glee. I stab and repeat a score of times until, again, my spoon is heard clanking at the bottom of an empty porcelain basin. I set my spoon down, this time dabbing at the corners of my mouth with the neatly pressed napkin that lay next to my bowl.

I hear the familiar hiss of the door opening and look up to see the same man striding towards me.

"I thank you for the lovely desert, Sir. My compliments to the chef!"I say placing the used napkin in the bowl with my murky spoon.

"Ah, but you have not tried our Master’s specialty! Just a spoon full will set your taste-buds ablaze! It is a chocolate, hazelnut blend called Baci. It originated in Italy and is one of our signature dishes. Translated the dish means kisses," the waiter replies.

I swallow hard clearing my pallet. This swallow is fuller of a honey-thick response than the last and I feel I’ve already probably over indulged. It's not as though I am concerned about my weight; I already have an ample tummy! I have simply eaten my fill.

I raise my hand in protest. "I think I have had enough for today, again, I tip my hat to the chef."

The waiter leans in and smoothly says,"the chef insists, Sir."

Never the one for making a scene, I let out a sigh and roll my eyes.

"I will try his delicacy, but then I am through."

The man becomes giddy clapping his hands flamboyantly. "Oh, Sir, you will not be disappointed in your decision!" He trades my used utensils and bowl with pristine porcelain.

Inside my bowl now lies a true culinary piece of art. My spoon cuts through the chocolate veneer as though it were passing through water, save the sunken islands of hazelnut. The aroma is so rich I don’t even let the scoop linger beneath my nose. I let slide the delicacy into my mouth and recognize heaven would struggle to taste this delightful. I shovel three heaping spoonful into my oral cavity, swallowing hard.

Unannounced, a stabbing ice-pain strikes the back of my throat and rockets behind my eyes. This, having hardly been my first encounter with brain freeze did little to deter my gluttony. Wincing occasionally, I push through the last scoops. The pain only worsens with every bite, but the hour is getting late. I want to be through with this, despite how lip-smacking the dish I am dining on is.

My spoon clatters to the bowl and I slump forward. My hands cradle my face, massaging my temples. I don’t even look up when I hear the hiss of the door. I hear the clip-clop of my waiter’s shoes approach.

"Is everything alright, Sir?" asks the waiter with a marked note of concern in his voice.

"I will be fine, if I could just have the bill and be on my way," I claim.

"Sir, you needn’t pay for our services further. That you’ve already done," the waiter says patting me harshly on my rotund belly. I ignore the quip.

"Then I shall be off, then." I am still massaging my head, when I see the waiter replace my bowl with a fresh one with two lumps of strawberry ice-cream and a fresh spoon sitting defiantly inside.

"Please, Sir, the Master insists…" the waiter smartly turns on his heel and returns through the door. With a sense of urgency I pay attention to the man’s exit. I hear someone beyond moaning to be set free and another, more distant, apologizing through tears decrying their mortal sins, clearly much too late.

The sounds at the Ice Cream Bar--murmuring voices, children laughing, spoons clinking against glass bowls--faded into nothing as I filled out the slip of paper. Name, address, email address. Easy, quick. Don’t forget to write neatly, dot “i’s” with little hearts. Fold in half, pop it into the rough-cut square opening cut into the top of the small brown cardboard box. I had read the words on the side of the box at least ten times: “DRAWING FOR FREE LIFETIME SUPPLY OF ICE CREAM! Place entries here. Drawling held August 1st.”

Entry complete. Now to enjoy the ice cream that I had come to the Bar for. I was soon spooning up my Peppermint Mocha Espresso Cappuccino Latte, daydreaming of the time when I would no longer have to come here to get ice cream. Or buy it anywhere else. It would be delivered straight to my door. For the rest of my life! I wondered how much variety they would give me (I had no doubt at all that I would win; who loved ice cream more than me?).

I thought of the flavors I would most like to have: Banana Daiquiri Vodka, Honey Cucumber Carrot Cake, Mint Licorice Cheesecake, Belgian Chocolate Acai, Macadamia Almond Cashew Pecan . . .

On the drive home, I didn’t notice whether the oppressive heat. I passed a group of fruit trees, and my mind turned to sherbert. Would that be one of the options? Favorite flavors of that particular treat sang through my mind: Bubble Gum Plum, Grape Pink Grapefruit, Watermelon Cotton Candy, Pomegranate Root Beer, Pear Peach Cantaloupe Mango . . .

The last week of July was sweltering. The evening news had the obligatory story about someone frying an egg on the sidewalk. Not a really convincing fried egg, but it got the point across. It was horribly, boiling hot, and the only thing good about a day like this was countering it with ice cream.

After a quick salad for dinner, I tried to chose an ice cream flavor from my stash in my freezer, although the competition was tough. Pina Colada Apple Pie? Candy Bar Cookies and Cream? Oreo Green Tea? Rum Raisin Margarita?

Finally I settled on something more mundane. Pulling the carton of Kiwi Caramel Cinnamon out of the cold of the freezer, I set it on the table and dished some out. Wonderful! The coolness of the frozen treat nullified the scorching July misery. I could forget about sweaty skin and sticky clothes.

The week passed by slowly. I checked with the Ice Cream Bar because I wanted to be there for the drawing, but they told me that the drawing would be done in private, because they had so many entries that there wouldn’t be room for everyone to be there in person. The winner would be notified by email. I wondered how many people hadn’t been able to enter because they didn’t have email and then promptly dismissed them. Their loss.

The day of the drawing I sat at my computer, email program open, waiting for the incoming news. I kept hitting “Send/Receive All” over and over to no avail. And then it happened, an incoming message! I waited impatiently for it to download. Who was it from?

From: icecreambar@woohoo.net. Victory!

I missed twice trying to click the message open, but finally I got it. There wasn’t much to read, only, “CONGRATULATIONS!! YOU ARE THE WINNER OF A LIFETIME SUPPLY OF ICE CREAM, COURTESY OF THE ICE CREAM BAR!!!”

I screamed out loud. I had done it! I had won! Ice cream for life!

There turned out to be another message below the important one: “Ice cream will be delivered to the address on your entry form on August 2nd at 8:00 a.m.”

The next morning, I was awake at dawn. It was already hot and muggy. It was 5:30 in the morning, but the sun was already peeping over the horizon. I dressed in tank top and shorts. No need suffering from the early morning heat while I waited. And I was going to wait outside. I wanted to see the delivery truck the instant it turned onto my street.

Time seemed to crawl on forever, but finally 8:00 rolled around. They were on time. Here came the truck! It reached my house quickly, so fast I didn’t even have time to think. But I should have. I soon found out what my mind had not anticipated.

A lifetime supply of ice cream. Vanilla flavored.

And all of it delivered at the one time.

I got way too much of a good thing. I know, that sounds pretty cliché, but it’s true, I got in way over my head. It was drugs, not that I was doing them, much, it was that I was selling them, a lot of them. Well, ”˜drugs’ is a little ambitious, not only because it’s plural but it was only marijuana. I belong to the select group of levelheaded people that believe that marijuana is not a drug, but an assistant in life, Right?
It definitely helps with my desire to achieve whatever I want by providing the apathy to not give a care if I accomplish anything or not. I discovered marijuana, along with reggae, the blues and sexual activity during my freshmen year in college. I wont bore you with how great my first experiences were, nor will I engage in the stories I have accumulated from my constant use of the plant (namely the times I jumped from second or third story balconies flat-to-my-back whenever I saw hedge bushes to land in) but I will engage you in the tale of how it brought my collegiate downfall.
It all started when this huge black kid named Allen James joined me in my awesomely appreciated solitary dorm room. We were roommates the second semester of my first year of school, not because I knew him from high school, but because I met his checklist requirements on a dormitory application he completed during orientation. Smoker on occasion? Check. Drinks alcohol? Check. Social? Check.
i knew him because of his status as the best player my rival high school’s team had, and they were good. Notorious for partying, they called my cousin to sell them a lot of crappy weed at their high school, hence our knowledge of each other’s existence. Anyways, it wasn’t long after he began playing football for our college when he began asking me for marijuana, probably because I was always smoking with him or he remembered my cousin, maybe it was just in my blood.
Well, since I smoked on a regular basis I already had a connection with pot from my first semester so I easily found what he wanted, and I got a good deal on it. I sold it to him at a price he couldn't beat and made $15 on top, and bought a case of beer. For a freshman that is phenomenal money, and I soon found out that if I bought a bulk amount from the ”˜hook-up’ (slang, Hook-up: Noun: 1.Someone who provides drugs. 2. To join another person in sexual activity. The former is applicable) I knew I would easily make $60-$100 off of every 'flip' (slang. Flip: Verb, to acquire a product at a reasonable price, or for free, and then sell it for a profit on the street). I also learned words like ”˜Onion’, and ”˜Guap’ and even ”˜Quap’. That means an ounce of weed, a lot of money and a quarter pound of pot (four Onions), respectively.
I soon became known to the football team as the man to ”˜cop’ (slang term, Cop: Verb, To procure) herb from. I thought I was the big man on campus, the man with the chronic. My weed was so good and so unrivaled that I got most of the pot smoking culture in my dorm to buy from me the rest of that semester. I also knew where the football players partied, which immediately made me the most popular kid in the dorms. Which equaled business, honey.
I actually scratched myself, and my hook-up, a lot of freaking money. So much scratch, in fact, I was able to move into an apartment after the end of my freshman year and tell my parents they could stop paying tuition. My ploy was I had gotten a full-time job that didn’t interfere with my schedule. What job? they asked. I manage Creative Wear T-Shirts, a screenprinter. I would say back. Of course it was a lie, but they didn’t care, they didn’t have to pay for anything so they didn’t pry.
Not one month after I moved into my new place my cousin came to visit me, he lived about an hour away in my hometown and apparently, as he claimed, everyone was ”˜dry’ (slang. Dry: Adjective, Without drugs, in this case, Marijuana) and they really needed a lot of weed. He also delivered an Oscar winning sob story about how he just got a drug test and lost his job and me helping him out would really, well… help him out. My car’s not registered, he said, or my shoes are old and ratty, he told me, girls don’t want anything to do with me cause I can’t buy them drinks at the bar. He begged me, give me a pound marijuana, he said marijuana like it was a bad thing. I agreed I would deliver it to his house within a week, Friday at one in the afternoon.
Now this is where things get a little off-axis, only because I would never think of anyone I knew being a ”˜snitch’ (adult term, Snitch: Noun, Tattle-Tale) or even telling on anyone else for any reason. I’m sure my cousin had his own motive for putting me in that awkward and felonious situation, and he certainly did put me in that situation. It was obvious the canine, or K-9, police unit was waiting for me at the exit, not only because I was pulled over for no insurance, which I had, but because the officer immediately said something like, Where’s the weed? You been smoking in here? And of course I said No. But he wanted me to get out of the car, so I did. And he found everything. The last thing I heard before I was locked behind those bars was the guard, who cavity searched me during intake, ask me one question. Are you in School?
Yes. I answered.
Not anymore. He said.