April 21, 2002
I think my mom has gone crazy. I turned my phone off last night when I was at Sasha’s house and said, “Fuck it, I’ll deal with it in the morning.” I’ve left too many parties right when they’re starting to get fun because of my lame ass curfew. Nobody else has to be home at 11:30. I figured it’d be worth it to see this one through because yesterday was 4/20, Sasha’s mom is out of town and the weather is starting to get warm. A lot of people were rolling and drinking and doing coke. There were about six of us about to pass out in Sasha’s mom’s room around 3:00 when someone came to the door and told me my mom was outside. I went outside and sure enough, there she was in that minivan. “How the fuck did you get here?” I asked her. She said she was driving around where she thought I’d be, saw a car of young people, which was Callie and Sasha, and followed them. When they pulled up to the house, she asked them if I was there. I told her that’s the craziest shit I ever heard. She asked, “What am I supposed to do? Go to sleep and wait until she got a call from the police or a morgue?” Obviously I’m in deep shit, but the party was fun. Phil pretended to bite into a wood decorative apple and chipped half his front tooth off. Brendan found the half tooth and threw it in the garbage disposal and told Phil that’s what he got for being an idiot. Phil’s tooth whistled for the rest of the night.
May 1, 2002
Phil and Brendan wanted to go to Best Buy yesterday and I said I couldn’t go in because they caught me trying to steal a CD there the other week. Phil said they’d probably forgotten all about it, that I should just come in. I waited outside of the store and smoked a cigarette. After about 10 minutes, one of the employees came out and said that I wasn’t allowed on the premises. I guess they have cameras outside too. I told him I wasn’t going to go in the store and he said the sidewalk was considered their premises. He said if I didn’t leave he would call the police. I had an eighth of weed in my pocket so I apologized and waited by the car. Thank fucking jesus I didn’t listen to Phil.
June 24, 2002
Rob’s been picking me up lately, which I feel kind of bad about because it’s about fifteen miles for him to come get me and drive us to the mall. When he picked me up the other day, I was in the driveway shooting at squirrels with my BB gun. I’m a terrible shot and missed every one I tried to shoot. I put the gun in the back seat and covered it with his jacket. “If we get pulled over,” I told him, “we’ll just tell the cop that it’s your brothers and we didn’t know it was there.” He nodded. “I don’t think it’s illegal to have a BB gun anyway,” he said.
Rob told me Will and some of his friends gave a ferret a hit of acid and that it clawed itself to death. “Fuck,” I said. “That’s fucked up.” I wondered what they did with the body, but really, I didn’t want to know.
We had to search for a long time for a parking spot at the mall. Then we drove past Ben Shipman’s Tahoe. There was no doubt it was his truck. There aren’t many red, two-door Tahoes with a ten inch lift and metal bull balls hanging between the dual exhaust pipes. A few weeks ago Ben knocked all my folders out of my hand. My papers spread throughout the hall way and when I picked them up him and his friend Nick laughed their asses off. I grabbed the gun from the back seat. The sharp snap of the trigger was followed by the crashing of glass. I didn’t think it would blow out the whole window. Rob drove away slowly. After a few seconds of silence I said, “I guess that’s what you get for being a dick.” Rob nodded and we both kept looking in the rear view mirror, expecting to see security guards or cops pull up behind us. We drove away from the mall looking for something else to do.
Scott Daughtridge was educated in the back room of a thrift store in Danville, Kentucky. His chapbook, I Hope Something Good Happens, will be released this summer through Lame House Press. You can find him online at www.notmuchisreallysacred.com.