INT. ANGELO’S HOUSE– NIGHT
Mr. Wendal by Arrested Development boomed when I slid in the living room with a sleazy half-smile while on the prowl for some weed. The song put the faint essence of a fly mood in the air at an overwhelmingly lame sausage fest. My first observation: crazy how some of these disrespectful assholes are smoking cigarettes inside Angelo’s house. You don’t see that every day anymore, except for in Indiana, right? I kind of thought everyone stopped smoking inside back in the 80’s when kids wore too much hairspray and accidentally lit their heads on fire, but just like the mullet and the tight-rolled blue jeans and halfway decent girls who chew tobacco, smoking inside is alive and well in Griffith Indiana, because of its generationally robust white trash population.
I saw a skank whose stupid face I instantly hated tap her gross Newport menthol ash into an empty cup of beer on the coffee table. Next to her was literally another high school girl who was chewing tobacco right after I just thought about it. This party sucks bad. I walked around to see who I could see.
With this music blasting and all the big-mouth goons I saw yapping and wrestling each other in the back yard, and the kids smoking joints and pissing everywhere out there, no doubt the neighbors could hear this shitshow for blocks. Things were getting too wild for me. Since I messed around stalking Anita downstairs, I might have run out of time to find Angelo and get my Q.P.
Doubt was setting in.
Because the cops were coming soon, it was in my best interest to give up trying to find Angelo and get the hell out of there. If I were to get pinched by the cops at this party, even though I ain’t doing anything wrong, they’d at least steal all my work tips. I’d be out hundreds. A loss like that would shut down my game for months. Without a side hustle I’m just like every other pizza delivery driver out there. No glitz, no glam, that’s not my style. I pretty much decided to leave, for sure.
Standing there while deciding the best direction to exit, I did a big yawn. It’s a tough decision to leave without my weed because there’s no telling when I’ll be able to nail down Angelo next. He’s a total flake. It could take a week or more before I can hook up again, so this potential outcome sucked.
My last two roaches could maybe get me through the night and then I might have some shake on my rolling tray, maybe a whole joint’s worth, I’m hoping. But after that, I’m fucked.
Things weren’t going how I imagined they would. While working my ass off at Gelsosomo’s all day, and more vividly while driving here, the fantasy of quickly grabbing a fresh Q.P. from Angelo within fifteen minutes and then falling back to my quiet apartment at The Mansards to eat free pizza from work and jam out on the PlayStation all night seemed sweet. But then I got to this hellhole 4th of July party and now I am demoralized.
Showing up at Angelo’s party after he agreed to meet me at a certain time and place to settle this deal, and then not being able to find him anywhere at his own house … ridiculous. He’s annoying as fuck. I need to remember to slam the door on my way out, but first I have to piss bad.
I decided for sure, with great sadness, it’s time to abort the weed mission for now. It wasn’t working out and I didn’t want to hang around too long and make my life even worse than it already is by getting arrested for no reason. Instead, I’d piss really quick and get the fuck out of there.
I’d try Angelo again tomorrow or the day after, every day if I had to, as long as it takes for him to give me my weed. If shit got desperate, I rationalized, I could maybe see if Jacob could sell me an eighth or a quarter to tide me over.
At least I could invite him or some other friends over who will smoke me out, maybe front me an emergency bowl or a joint. I hate living like this. And I hate living in Indiana.
