night, it seemed, was an anomaly. Smoking pot, in my old age, had become a few hits in my apartment, then an on-demand movie. I had, in large part, failed the cannabis culture by becoming as stereotypical as one of those casual city smokers who carry joints in cigarette boxes and who brings white wine to parties. That long, weird night kept creeping on without any notion of organization or planning. There was no hope for sleep during any of it. If sleep came, it would come at so unreasonable an hour, it’d be best to not sleep at all. These types of hours are what Streets Anderson was built for. He was fully functional, aware, stoned, hungry and philosophical. I had almost forgot that the only reason he bothered to text me in the first place was so that I could get him drugs.
I told Streets, “Look, Weedman Tim doesn’t like when other people come up to his apartment. When we get there, just wait outside and play it cool…I’ll go upstairs.”
The Escape was still not in gear but, fortunately, Weedman Tim didn’t live far from the hospital…his old, looming apartment complex was about ten minutes away if I took the back roads.
Not many people have a Weedman Tim-type friend in their standard repertoire of people they interact with on any type of regular basis. Weedman Tim was actually Tim Shanklooper. He had spent the better years of his middle school career being called Stankypooper, eventually graduating to the nickname Skanky Tim in high school. This progression, with all respect to logic, didn’t do much for Tim’s self-esteem. There was no actual founded reason for any of this except the uncommon nature of his last name. Tim was not dirty. He always seemed to have above-average hygiene. That last name prevented him from having a high school prom date. It also caused him to drop out of a 2-year community college. He’d never held a real job…I can say with all confidence that a last name cost this kid any shot at a normal life. The natural thing for Tim to do, in the grand scheme of things, was to start dealing pot. It started small in high school hallways, and graduated to a business that paid his rent. It was a funny arrangement…anyone who had ever resorted to calling him names or making his life in any way harder than it needed to be was refused drugs, no matter how hard they implored. It was widely known in town that Tim had the best stuff, but he was also one of the most difficult people to buy from. He was a walking grudge…some old scar from scratching chicken pox. He never healed.
I met Tim when everyone else met him: when he moved to our town as a freshman in high school. Even back then, he was this rail-skinny, red-haired, sore thumb sticking out of our class. When he was a freshman, that first year, he tried to blend in by sitting in the back of classes and eating at neutral lunch tables. I felt bad because, as we all know, certain people, no matter how hard they try, will always be targets. To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t ever friends with Tim; I just never treated him bad. He walked the halls and, the way I figured it, was given a hard enough time. I didn’t defend him when I saw him getting picked on or beat up, but I made sure to never do the picking. James had taken the same approach. We both ignored Tim as much as we could…save for an occasional greeting. We never saw Tim out anywhere around town, from the arcade or the mall to the eventual house parties. Even though James was usually the first to talk reason into people, there was something ruthless about the way they picked on Tim, the insults and the put-downs…it was something you couldn’t defend against and didn’t want to be around.
Somewhere around our senior year in high school, around when most kids open their minds, Tim Shanklooper discovered marijuana. The story he told me was that his cousin gave him his first joint at a family party in July before we started school that fall. To this day, his cousin, some older,
I told Streets, “Look, Weedman Tim doesn’t like when other people come up to his apartment. When we get there, just wait outside and play it cool…I’ll go upstairs.”
The Escape was still not in gear but, fortunately, Weedman Tim didn’t live far from the hospital…his old, looming apartment complex was about ten minutes away if I took the back roads.
Not many people have a Weedman Tim-type friend in their standard repertoire of people they interact with on any type of regular basis. Weedman Tim was actually Tim Shanklooper. He had spent the better years of his middle school career being called Stankypooper, eventually graduating to the nickname Skanky Tim in high school. This progression, with all respect to logic, didn’t do much for Tim’s self-esteem. There was no actual founded reason for any of this except the uncommon nature of his last name. Tim was not dirty. He always seemed to have above-average hygiene. That last name prevented him from having a high school prom date. It also caused him to drop out of a 2-year community college. He’d never held a real job…I can say with all confidence that a last name cost this kid any shot at a normal life. The natural thing for Tim to do, in the grand scheme of things, was to start dealing pot. It started small in high school hallways, and graduated to a business that paid his rent. It was a funny arrangement…anyone who had ever resorted to calling him names or making his life in any way harder than it needed to be was refused drugs, no matter how hard they implored. It was widely known in town that Tim had the best stuff, but he was also one of the most difficult people to buy from. He was a walking grudge…some old scar from scratching chicken pox. He never healed.
I met Tim when everyone else met him: when he moved to our town as a freshman in high school. Even back then, he was this rail-skinny, red-haired, sore thumb sticking out of our class. When he was a freshman, that first year, he tried to blend in by sitting in the back of classes and eating at neutral lunch tables. I felt bad because, as we all know, certain people, no matter how hard they try, will always be targets. To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t ever friends with Tim; I just never treated him bad. He walked the halls and, the way I figured it, was given a hard enough time. I didn’t defend him when I saw him getting picked on or beat up, but I made sure to never do the picking. James had taken the same approach. We both ignored Tim as much as we could…save for an occasional greeting. We never saw Tim out anywhere around town, from the arcade or the mall to the eventual house parties. Even though James was usually the first to talk reason into people, there was something ruthless about the way they picked on Tim, the insults and the put-downs…it was something you couldn’t defend against and didn’t want to be around.
Somewhere around our senior year in high school, around when most kids open their minds, Tim Shanklooper discovered marijuana. The story he told me was that his cousin gave him his first joint at a family party in July before we started school that fall. To this day, his cousin, some older,
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