Trash of the Gods.  Chapter 8. The Rejection

Tammy had 2 parties senior year that were of epic proportions. One at the start of the first semester and one at the end.
They were the first parties I went to that were bigger than kickbacks.
The first one is the only one I cam remember clearly, I went with Robert, he took a few hits of what he said later was bad ecstasy and he stayed on the back porch all night, glued to his seat and trying to smoke himself back to normal with whatever was passed to him or whatever was put into the bong he brought. Robert had a really cool bong at this time and was showing it off whenever he could.
As he carried on with that I went around smoking joints I brought with everyone I could at the party, while bumming a shot of tequila or a cigarette here and there, all the while assuming I was way cooler than I actually was.
Within an hour I was beyond cross faded. I came back to the back porch were Robert still was, about to smoke a joint with him and the rest of whoever was out there in that massive beyond capacity of the house over flow crowd. Yet I immediately pulled a terrible blunder, or a “party foul, ” as you’re more likely to understand.
I moved my chair to sit down when suddenly there was a loud clunk, and then immediately after, “CRASH!”
Using my flip phone as a flashlight, I saw what were the remains of Robert’s bong, that I had knocked over with my chair and shattered.
Of course I became the center of some rather unwanted attention at the party, but the matter was solved almost immediately.
Robert didn’t seem mad at all. He didn’t even seem to care because he didn’t even bother to get out of his chair.
After repeated drunken pleas pf “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry dude, I broke your bong man,” all of which Robert just laughed at, I eventually paid him for the bong, $60, and the matter was settled.
It was I think 2 hours after the party had started that the cops arrived.
soon we were dispersed from the premisses, I was relatively sober so i drove Robert and i home.  
I don’t know what it was, but after I had dropped him off at his house and left, as I was leaving, he said something that was beyond out of character. He said, “I love you man.”
And I just grunted and said, “Yeah, sure,” and sort of sighed as he smiled, still somewhat high on the ecstasy. That was the most sentiment he had ever shown me, and my only response was, “yeah” before I turned around and left.
A few weeks after this our friendship would basically be over, and a few years after that Robert would be dead.

Published by James J Jackson

I'm a poet from California.

%d bloggers like this: