Dealer's Dog and Other Tales of Non-Valor

By William A. Patrick III

An awakening in the strange and sometimes dark world that seemed like a carry-over from the free love drug culture of the sixties, only it was 1978.
I guess I should start at the beginning, but I’m not going to. All anyone needs to know is that I was an average white kid growing up in the suburbs of Orange County. This story starts just as I turned eighteen years young. My drug life began, strangely enough, with Jesus. After finishing high school, I had no idea what I was going to do. I enrolled in a community college and mostly took art classes, but still had a lot of lounging-around time. One day while lying on the couch watching TV, my mother entered the room with the nastiest thing ever invented, the vacuum cleaner. The area around the couch in which I lay must have been exceptionally dirty, for my mom lingered long around my sanctuary. Finally she set the noisy machine upright and put her hands on her hips.
“You need to get a job,” she said. Actually she more or less proclaimed it. “There’s a coffee shop on the corner and they have a help-wanted sign out front, I’ll even drive you.”
The idea of having my mother drive me to a place of business to apply for a job did not appeal to me, but to mollify her desire to have me employed, I told her I’d ride my bicycle and fill out an application. I grinned to myself as I rode the ten blocks to the shop, it would only be twenty or so minutes out of my day, and it would surely be worth the disappointed look on my mom’s face when I was turned down for the job. After all, I had no experience, no skills, no skin clear of pimples and no nice short hair, not to mention the rather appalling wardrobe I possessed, and proudly wore.
I went, filled out the forms and rode my bike back home. I had resettled into my couch nest, found an amazing re-run of a Gilligan’s Island episode that I’d seen a hundred times before, and breathed a huge satisfying sigh. Then the roof caved in.
“The pie-place called,” my mom said, “you got the job. Be there at five tomorrow afternoon.”
My gaping mouth proclaimed the start of the 40-40 plan. Baring some kind of accident, forty hours-a-week for forty-years lay ahead of me as I entered the American workforce. My first social event with the pie-place people was a Bible study. I never went back, it just wasn’t my thing. My second was smoking a joint in the parking lot of the restaurant. I liked it, and the partying crowd seemed to like me.
I later learned that there were two distinct crowds at the pie place, and they didn’t at all appreciate each other’s interests, and that they were very polarized. One met in a basement to love Jesus, the other partied. I was soon to learn that the other group’s partying was as much a religion to the stoners as the Calvary was to the bible-studiers. And, I realized, they both recruited members. I remember saying what-the-heck, and taking the joint, and with that cavalier attitude I began a journey down a very long and strange, windy, and often, dark, road.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William A. Patrick III
• Release date: Jun 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311946065

William A. Patrick III

William A. Patrick III resides in Tustin, CA, and travels with Linder.

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Dearler’s

Dog

and other tall tales of non-valor.

By William A. Patrick III

Copyright © 2010 by William A. Patrick III

Published by William A Patrick III at Smashwords.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

For Linda and our Families.

Cover art by author.

Photos by author and author’s family.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities between actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

I guess I should start at the beginning, but I’m not going to. All anyone needs to know is that I was an average kid growing up in the suburbs of Orange County. This story starts just as I turned eighteen, circa late 1978.

My drug life began, strangely enough, with Jesus. After finishing high school (where I did not drink or do drugs) I had no idea what I was going to do. I enrolled in a community college and mostly took art classes, but still had a lot of lounging-around time.

One day while lying on the couch watching T.V. my mother entered the room with the nastiest machine ever invented, the vacuum cleaner. The area around the couch in which I lay must have been exceptionally dirty, for my mom lingered long around my sanctuary. Finally she set the noisy machine upright and put her hands on her hips.

You need to get a job, she said. Actually she more or less proclaimed it. There’s a coffee shop on the corner and they have a help-wanted sign out front, I’ll even drive you. The idea of having my mother drive me to a place of business to apply for a job did not appeal to me, but to mollify her desire to have me employed, I told her I’d ride my bicycle and fill out an application.

I grinned to myself as I rode the ten blocks to the shop—it would only be twenty or so minutes out of my day, and it would surely be worth the disappointed look on my mom’s face when I didn’t get the job. After all, I had no experience, no skills, no skin clear of pimples and no nice short hair—not to mention the rather appalling wardrobe I possessed—and proudly wore.

I went, filled out the forms and raced my bike back home. I had resettled into my couch nest, found an amazing re-run of a Gilligan’s Island episode that I’d seen a hundred times before, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. That’s when the roof caved in.

The pie cafe called, my mom proclaimed, you got the job. Be there at three tomorrow afternoon. My gaping mouth proclaimed the start of the 40-40 plan. Baring some kind of accident, forty hours-a-week for forty-years lay ahead of me as I entered the Great American workforce.

Less than twenty-four hours later I was bussing tables and washing dishes. The dishes were stacked onto a large plastic grid-like tray, squirted with a sprayer that splashed water everywhere, and pushed into a huge, super-hot steamy box with doors that pulled down. I think I got paid just under four bucks an hour to sweat pounds of water out of every inch of my skin.

She had red hair. It was long and pretty. She had a Nordic jaw and rosy cheeks.

Hey Ash, what are you doing this Friday? she asked. Want to have some fun? I thought that most of the young waitresses in the café were hot, but this one, Melanie, was especially curvy.

I’d love to do something, Friday, I stammered, I could feel a line of sweat run from my stringy sideburn to my neck and then down my shirt.

Fine, she said, meet me here at six o’clock, okay? Needless to say I was elated. The term cougar had yet to be popularized, but there it was—a hot older woman had spotted the magnificent potential in me.

Friday took an eternity to arrive, and I had to bribe a guy to take my shift on an almost weekend day. I shaved (what little stub I had) picked out a clean shirt, and combed my rag-top hair. I thought about flowers or candy but THANK THE LORD I DECIDED AGAINST IT.

At the pie place I met a small group of people in the customer waiting area. It was going to be a group date, I saw, and it made sense—I was a stranger and group dates are far safer. Then, Melanie introduced me to her boyfriend. After that she introduced me to Peter. Pete, she said, would drive me. Bewildered, I followed Peter to his lime-green Ford Pinto and off we went.

It was in a basement. There were about eighty people in attendance. There was a guy in front with a pulpit, a guitar and a bible.

Welcome to Jerusalem Hill Chapel, the extremely sincere, bearded gentleman said. He spread his arms wide, like as if to embrace the whole crowd. Then he picked up his guitar and began a rousing rendition of He’s got the whole world in his hands. Most everyone in the room sang along, with the exception, of course, of me.

It lasted hours and hours and hours. We learned how nasty we were for being sinners. We sang songs and we prayed that we could change. We turned and hugged each other. For the record, I hate, with a passion, hugging strangers. While I could appreciate the Lord’s sacrifice on behalf of our souls, I just couldn’t get comfortable with the bible study or the bible study crowd there. I guess I’m just an un-save-able sinner.

Finally, with the conclusion of the Lord’s Prayer, the leader began to wrap up the meeting. In the end we all bowed our heads and silently prayed to be saved, or to not sin or to win the lottery or something. While everyone’s head was down (mine was up, looking all around) the leader spoke.

Anyone needing one-on-one spiritual guidance raise your hand, and we will seek you out, after the study, he said. I looked at my watch; it was nine-forty-five. Soon, I hoped, I would again breathe non-basement like air and walk among my own kind, that of the unclean, unrepentant sinner ilk. My mood immediately darkened when, to my abject horror, I saw Peter’s hand reach for the sky. Three hours of soul saving wasn’t enough for Peter, my driver, and now I was sure I was going to be trapped in that basement for forever.

Luckily, Peter’s sinning and desire to be saved was trumped by fast food. With my newly earned (and borrowed) dishwashing/date money I promised Peter that I’d buy him a double-cheese burger from one of Southern California’s favorite dining establishments, In-N-Out Burger, if we could leave immediately. Peter’s soul or the saving thereof, apparently his stomach informed him, could wait.

The next day I reported to my dishwashing station amid the knowing looks of a few waitresses and two cooks, Jameson and Anthony. Jameson was black and Anthony was white, which since Anthony had a bigger afro than Jameson, seemed strange to me. The afternoon was young and there were few orders at the cooks’ station. There were ample clean dishes so the three of us loitered next to a long greasy grill.

How was your night? Jameson asked. He grinned and both men laughed. Apparently word of the date had spread, probably because I mentioned it to anyone that would listen. Pent up, I sounded off.

Well, if you like sitting in a moldy basement, I began, singing He’s got the whole world in his hands, with a bunch of do-gooding empty-headed bible-thumpers that couldn’t pass the entrance exam for preschool, then I guess I had a blast. I continued. I went with this Peter guy, who, even though he loves burgers more than Jesus; brings to bear a fantastic dynamo of a personality by sitting like a block of stone for hours at a time, all while muttering to himself. Oh, he does, every once in a while, scream the word Amen. And the red-head? I began, building up steam, I bet the closest thing to sex she’s ever had was sitting in a metal folding chair while rocking back and forth, continually repeating, that’s right, and praisethelord. I said. IT WAS A NIGHTMARE! I shouted. Of course, on the other side of the order window, clearly within earshot, stood Melanie, Peter, and her boyfriend, who, as it would happen, was the Assistant Night Manager.

Everyone went back to their respective stations, with Anthony and Jameson red-faced and doubled over with laughter, beside the drawers filled with lettuce, tomatoes and pastrami. I felt stupid, betrayed, obnoxious, moronic and like a great big ass. I sprayed my dishes and put them into the super-hot steaming box, and closed the door.

The night passed unremarkably, with the Jesus crowd being distantly polite. Toward the end of my shift, Anthony approached me.

Close tonight, was all he said. My shift ended at ten, but I volunteered to stay until the restaurant closed. Closing was no fun because after hours the crew stays and cleans the place from top to bottom. I wondered to myself why I agreed, as I bleached counters, mopped floors and wrapped and stored food.

One good thing about closing was that they left the pies that would not stay fresh on a counter for all to eat or take home. I was the only person interested—I set aside a half banana cream (3-slices) for myself. Later I found out that if you get to have free pie every night, for months or years, you get to not want pie. Actually, you may even hate pie. Especially for the creamy ones—pie equals death.

Finally, with our kitchen area flawless and bacteria free, Anthony, Jameson and I headed for the door. We had just passed through them when Anthony lit a cigarette. I distain smoking, because it smells, so I wished them good night and turned away. I figured they wanted me to close because I deserved free pie, which I had in a foam container in my sweaty, bleach-smelling hands.

Hold up, Anthony said. He stood grinning, next to Jameson, next to a parking lot planter. It was a cool dark night and the surrounding stores were all closed. I realized that the cigarette was in fact, marijuana.

I later learned that there were two distinct crowds at the pie place, and they didn’t at all appreciate each other’s interests, and that they were very polarized. One met in a basement to love Jesus, the other partied. I was soon to learn that the other group’s partying was as much a religion to the Stoners as the Hill Chapel sessions were to the Bible-studiers. And, I realized, they recruited members, and evidently, Jesus got the first shot.

I said what-the-heck, and took the joint, and with that cavalier attitude I began a journey down a very long and strange, and sometimes dark, road.

I ate all three pie slices while walking home. With my fingers. It was the most delicious feast I’d ever eaten in my entire life. I sang as I walked; my voice hit every key and sounded, to my ears (I can’t sing) absolutely perfect.

I had tried pot before, but never really got high. Sometimes first timers don’t get or know the buzz, and sometimes the weed is of poor quality. But that night everything clicked; I got blissfully high.

To put it bluntly, I liked it. I liked being stoned. It seemed to fill a hole, a void, and it made life seem more vibrant, real and interesting. Pot made life fun.

The next day I did what anyone who likes to get high does—they try to establish contacts or connections. I asked questions, but got only smiles from Anthony and Jameson. Who had it, where can I find them, how much does it cost, and when can I get it? I wanted access and I wanted to hold some personal stash.

At first nobody gave me any answers—Anthony told me to just switch my shifts to closing, which I readily did. Most nights we smoked a joint, some nights a waitress or two would join us, and other nights someone bought beer, and the whole parking lot became a party with every non-Jesus person joining us. Sometimes we had big bashes with a dozen people, and there was a lot of clowning and foolishness. I know I did my share, and became accepted as part of the group.

We… I… began to look forward to closing and the dark parking lot that was our own private club. Sometimes we circled our cars around like a wagon train. The cops cruised by occasionally, but all of us wore uniforms—busboys, waitress and cooks included—and the cops knew we were just blowing off steam, in our own parking lot, after work. They were also patrons of the café and we always treated them special. They left us alone, even waving as they drove by. They would turn a corner, roll out of sight and the joint would reappear. We loved that.

Awkward moments would come when one of the Jesus crowd left late, traversing the parking lot to their cars, while coming somewhat close to our group. Invariably, one of us held a joint behind his or her back, while others more-or-less hid their beers. We said goodnight and giggled, and saluted or did other weird things as they drove off. It was our own special joke that they were squares and that we thought we were über-cool.

A girl, whose name I can’t recall, eventually began supplying me with stash. It was always a small amount, expensive and of questionable quality. Still, it was wonderful to know I had the ability to get high whenever I wanted.

I have to admit, one of the most fun things in the world for me, at that time, was pulling out my own stash, and rolling a joint. (I practiced rolling joints with tobacco, and became proficient at it—the trick, besides actually rolling the pot in the paper—was to get the weed the right consistency while excluding any stems and seeds.) And then, sharing it with my friends. It helped that most of the waitresses were cute as could be, and that while high, I could usually get them giggling like crazy.

Every once in a while someone would pull out a bottle of vodka and things would get crazy, but for the most part we were pretty low-key. We protected our sanctuary by keeping it on the down-low, as they say, because the managers or even the cops could bust it up any time they liked. But mostly it looked like a small group of young people just hanging out, shooting the breeze after a hard night’s work.

All this especially worked for me because I could walk home and not worry about being too buzzed to get into or cause some trouble or accidents or other nasty stuff.

The pies at the cafe were made fresh everyday in the morning by a crew that came in at three a.m. There was one exception to this rule, two-crust fruit pies were sometimes boxed and frozen instead of cooked that morning, so that the crew could focus on fresh fruit and cream pies. When needed, the bakers would just bring out the frozen pies, brush egg whites on the top of them, and bake them. While closing one night, Tommy, one of the few waiters from our crew, came to my dishwashing station.

Becky’s folks have a cabin up in Lake Arrowhead, Tom said, and we’re getting together a group to go up for the weekend. Want to come?

Sure, I said.

Arrange with Roger or Anthony to ride with one of them, and bring some weed… and a dish.

I had the weed but no dish. If I asked my mom for food I was sure I would get asked too many questions, like where we were going and what we would be doing. Already my mother had been snooping around me, asking if I was alright, even one time mentioning that I had a far away look in my eyes, these days, quote, unquote. I was sure she was searching my room when I wasn’t there, so I had to be careful.

So… how to get food for the weekend, without spending money that I didn’t have and without arousing suspicion that I would be doing anything more than visiting a mom-supervised friend over the weekend?

Pies, was my ill-fated, ill-conceived all around terrible, answer. Later that night, when no one was around, I devised my wolf-like-thieving plan. I waited until most all the shifts had already left. Then I walked into the room-sized freezer and walked out with a box. That box was about two-foot long and ten inches high. Inside were six pies, two on top, and, separated by thick cardboard, two in the middle and two on the bottom. I exited the back door and placed the box among similar empty boxes next to a large dumpster. My bike was chained to a pole a few feet away. You may already have seen the flaw in my plan, but at this time, I still really liked pies. The hardest part of my plan was balancing my stolen bounty on the handlebars of my ten-speed for the few blocks home. We had a big garage freezer that the box fit nicely into.

Friday night came and Anthony picked me up. We stopped off for a bit of cheap fast food (tacos) and drove the two hours to our local mountains. The cabin was a two-story (the second story was a small loft) wooden-type they call an A-frame. It was off a long, winding dirt road surrounded by Jeffrey Pines. I know they were Jeffrey Pines because I put my nose right against the bark and breathed, and sure enough, the tree’s resin smelled like pineapple, that’s how you can tell a Jeffrey Pine. Anthony requested that I refrain from kissing the trees for the duration of our stay, and I said I would oblige.

When we arrived we found Becky and Rhonda, who were waitresses, and Tommy, Roger and Jameson. It was already past ten and everyone was sitting around the fireplace drinking cheap beer. With my usual style, I rolled a joint, as did Anthony, and we all got high.

At some point during the night, I got my box of pies, and since they wouldn’t fit into the cabin’s ancient 1930’s looking style freezer, I stashed them in a cabinet.

Full of beer and weed, one-by-one we all found a bed (some sharing) and slept through the night.

Morning came, sunny and bright. I was up first, though I heard others talking in low voices. I stretched and dragged my achy body (the beds were spongy) toward the kitchen. The first thing I did was open the fridge. I noticed that its contents consisted of four twelve-packs of cheap beer (some broken open) of a kind favored by low-income college students, and not by many others, and nothing else.

All the kitchen cabinets were empty except the one with my pies in it. The cupboard was, as they like to say in the fairy-tales, bare. From what I could see, our entire food stash consisted of about forty beers and six now semi-frozen pies. Well, I thought, maybe we have