Story submission from: SpangeMonkee
It was Saturday night and we were lookin' for some green. (Not bud. We never got bud. There was never any in that shothole of a town. The green was schwaggy schwag.) Me and my friends called around to the normal people and drove around to the normal places. As a last resort, one of my friends called a guy (named John or something) he knew and that guy told us about another guy named Mike. John said he would give Mike a call and tell him we were coming over.
I write down the directions to the guys house. Drive down the road till you see a big ass gas station on the right, at that stop sign, turn left. Its the third house on the right. Easy enough.
My friends and I roll up on the address and park on the street. They determine that since we don't know this guy, that only one of us should go to the door. The rest should wait in the car and that I was the one to go. Fine with me.
I get out of my 1983, silver Toyota Corrolla wagon and walk up to the door. I knock and some 30ish lady answers the door. I ask, "Mike here?" She responds, "He just ran to the store. He'll be right back. Wanna come in?" "Sure".
I follow her on inside and in to the kitchen.
Before I continue, let me set the scene of this kitchen so that you can fully appreciate the situation:
At the kitchen table is sitting Mom, grandpaw, grandmaw, brother, sister, daughter and grand-daughter. A tiny radio on top of the fridge is playin' some country music at a low level. The only light is coming from a yellow-tinted, low-watt bulb hangin' over the table. Everything looks at least 20-years-old from the formica table to the kitsch on the counters to the yellow fridge. The were all smoking and drinking coffee. I relaxed bunch of country folks enjoying a good family conversation.
I walk in to the kitchen with my black, Mickey Mouse shirt (I still have it) and my royal blue cross-color jeans on. My shaved head is another reason I don't belong in this kitchen. Yet, they invite me to sit down and beginning talkin' to me about how I know Mike.
I quickly start to think about what I am able to say to these people. Do they know that Mike is sellin' weed? If they do, is it a family business? Would they freak out and call the cops on either one of us if I mention it? Inside, I'm freakin out. I say something to the effect of knowing each other through mutual friends blah blah blah blah. I turned the conversation back to what they were up to and commenting on how nice it is to see a family relaxin' together.
I relieved when Mike comes in. Well, sort of. I still wasn't sure what I should say with the family surrounding us. So I say, "John said that I should come by and see you. Ummm. That he was a good friend and that we would get along." The whole time, I'm searching his face for some kind of recognition. Something to lead me where this needed to go for both of us. All I get is a look of confusion. He says, "John? Tall guy with brown hair?" Not knowing what John looks like, I respond, "Yeah, that's him." Another confused look followed by, "Hmm. Ummm."
At this point I relize that I'm in the wrong fuckin' house and that I need to get the fuck out. I shake Mike's hand and tell him it was nice to meet him. I give the family a half wave and told them to have a good evening and walked out the door.
I get back in to the car and my friends asked me what took so long. I told them the story and they tripped out. We didn't bother calling John back. That fucked me up well enough for the rest of the night.
*story may have changed from actually events. drugs and/or alcohol combined with many years since incident makes for a poor memory.
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