“Fahrenheit” was the nickname we gave to a kid we hung out with when we were growing up.

He looked a lot like one would imagine what a young Marty Feldman looked like. Think Nicholas Cage but with “bug eyes” and you have Fahrenheit.

Like most people, we like to abbreviate words, so, when we’d reduce his nickname to a one-syllable utterance, we’d usually just simply say, “Fair”,

In any case, he was an interesting character to say the least; and I mean that in an unfortunately unavoidably negative, ominous sense.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I-FAHRENHEIT AND ANIMALS

–A-DOGS

—-1-HIS OWN DOG : PORK CHOP
—-2-A FRIEND’S DOG : LADDIE
—-3-MY TWO DOGS : RUSTY & FRIEDA

–B-THE REST OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM

II-FAHRENHEIT AND PEOPLE

–A-STEAMROLLERS, GARAGES, AND CADILLACS
—-1-THE CALL
—-2-HIS ARRIVAL
—-3-A SURPRISE
—-4-AT THE HEAD SHOP : LOST HORIZONS
—-5-BACK AT FAHRENHEIT’S HOUSE
—-6-IN THE GARAGE : MEETING THE CAR
—-7-HIS MOM INVADES THE GARAGE
—-8-THE AFTERMATH OF HER OUTBURST
—-9-SHATTERED “DREAMS”
—-10-CHANGING GEARS AND OTHER DISTRACTIOND
—-11-BRAKE TORQUE IN REVERSE
—-12-MY ESCAPE

—B-DANNY SHOOT’S FAHRENHEIT IN THE CHEST

—C-DANNY “CYCLOPSES” FAHRENHEIT

—D-THE “SLOW DOWN, YOU ASSHOLE!” STORY

—E–THE M80 STORY / TWO ACCIDENTS STORY

—F–THE CHEVY CAPRICE AT THE BERWYN CARNIVAL STORY

—G-THE BUST AT THE HOFFMAN TOWER
—-1-THOSE PRESENT
—-2-ACQUIRED AND CONSUMED OUR DOSES ( LSD )
—-3-DANNY’S ILLEGAL CAR
—-4-OUR AGENDA AND ITINERARY
—-5-ONE CONDITION
—-6-ONE WEIRD SIGHT
—-7-STARTING TO PEAK
—-8-THE “BIG RED FLARE”
—-9-THE FUZZ ARRIVE
—-10-DANNY AND JERRY DITCH THE WEED
—-11-DANNY COULDN’T TALK HIS WAY OUT OF THIS ONE
—-12-SEPARATE INTERROGATION ROOMS
—-13-STUCK WITH FAHRENHEIT
—-14-NO CHARGES FILED
—-15-NO ONE RETRIEVED THE WEED

—H-THE BUST AT ARGONNE NATIONAL LAB WOODS
—-1-THOSE IN THE GROUP
—-2-THE TIME FRAME
—-3-THE WEATHER
—-4-THE AMENITIES
—-5-OUR DESTINATION
—-6-OUR ARRIVAL
—-7-OUR ENTRANCE
—-8-THANKS TO FAHRENHEIT
—-9-FAIR BUILDS A FIRE
—-10-THE COPS SHOW UP ( DID WE EXPECT ANYTHING LESS? )
—-11-I HID MY STASH
—-12-WW PUT OUT THE FIRE WITH THE BEER
—-13-THEY ESCORTED US OUT OF THE WOODS
—-14-WE DROVE AWAY

—I-MY SECOND TO VERY LAST DAY OF HANGING OUT WITH “FAIR”
—-1-MY CAR’S MASTER CYLINDER PROBLEM
—-2-THE YANKEE DOODLE FLAG POLE ACCIDENT
—-3-THE $250 MEAL

–J-MY VERY LAST DAY OF HANGING OUT WITH “FAIR”

—-1-THE CALL
—-2-THE JOURNEY BACK
——a-THE THIEVERY AT THE GAS STATION
——b-THE LADY AND HER ESCAPED DOG
——–*-THE AWKWARD SILENCE
——c-SMOKING A BOWL OUT IN THE OPEN IN BROAD DAYLIGHT
——d-KNOCKING ON A WOMAN’S FRONT WINDOW
——e- THE TRAIN OF AUTOMOBILES
——f-OUR VERY LAST MOMENT OF “HANGING OUT”

III-EPILOGUE

—A-SEEING FAHRENHEIT AT SPEEDWAY
—-1-HIS ADDICTION
—-2-HIS ARREST AND INCARCERATION
—-3-HIS LACK OF GRATITUDE & JUSTIFIED EVICTION
—-4-HIS ( DENIED ) REQUEST

—B-“FAHRENHEIT’S IN PRISON IN MEXICO”

I—FAHRENHEIT AND ANIMALS

I ended the opening foreword with the statement that I meant the term “interesting character” “in an unfortunately unavoidably negative, ominous sense”

I used the word ominous because it was a well-known factoid that all animals ( i.e., domesticated and wild, alike )  tended to dislike Fahrenheit immediately upon laying eyes on him—as though they saw something we humans couldn’t.

For example, Edgar Cayce claimed he saw auras enveloping people—different color auras meant different types of people ( e.g.,

*-people with a green aura were into love, emotions, a desire to help people, and thus were likely to be healers of different sorts, such as doctors, dentists and social workers;

*-while people with a red aura were the athletic types—sports lovers and jocks;

*-purple auras, were the creative types—musicians, painters, poets, actors, and the like;

*-other colors meant a different set of personality traits. ).

In much the same way that Casey saw auras, it makes me wonder if maybe animals see auras, too, or something of similar value, endowing them with an instinctive awareness of a person’s actual “soul” ( that is, what their true ultimate target is—i.e., help or hurt people, animals, or things ) for lack of a more accurate term.

I’ve personally witnessed dogs and cats ( who could not possibly have encountered him before ) scurry away from his presence in a noticeably unnaturally accelerated rate—they didn’t just step out of the way, they “ran for the hills”!; for dear life, itself.

“Why?” I’ve always wondered. “What do they see that we don’t?”

–A-DOGS

Especially dogs!

In any neighborhood we were in, every dog that would see him would bark with emphasized aggression; much more noticeably than their barking toward other strangers.

We can all tell that normal “This-is-my-yard-and-I’m-here-to-make-sure-that-you-don’t-come-in-without-my-master’s-permission-and-until-I-hear-the-‘He’s-OK’ -command-from-my-master-I’m-going-to-walk-along-my-side-of-the-fence-and-keep-barking-at-you-until-you’re-at-a-safe-distance-away-from-here” type of bark that all protective dogs issue to the standard stranger walking by.

But, in Fahrenheit’s case, the dogs weren’t content with merely being defensive and protecting their own property ( or “territory” in dog language ) , but were visibly enraged enough to want to go on the offensive, and literally climb the fence so they could escape the confines of their own fenced-in yard, and proactively pursue him down the sidewalk with full intent of attacking him ( and I would think anyone else standing next to him , such as myself ) as viciously as possible.

Thank God for fences — especially tall ones!

—-1-HIS OWN DOG : PORK CHOP

There are animals that I know, for a fact, that he had abused in various ways—including his own dog ( a mid-sized, black-and-white spotted mutt named “Pork Chop” ) onto whom he forced a “shotgun” hit of weed from a corn cob pipe, up the dog’s nostrils ( likely a thousand times more sensitive than that of a human’s nose) causing the dog to scurry under the dining room table to vomit a pretty decent pile of puke onto the carpeted floor.

It looked a lot like cream of mushroom soup, which I couldn’t eat for many years afterward.

My apologies . I hope I didn’t ruin your meal, whether breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Sorry about that.

—-2-A FRIEND’S DOG : LADDIE

In another case, we were at a mutual friend’s ( Jerry’s and Ben’s, brothers ) house, which was a three- or four-bedroom ranch on a slab, and we were all sitting in the dining room, which is not actually separated from the living room with a wall, so both rooms were essentially the same room.

All but one of us was sat at the table.

Fahrenheit was sitting on the couch in the living room, tormenting Jerry’s dog, Laddie, with hits on his nose.

Specifically, Fair would whistle for Laddie to come to him, under the false pretense that he had something to give Laddie to eat, but, when Laddie would slowly approach, and get within reach, Fair would flick his middle finger onto the tip of Laddie’s nose.

“Quit fuckin’ with the dog, Fair!” Jerry said as he noticed what Fahrenheit was doing.

Naturally, he didn’t heed Jerry’s warning, and continued to trick Laddie into yet another hit on the nose. He did this more than once or twice; it was more like three or four times.

Suddenly, we heard “Ow!” and we looked over and saw Fahrenheit shaking his hand “walking off” the pain, so to speak, of just having been bitten on the hand by Laddie.

“He bit ya’?” Jerry asked with a grin on his face.

“Yeah” Fair replied continuing to shake his hand, but actually with a chuckle while saying it.

“Good for ya’!” Jerry laughed. “I told you to stop screwin’ with the dog. But no! You don’t listen!”

“Did he draw blood?” Jerry added, slightly smiling, kind of hoping Fair said “yes”.

“Nah!” Fair replied, after taking a closer look, and relieved that the bite was just Laddie’s warning—“Do it again, and you will see blood the next time, you piece of shit! WTF did I do to you to deserve abuse like that? Go ahead, try it one more time. Please! I’m sure my owners will back me a hundred percent on this one.”

And Laddie would have been right. Not only his owners, but all of us would have cheered Laddie on, too, and petted him with praise in our tone of voice, as we’d each give him treats afterward.

“Good boy, Laddie! Good boy!” we’d each say as we’d pet him one-by-one.

I never let him anywhere near my dogs. They would have justifiably mauled him, and I would have been unjustifiably sued.

—-3-MY TWO DOGS : RUSTY & FRIEDA

My dogs?

They were very good watch dogs! We could control them like robots with any verbal command.

“Stop!” and they stopped dead in their tracks, waiting for their next command.

Period!

Except….

…when it came to Fahrenheit, for some reason.

Not sure why.

They both let it be known that they were going to be proactively, very unfriendly toward him . Forget it.

Seriously! Their hackles would go up, and their growl would be extraordinarily focused on him with their eyes.

There was just something about him that animals did not like one bit!

When he came over, we would put our first dog, Rusty, a female German Sheperd / Australian Sheep Dog mix, into the bedroom and close the door, to keep her at bay while he was present.

For the duration of his presence, she’d be growling, barking, and clawing incessantly at that door as though she wanted to attack him as viciously as she could.

It was strange how she was never that upset with any other visitor. Only Fahrenheit.

And Frieda, our second dog, German Shepherd, pure bred?

Far more manageable, but I still wouldn’t trust her left alone in a room unsupervised with him.

–B-THE REST OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM

Even the neighborhood animals of squirrels, raccoons, and feral cats, got bionic in their escape velocity in leaving the immediate vicinity whenever he’d arrive in the area—like the calm before the storm, they could tell something ominous was present or soon forthcoming, and they ran off to hide.

If animals had an audible Civil Defense system like human societies do, their alarms would be going off constantly just tracking his whereabouts.

There would never be a moment of silence as long as he was present.

It makes me wonder if he ever visited the zoo, and if so, how did those animals react to his presence?

II—FAHRENHEIT AND PEOPLE

Although people did not scurry away from Fahrenheit the way animals did, I’m sure there are plenty of people who wished they had.

I know : I’m one of them.

Even my father tried to wake me up when he asked me, “Why you hangin’ out with this guy? It’s obvious he’s a couple cans short of a six-pack!”

He used that phrase to describe Fahrenheit more than once.

But the reason we hung out with him was because he always ( and undeservedly so ) had a car, money and weed, which meant that we never had to depend on our parents to transport us to and from our locations—especially if they saw the locations we wanted to “visit”.

Trust me : no parents allowed in those places.

–A-STEAMROLLERS, GARAGES, AND CADILLACS

For some unknown reason, Fahrenheit’s mother actually loved him.

We could never figure out why, since he showed her absolutely no love whatsoever.

He was the laziest and most ungrateful kid I ever saw : he didn’t want to do “Jack Shit”—mow the lawn, wash dishes, shovel snow, do laundry, absolutely nothing!

In return for doing nothing around the house, his mom bought him one car after another, and no matter how many cars he wrecked, his mom was right there, writing another check to buy him another car; and she never bought him any extremes such as brand new or old clunkers.

Instead, every car she bought him was used but in mint condition—67 Camaro, 69 Camaro, 71 Caprice, An early-1970’s Cadillac ( I forget what year it was), and even a mid-1960’s Dodge Coronet, which died and he abandoned in a gas station parking lot in Madison, Wisconsin.

At that moment in time, during this story, he had a black Chevy Camaro, but I forget if it was the 1967 or 1969, but the passenger-side door was bashed in, so passengers riding shotgun had to enter in from the driver’s side and climb over the gear shift in between the bucket seats.

—-1-THE CALL

It was a summer Saturday afternoon, and Fahrenheit called me up to tell me that he got a new car : in this case, a Cadillac, fully-loaded with every option “under the sun”.

“Ah, cool!” I exclaimed, “Pick me up and let’s take a ride over to Lost Horizons. I saved up enough money to buy the smallest Steamroller they got, which is like fifteen bucks, or so.”

“I’ll be over in a little while.” he said, as he hung up the phone, and I went to sit outside on the front porch waiting for his arrival.

—-2-His Arrival

A few minutes later, he arrived — only, in his beat up Camaro, instead of the Cadillac.

Understandably, after his elated state of mind when he called me to tell me the good news, I just assumed that he’d arrive in the Cadillac he was raving about only moments earlier.

I stood up to walk down the stairs as I saw him pull into our driveway.

He put the car in park and exited the vehicle, so that I could crawl over the drivers seat , and gear shift, to get to the passenger seat.

Once I was in and situated, and he re-entered the car, and sat in the drivers’ seat, I looked over at him facetiously and said, “Nice Cadillac, Fair! Check out the amenities…bashed in passenger door, a visqueen window, no air conditioning. Nice!”

“Shut the fuck up! You’re real funny!” he interrupted.

“Well, where’s the fuckin’ Cadillac, dude?” I laughed. “You called to tell me about the thing, so, I assumed you would have arrived in it. But no.”

“Nah. The ol’ lady said the insurance doesn’t kick in until Monday, so I have to finish the weekend driving this thing.” he replied.

“Where’s it at?” I asked.

“Back home; in the garage.” he said, “We’ll check it out when we get back from Horizons.”

“Cool.” I said, “Let’s bolt.”

So, he backed out of the driveway, and started driving eastward on my street, 44th Place, heading toward the Frontage Road that runs alongside First Avenue.

—3-A Surprise

As we rolled slowly down the street, he reached into his right pants pocket, and pulled out a bag of weed and said in a not-too-convincing Jamaican accent, “I got a surprise! Check this out : Jamaican, mun!”

“Whoa!” Where’d ‘ja get that?” I asked all intrigued.

“K.T.” he replied, who was a connection we had who lived on the other side of Lyons.

“Seriously?” I asked “How much?”

“Twenty five.” he replied.

Back then, in the mid-1970’s, the main thing on the street was “Mexican” which sold for $15 per ounce—or “lid” as they were called in the world of slang.

My guess? The THC content of Mexican was probably in the mid to upper single digits; whereas Jamaican was noticeably more potent ( probably in the low teens) , and better-tasting and therefore cost more.

$10 more per ounce : $25 per lid.

But it was worth the extra cost.

In any case, Fahrenheit gave me the bag to run my fingers through the “buddage”, as we often called it, and drool in anticipation of a bowl out of the virgin pipe of the Steamroller I was about to purchase.

—-4-At THE HEAD SHOP : LOST HORIZONS

The headshop was over on Ogden Avenue, about a block west of Joliet Avenue, on the south side of Ogden.

We walked in, and heard the WXRT radio station playing on the store’s stereo system, and we smelled the fragrance of strawberry incense, and saw the black light posters on display on the wall.

The place was just so psychedelic.

The man who owned the shop, Ron, was a pretty cool guy.

Fair and I walked in, and I immediately headed for the glass case where all the glass pipes were on display.

“Hey, Ron! What’s happenin’, sir!” I said as I leaned over the glass case to peruse the merchandise in search of my Steamroller pipe, hoping he hadn’t sold it on me..

There it was. Looking all pretty, with a tiny white tag that read $14.99.

“So, what can I do for you gents, today?” he asked, doing his thing.

“That bad boy right there!” I said, pointing at the smallest of three Steamrollers. “I want it!”

Ron opened the rear of the case, reached in, and grabbed the pipe off the shelf, and placed it in front of me.

“Oh, and definitely some screens, too, for sure.” I added.

“Comin’ right up.” Ron replied reaching into a different display to retrieve a pack of screens—which, back then,were five in a pack. Nowadays, I think it’s three, maybe?

Anyway. Fair bought some strawberry-flavored rolling papers and some “Pimp Oil”, he called it—it was like a fragrance you squirt or spray into the heating/air conditioning vents in your dashboard, and every time you kick on the blower motor, the entire cabin fills up with the smell of whatever scent you put into the vents, such as strawberry, vanilla, lavendar, and whatever other scents they had available at that time.

We got all the things we needed, paid for them, and out the door we went.

I wanted so bad to sit out in the parking lot, and fill a bowl right there, but Fahrenheit countered with, “Nah, let’s just get back to my house, and we’ll fire up a brand new bowl in my brand new Cadillac…well, not brand new…but it might as well be, since it’s such in beautiful shape. Just wait ’til you see it!”

So, he started the engine, pulled out of his parking spot and we were on our way to his house.

—-5-BACK AT FAHRENHEIT’S HOUSE

Fahrenheit lived on Konrad Avenue, a few houses from the corner of the second block south of Ogden Avenue. I think his front yard was only one of two yards that had a chain link fence around it.

We pulled up in front of his house and exited the car, and we opened the gate and entered the front yard, and as we got within five feet, or so, from his “front” door—which was really on the side of the house—Fahrenheit said to me, “Wait right here. I’ll be right out!”

With that he went into the house as I stayed outside in the gangway, waiting for him to re-emerge.

Then, I heard muffled yelling going on—muffled because it was happening inside his house behind closed doors and windows.

But it sounded pretty heated!

Suddenly, the door swung open, and I heard her continuing to yell from somewhere in the house, something along the lines of, “…and get your lazy ass out there and mow that friggin’ lawn, right now! It’s startin’ to look like a fuckin’ jungle out there!

And she was correct. The grass was getting quite tall, and definitely needed a mowing.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” he said so dismissively to her as he shut the door behind himself, exiting the house.

“Come on! Let’s go check it out!” he said to me as he jiggled the keys in his hand, and started walking toward the garage in the back yard.

As I followed Fair in tow, I couldn’t help but notice how his grass was tall enough to where he might not be able to mow it with a normal walk behind mower; that it was starting to look more like a job for a tractor with multiple decks.

—-6-In The Garage : Meeting The Car

Several strides later, Fahrenheit opened his garage door, walked in, turned on the lights, and said as I entered, “Behold!…Ain’t she a beaut’?”

And she was.

Looking all clean, shiny, dent-free, and not a spec of rust as far as I could see, although, it has to be noted that I was looking at the car’s body in less-than-ideal lighting conditions, being under a roof, behind walls and closed doors and covered windows, and illuminated only by the dim lumens of a 50-watt incandescent bulb, mounted on the wall.

Despite the inability to visually verify the “pristine-ness” of the car’s paint condition, given all of Fahrenheit’s mother’s previous choices in cars for her son, there was no reason to suspect that this one car was somehow going to be of any lesser quality than any of her previous choices.

I took it on blind faith that this car, as well, was in mint condition.

The car was backed into the garage with the front end facing the overhead door that lead out to the alley, and the rear end facing the wall the faced the back yard.

He walked over to the driver’s door, and I, to the passenger’s door.

“Hop in.” he said as he opened the driver’s door, and reached for the unlock button to unlock the passenger door.

I heard the click of the “unlocking”, and I opened the door, quite impressed with the luxury of amenities that were immediately noticeable.

The leather seats looked billowy like they’d be as soft as a pillow. The dashboard had simulated woodgrain trim; it had air conditioning; power windows; power seats; power steering; power everything!

“Nice, Fair!” I said as I sat down in the passenger seat.

“I know!” he replied, with a big, shit-eatin’ grin on his face, all elated about Monday when he can shed the wrecked Camaro and start driving in style and comfort in the Caddy!

Even the smell of the car was unique in that the previous owners must not have been smokers, since there was no stale smoke odor that’s commonly embedded in the fabric of cars whose owners smoked while inside the vehicle.

But not this car.

The obvious non-smoker status of its previous owners ( even the evidently-unused ash tray was virgin in that it showed no signs of any tar buildup from ashes and extinguished cigarettes ) endowed the car to a degree with it’s original “new car” scent, which is largely the smell of the fabric or leather used in the vehicle’s interior’s coverings such as carpets and cloth or leather seats, and a foam-like ceiling, that definitely absorbs tobacco odors over time.

But not this car.

It was clean, through and through. I’m assuming that even the trunk was immaculate—although I don’t remember ever seeing the trunk. The vehicle was obviously garage kept, and probably driven by a little old lady only on Sundays on her way to church.

“Dude!” I said pulling out my pipe and screens from the bag . You got a new car, I got a new pipe! Let’s celebrate!”

I retrieved one of the screens from the package and put it into the bowl, and handed him the pipe to fill up with a bowl of that new-fangled “Jamaican” stuff that’s all the rage of recent history. Let’s find out why.

He pulled out his baggie and proceeded to extract a bud from the bag, and break it up into a finer pieces for smoother smoking in a pipe.

While he prepped the smoke for the bowl, I looked around the vehicle in relative awe of the luxuries it offered.

“Wow, Fair. This is really nice!” I said, continuing to admire the vehicle’s interior.

“Yes, it is!” he agreed, with a smile on his face, as he was about to light the bowl and take the first hit, and suddenly stopped short of doing so, and handed it to me, instead, and said, “Your bowl; you’re first hit!”

“Don’t mind if I do! I appreciate that!” I said, as I gladly accepted the offer, and pulled out my own lighter and “Flicked My Bic®” and took that hit in ultra slowly, since I knew that with a brand new screen in a virgin bowl, I was going to get a massive hit.

And I did!.

I coughed my brains out, too, as I handed the pipe to him.

Cough! Cough! Cough!

“Wow! [cough! cough!] That shit [cough! cough!] really expands [cough! cough!] in your lungs, [cough! cough!] like a Mother Fucker, [cough! cough!] doesn’t it?” I said, in a cough-broken sentence, continuing to expunge more tiny little wisps of yet un-exhaled smoke with each cough.

“We’re about to find out.” Fahrenheit gleefully said, as he followed suit, and took what I would call an ultra-mega power hit—enough to knock out an elephant!

Now, it was his turn to cough, cough, cough, as he handed the pipe back to me.

Having nothing to drink to calm the harsh on the throat from the previous mega hit, I really wasn’t ready to take another hit yet.

“But this is Jamaican, mun! I need to go for the gusto, and try to get as baked as possible, even if I end up coughing for five minutes straight!” is what I was thinking as I took the bowl into my hand. “It’s now or never!”

I put the pipe’s mouthpiece over my mouth and and my left hand over the carburetor, fired up the lighter with my right hand, placed the flame on top of the bowl, and took an extremely slow, but extremely large Fahrenheit-style hit, and tried to hold it in as long as I could.

But it was a monster hit, and it was not going to remain contained in my lungs much longer, as the forcefully-stifled coughs began leaking out in tiny semi-coughs, becoming less stifled and releasing more exhaled smoke with each violent coughing fit.

Back and forth the bowl went as the vehicle’s interior was filling up with a Cheech-and-Chong sized plume of smoke.

We almost couldn’t see each other — despite being only about a foot away from each other, the smoke was starting to become that thick.

We both traded coughing fits while passing the pipe back and forth.

Suddenly,….

—-7-His Mom Invades The Garage

The entrance door to the garage suddenly swung open violently, slamming wildly against the wall, causing the studs to shake!

“This woman is pissed!” I’m thinking to myself as I looked into the passenger-side, sideview mirror at her as she walked from the garage’s entrance door, to the driver’s door, of the mint Cadillac that she bought for him, as she was coming into the garage to give him a piece of her mind, regarding his laziness.

As Fahrenheit realized she was coming, he panicked and placed the bowl under the seat, as he rolled the window down so his mother could talk to him ( or, more accurately, yell at him!), about whatever was upsetting her, which, in this case, was everything evil he “does” do—and everything good that he “won’t” do.

What a scene! That cloud of smoke that had built up over the past few minutes, was definitely worthy of a scene in a Cheech and Chong movie.

When he opened that driver’s side window, the vacuum sucked out that monster cloud, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if his mom caught a buzz in the aftermath.

As the cloud dispersed, and I could see his mom using her hands to “sweep” away as much of the cloud as possible, as she began her rant.

From where I was sitting, I could only see her lips as they ragged on about him needing to get his shit together or “get the fuck out[!]”. Her lips were moving at roughly 90 miles per hour and non-stop throughout the whole speech!

“You lazy bum! I buy you car after car, and you jam it right up my ass! Well, I got news for ya’, bub! That shit ain’t happenin’ no more! Got it!? Now you get your sorry little ass out there right now and you mow that freakin’ lawn, or you might as well pack your bags right now, and get the fuck out!…..”

I almost thought I was in some kind of comedy show watching her faceless lips move that rapidly in her rant to him.

Suddenly, as rapidly as she came out of nowhere to express her angry feelings to her one and only son, Fahrenheit, she stopped talking and stormed out of the garage and slammed the door shut on the way out.

—-8-The Aftermath of Her Outburst

It was kind of eerie that immediately after her departure, there was this short lull of absolute silence between us, as though neither one of us had any idea of what to say about her impromptu outburst.

It was actually quite intense.

On the one hand, I can’t blame her : she gave him everything, and he gave her nothing but deliberate and inconsiderate grief.

On the other hand, …

Heck, there is no “other hand”.

He was being an ungrateful son toward an undeserved amount of love coming from an otherwise obviously-self-less mother.

Then, with a disturbing amount of indifference to her feelings, he just grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and nonchalantly said, “She’ll get over it.”

I found that kind of creepy.

“Fuck it, let’s smoke a bowl, man!” he said as though nothing negative or out of the ordinary had just taken place.

Maybe in his fatherless household, that wasn’t out of the ordinary.

I just stared at him, wondering why he was the way he was.

—-9-Shattered “Dreams”

“Oh! I forgot to show you!” he said all excited and suddenly changing the subject to something completely unexpected, “Check this out!”

With that, he reached with his left hand to tweak the buttons mounted on the side of the driver’s seat, that controlled the power seats.

The seat began to move backward.

“Power seats!” he exclaimed with a grin on his face. “Fuckin’ awesome, or what?”

Then, he pressed the button to make the seat go back forward to its original position, where he could reach the pedals, whereas, too far back, and he couldn’t reach them.

He just wanted to show me the feature.

But, as the seat was returning to its original position we suddenly heard something that sounded like it was under pressure, but the sound was only momentary as it quickly ended with the sound of shattering glass, at which point he stopped the forward movement.

“What the…?” I thought immediately after hearing that sound.

“Fair?” asked.

“Yeah?” he replied.

“What was that sound? Where is my bowl?” I continued on.

He looked at me with genuine concern in the look in his eyes, as he realized that he might have just crushed my Steamroller with the power seats.

Slowly, but cautiously, he reached under the seat and we both heard the sound of pieces of broken glass rattling around under the seat.

“Fair…you didn’t…” I started to ask wondering if that was the sound of my pipe breaking.

“Yeah, I think I did.” he interrupted immediately upon feeling the glass on his fingertips.

“Ah, man! What the fuck, Fair?!” I said all pissed off, “That’s sixteen bucks you owe me. And, no, I don’t want a lid of Mexican. I want a fucking steamroller!”

I just shook my head in disbelief that I only had the thing something like a half hour, and already it was destroyed.

I moaned on and on in disappointment in the way that turned out.

“Dude! I’ll get you another fuckin’ pipe!” he countered with a degree of impatience in his voice.

“I only had the son-of-a-bitch, what…a half hour? And it’s trashed already! I might as well have thrown it down on the sidewalk as hard as I could, just outside the front door of Horizons! ‘Cause I’m not gonna have it anymore an hour from now.”

“Kshhh!” I said mimmicking the sound of shattering glass and the motion of tossing the pipe onto the ground, “There’s fifteen bucks down the drain! What a fucking waste!”

“Alright, alright, alright!” he interrupted, in an attempt to stop the flood of complaining, “For now, let’s just drop it, and let’s roll a fatty and we’ll smoke a doob with strawberry papers. I get paid next week, we’ll….. go over to Horizons and get you your pipe then, or whatever.”

“Or whatever.” I sarcastically repeated his words implying that I wasn’t going to hold my breath, that’s for sure.

—-10-Changing Gears and Other Distractions

To hopefully change the subject as soon as possible, he turned on the car’s stereo to show off the sound system in the car.

“Killer stereo, too.” he said as he reached for the volume knob and started to turn it up real loud.

While the tunes were window-shatteringly loud, he rolled that joint and kept my bitchin’ to a minimum, as far as his ability to hear it was concerned.

—-11-Brake Torque in Reverse

Once the joint was rolled, we smoked about half of it while we continued to listen to the radio at maximum volume levels, passing the joint back and forth and then, mid-doobie, he suddenly turned the radio down to a level to where he could be heard talking when he said to me, “Hey, Floyd, have you ever seen a brake torque in reverse?”

“No, Fair, I haven’t.” I replied as indifferently as I could, since I had absolutely no interest whatsoever in seeing one of those even if I was in a good mood, much less in a bad mood; and, believe me, I was now officially in a bad mood, and for good reason.

“They’re really cool! Here, check it out.” he said as he put his car in reverse with his left foot hard on the brake and his right foot increasingly harder and harder on the accelerator pedal at the same time, causing one tire to spin and burn rubber in place while the brakes prevented the car from actually moving in any direction making the rubber squeal and the rubber to literally melt into the concrete of the garage slab.

The sound of the engine slowly raised higher and higher as the engine’s RPM’s increased from two or three thousand RPM’s to more like four or five thousand “R’s” ( as they’re often called for short ), and the spinning tire was literally burning and melting the tire’s rubber into the cement and that was causing thick black smoke to build up, so, now, there wasn’t only normal carbon monoxide building up, but also the toxic “lung mud”: of thick black smoke coming from the burning rubber of the spinning tires.

Unlike the smoke emanating from the Camaro outdoors, which has a place to escape to and dissipate , the smoke inside his garage had no place to escape to and thus built up to a “smoke-inhilation” level of absurdity. It was starting to make me gag!

It would have been a choke fest to breathe that amount of pollution into one’s lungs.

Moreover, visibility in the garage was reduced to about 12 inches with how thick the smoke was.

Suddenly….

He must have inadvertently allowed too much pressure to be released from the brake pedal because the car suddenly lunged backwards, and hit the garage wall behind us that faced the back yard.

All of a sudden, there was an increase in the amount of sunlight leaking into the garage’s interior, now that one of the walls had literally been separated from the garage’s foundation.

Interestingly, the collision of the vehicle’s rear bumper with the garage wall did not result in the car putting a hole in the garage wall, but rather, it literally knocked the entire east wall off the studs, and the bottom of the wall was literally “swung” out into the yard by about six to 12 inches, which really messed up the integrity of the structure by making various points very weak and vulnerable to distortions due to pressures on unsupported points in the walls and the four sections of the pitched roof.

Realizing he hit the wall, he immediately put the car in drive, and pulled forward to get away from the wall.

Returning to his original position, he put the car in park and killed the engine.

“What the fuck, Fair? What did you do?” I asked, instinctively knowing this was not a minor accident.

He just looked at me speechlessly for a moment, and then turned to exit the vehicle, as I immediately followed suit and exited the car via the passenger-side door.

As we both got out of the car, we could immediately hear the sound of the rafters above our heads stressing out with frightening creaks that sounded like the garage wanted to collapse in on itself.

“Not with us still inside.” I’m hoping as I immediately headed for the entrance door.

“Uh, oh, Fair!” I said, at first, in a mild panic in that moment that I feared we could be trapped inside the garage if that door didn’t open enough for us to exit the garage, which it was frighteningly stiff to open—it almost didn’t want to open the first six inches or so.

Once we got past that point, the door opened a bit easier, and we didn’t waste one nano-second getting the hell out of there.

We both stepped outside, and we heard more scary creaks, thinking we might have just avoided being crushed to death by a fallen structure.

We both stood there in the yard, looking at the garage , which was obviously off kilter—it was going to collapse if that weight issue wasn’t addressed ASAP.

“I think you better get your ma.” I said to him, as I stared in disbelief at what I was seeing.

In slow motion, he started walking backward toward the side door, wondering if he was going to have a garage five minutes later, and if not, whether or not his mint-condition Cadillac still inside the soon-to-be-collapsed garage, will still be driveable post-collapse, after a skid steer, wheel loader or an excavator with the appropriate attachments removes the garage from on top of the otherwise-trapped vehicle.

It’s certainly not going to be in mint condition, even if it does survive.

The hood, roof and trunk are all likely to have all kinds of small and huge dents or gashes of all kinds on them, depending on what landed on them.

I walked out into the alley to view the garage from that angle, and the garage was visually in trouble; anybody driving by would be able to easily see that.

—-12-My Escape

It suddenly dawned on me that if I thought Fahrenheit’s mom was pissed when she stormed into the garage moments earlier, about his laziness, she was going to go ballistic when Mike came into the house and announced to his mother, “I think the garage is going to collapse with my car inside!”

“Do I really want to be here, when she comes out to see the damage he did?” I silently wondered to myself, as I pondered the benefits of leaving the immediate vicinity—immediately!

Although I didn’t run, per se, down the alley, I did walk rather quickly to reach the end of the alley ASAP and be out of sight by the time his mom would come outside to see the problem Fahrenheit caused with his failed performance of in-garage automobile acrobatics.

As I reached the end of the alley and turned the corner, I lit a cigarette and started walking back home, which was only four blocks away, as I contemplated the events that just unfolded in the last 20 minutes, or so :

“Fahrenheit destroyed my brand new bowl, and he wrecked his car and garage in moments flat.”

I’m not sure if that was the 18th time, or the 30th, where my dad asked me yet again, “Why you hangin’ out with this guy? It’s obvious he’s a couple cans short of a six-pack!”

UPDATE ON THE GARAGE : Fahrenheit had an uncle who came by with a bunch of bottle jacks, and used them to lift the wall back onto the studs.

Garage saved.

And the Caddy? The bumper was scuffed; but no body damage.

–B-DANNY SHOOT’S FAHRENHEIT IN THE CHEST

Another hilarious story that I, unfortunately, did not personally witness, but I’ll share with the best of my knowledge according to my memory of what others told me.

Memories fade; details get fuzzy.

Anyway…

I believe present was, of course, Fahrenheit, Danny ( a friend and a drummer I used to jam with ), Jerry, and a guy named Kevin ( a connection of ours )

They were all over at Danny’s house in the basement.

There was one of those bench seats that you find in a passenger van, down in Danny’s basement. Where it came from, I have no idea. But Fahrenheit was sitting on the seat, while others were sitting on regular chairs.

Also worthy of note, Danny’s father was a police officer in town, and, as such, had a cache of weapons in a safe in the basement .

Well, one cold, winter day, while Fahrenheit was in one of his “I-like-to-get-under-people’s-skins” moods, and getting on Danny’s nerves, Danny went and grabbed one of his dad’s shotguns, and a 12 gauge shell, which he emptied all of the BB’s inside, and just left the wadding.

He, then, walked up to Fahrenheit, ( who was sitting on that van bench seat ),. pointed the weapon at his chest, at a range of about 12 to 18 inches, and said, “I’ve had enough of you, Fair!” and pulled the trigger.

Boom!

The weapon went off and the force literally blew Fahrenheit off his chair and unzipped his zipped jacket.

No doubt, Fahrenheit saw his life flash before his eyes in that moment as he was thrown to the floor by the force of the gun powder in the 12 gauge shell!

I know, you’re probably thinking, “What kind of friends do you have , Floyd?”

LOL!

–C-DANNY “CYCLOPSES” FAHRENHEIT

Another hilarious Danny/Fahrenheit story involves the same two guys in the same place : Danny’s basement.

In this episode :…. ( LOL )

Danny and Fahrenheit were in Danny’s basement, playing ping pong, and Fahrenheit was, as usual, perverting the art of whatever he’s doing into an act of aggression or stupidity or both.

Specifically, every time Danny would paddle the ball back onto Fair’s side of the table, Fahrenheit would smack that ball as hard as he could, causing it to bounce violently back onto Danny’s side of the table, and usually bouncing up and hitting the ceiling with an absurd amount of force, and then ricocheting off into some crazy direction where it would land in a spot where it would remain unseen and undiscovered—hence, unrecovered—for months ( e.g., on the floor behind a group of boxes; under the stand of an unused aquarium; wherever )

“Knock it off, Fair!” Danny said, grabbing yet another ping pong ball out of the bucket so he wouldn’t have to go searching for the ones that bounced wildly out of bounds.

Again, Fahrenheit doesn’t listen to Danny’s multiple pleas, and continues hitting the balls with a ridiculous amount of force, causing them to bounce all over the basement.

Finally, Danny had enough….again.

Oh no, not the shotgun again. LOL.

No, this time, Danny thought of something far less lethal, yet equally rewarding and comically entertaining in its effect ( well, rewarding for Danny, anyway, and any onlookers, enjoying the long-overdue karma for Fahrenheit ).

“That’s it, Fair! I’m sorry to do this, but you must be punished!” and Danny grabbed Fahrenheit by the back of the head with his left hand, and the swinging light above the ping pong table with his right hand, and said something like , “Forehead, meet lightbulb!” and he pressed the blazing hot bulb against Fahrenheit’s forehead, leaving a one-inch round burn mark on Fahrenheit’s forehead, making it look like he had a third eye.

For the next few weeks Fahrenheit’s other nickname was “Cyclops”

I know, “What kind of friends do you have , Floyd?”

LOL!

–D-THE “SLOW DOWN, YOU ASSHOLE!” STORY

Yet, another personally-unwitnessed story is the one where he’s in one of his Camaros—not sure which one.

In this story, he’s driving, I believe, southbound on First Avenue, in Riverside, heading into Lyons. He’s moving at a pretty good clip of around 60 or 70 miles per hour, in a 35 mile-per-hour zone.

Simultaneously, unseen and just around the curve on First Avenue, is a Riverside cop, heading northbound, and as Fahrenheit blazes by the cop going in the opposite direction, they saw the cop stick his head slightly out his driver’s-side window and shout, “Slow down, you asshole!”.

But when they tell the story, they always emphasize the Doppler Effect of the second syllable of the word, “asshole” as the decibels rapidly decrease as the distance between their two cars rapidly increases.

“Slow Down, you asshooooollll!”

Why didn’t the cop just bang a U-turn, flash his lights and siren and pursue Fahrenheit and give him a ticket?

I’m not sure.

I suppose one possible reason could be that the cop already had someone in the back seat, and couldn’t deal with two separate crimes at the same time; or, it was the end of the shift on a long, harrowing day, and the cop was on his way back to the station to punch out  ( or however they log in their work shifts ) and he just didn’t want the headache of one more asshole to write up; or maybe there was a lot of traffic behind Fahrenheit, and the act of pursuing him would have entailed an unnecessarily dangerous amount of maneuvering in and out of lanes trying to catch up to him.

Who knows? There could be any number of reasons the cop never turned around to pursue him.

But I always thought the mimicking of the Doppler Effect when dramatizing the rapidly-fading sound of the cop’s voice as they zoomed by him going in the opposite direction, was always a funny way to tell the story.

“Slow Down, you asshooooollll!”

LOL.

–E-THE M80 STORY / TWO ACCIDENTS STORY

In yet another personally-unwitnessed story is almost a two-for in that there are actually two separate stories, same day, same culprit : Fahrenheit.

In this episode, the timeframe is within a few days of July 4th, since one of the two stories involves fireworks.

You can almost envision where this story is going.

In any case, two of the several people I’m told were present were Fahrenheit, and another mutual friend, Jeff, who was nicknamed Bubba.

They were in Fahrenheit’s car with Bubba, I believe, in the back seat as they were driving southbound on First Avenue approaching Ogden Avenue.

Bubba had a small bag of fireworks, which contained a bunch of M-80’s, which, I think, are just a hair under a quarter stick of dynamite.

Bubba pulled one out of the bag to show it to Fahrenheit, and he held it up to show it to him

Fahrenheit, being Fahrenheit, couldn’t allow a golden opportunity like that one to pass without him putting his “golden touch” on the moment, by taking the cigarette lighter he had in his hand, and he quickly lit the fuse.

“What the fuck, Fair! What did you do?” Bubba asked in a panicked tone of voice, staring at the lit fuse.

“Get rid of that fucking thing!” the person sitting next to Bubba exclaimed.

Unfortunately, for the driver approaching Fahrenheit’s car from the right lane, when Bubba tossed the M80 out the passenger side of their car, the mini-bomb entered the open rear window of the victim’s car, and exploded seconds later, causing that driver to lose control of his car and crash into a ditch along the road.

Realizing what they had done, they realized that they had to flee the scene ASAP!

Somehow, karma, fate, or whatever you want to call it, played a role in forcing Fahrenheit to face the music regarding the matter of the rogue M80 that blew up in that one driver’s car.

How did he get caught?

What had happened was that minutes after the M80 incident, Fahrenheit got into another accident, but this one, he wound up at the police station to fill out a bunch of accident report-related paperwork.

Unbeknownst to Fahrenheit, the M80 victim, was also in the police station, filling out a police report regarding his own accident.

By some chance, that victim, looked out a window and recognized Fahrenheit’s car, which was in the police department’s parking lot, and he told one of the cops, “Officer, the car that threw the M80 into my car is in the parking lot!”

The cops couldn’t have been more delighted to know the culprit was already inside the police station.

They figured out who the car belonged to, and went straight into the interrogation room where Fahrenheit was talking to other police officers about his second accident.

There he was : in the police station, getting written up for causing two separate car accidents within the span of 10 minutes.

That was not Fahrenheit’s day, that’s for sure.

Of course, there’s those words of wisdom from my dad, “Why you hangin’ out with this guy? It’s obvious he’s a couple cans short of a six-pack!”

–F-THE CHEVY CAPRICE AT THE BERWYN CARNIVAL STORY

In another case of Fahrenheit putting his touch on a given situation, we had gone to the carnival at Berwyn Faire.

At that time, he was driving a 1971 Cevy Caprice, silver with black interior.

When we were leaving the carnival, he was having a problem with his car keys—they didn’t seem to want to open the driver’s side door.

“Do me a favor, and try opening your door with the keys.” he said to me as he tossed me the set of keys.

I had the same problem : the key didn’t want to open my door, either.

“Let me try again.” he said to me, motioning me to toss the keys back to him, which I did.

At first, he was still unable to get the key to turn to unlock the door.

Suddenly, the key turned and the door unlocked, and he got in and leaned over to open the passenger-side door with the inside handle.

We got in, closed the doors, he inserted the key into the ignition, but it wouldn’t turn there, either.

“What the…” he said, all confused why his keys weren’t opening doors or starting engines.

Fahrenheit always had artificial fragrances coming out of the vehicle’s vent system to “cover up” the smell of the 24/7 pot-smoking activities in his car, and he had two large speakers in the back window.

I neither smelled the fragrance nor saw the speakers in the rear window ledge.

“Fair, I don’t think this is your car, dude!” I said as I looked around the interior, and pointed toward the rear window. “I mean, I don’t smell any pimp oil, and I don’t see any speakers in the back there. This ain’t your car, Fair!”

We got into the wrong car.

Same year, make, model, and color—only a different VIN number and license plates.

So, what does he do?

“Let’s smoke a bowl!” he exclaimed with a laugh—and he wasn’t kidding.

So, he quickly filled the pipe, fired it up, and passed it to me, and we smoked that whole thing and left the dude’s car filled with a huge plume of smoke just wafting around inside, looking to settle into the fabric of the upholstery and the carpet.

If we would have gotten caught inside that guy’s car, I imagine the cops could have written it up as attempted grand theft auto.

I know, I know : “Why you hangin’ out with this guy? It’s obvious he’s a couple cans short of a six-pack!”

G—THE BUST AT THE HOFFMAN TOWER

Here’s another trippin’ story.

—-1-Those Present

The group included : Fahrenheit, Danny, Jerry, a young lady named Sheri, and, of course, myself.

—-2-Acquired and Consumed Our Doses ( LSD )

We had scored some “Mickey Mouse” blotter, and we were starting to “peak”—i.e., when the drug takes maximum effect.

—-3-Danny’s Illegal Car

We were in Danny’s illegal car.

I use the word “illegal”, because Danny didn’t have a license yet. He was either only 15, or he was 16, but still didn’t have his drivers license.

Either way, he somehow convinced some small used car dealer on Western Avenue in the city, to sell him an old Rambler from the 1960’s.

The license plates on the vehicle? Totally fictitious.

Danny had been getting away with it for quite some time at that point.

He parked it in a not-too-well monitored semi-abandoned parking lot a few blocks away, so that his parents didn’t find out about it.

—-4-Our Agenda and Itinerary : Acquire Some Cannabis

It was night time and we needed to go to a friend’s house and get an ounce of weed—in this case, Columbian, for $35 a lid.

So, we all jumped into Danny’s Rambler and we took a ride to our connection’s house.

The layout of who was sitting where in the car was : Danny driving; Jerry, shotgun; Fahrenheit in the back seat, driver’s side; myself, back seat, passenger side; and Sheri sitting in between Fahrenheit and myself.

—-5-One Condition

Our friend was understandably concerned about “traffic” building up around his house when his customers would stop by to pick up whatever goods they “ordered”. To keep the traffic to as inconspicuous a level as possible, he would not allow anyone to come directly to his house, vehicularly speaking.

That is, they needed to walk up from around the corner, or “wherever”, but just no cars in the driveway, or even pulling up out front.

It had to appear to be a “vehicle-free” pickup.

Our friend’s thinking was that the neighbors were far more likely to notice headlights pulling up or the sound of car engines coming and going, with car doors slamming shut, etc., than they would notice two people quietly walking down the sidewalk, where they could silently go to the side door and just walk in.

No knocking; and, be prepared to stay at least 15 minutes. No “drive thru” service. If 15 minutes to a half hour was too much of your time, he wouldn’t sell to you.

I don’t blame him. He didn’t want to draw attention to quantities of brief visitors.

Some neighbors got nothing better to do than stare out the window policing the neighborhood.

He wasn’t having any of that.

Ergo, we had to park down the street by what was known as the Hoffman Tower, along the damn on the Des Plaines River.

—-6-One Weird Sight

We parked the car down by the damn, while Danny and Jerry ( who would otherwise be sitting in the front seat) got out of the car to walk to our connection’s house, leaving Fahrenheit, Sheri, and I, all sitting in the back seat, with no one in the front seat. .

That’s a head-turner.

It was late autumn and going into winter, so the weather outside was not exactly “70 and sunny”, so we stayed in the car, while Jerry and Danny went to pick up the bag of smoke.

Fortunately, because Danny was a humanitarian, he left the keys in the ignition and the engine running, so we could have heat and tunes, while he and Jerry enjoyed real house heat and TV for entertainment, while they were inside the connection’s house engaged in their money-for-pot transaction.

So, there we were : three kids—two of them tripping, since Sheri didn’t dose with us, and was just along for the ride— sitting in the back seat of a running car, with no one in the front seat, and no sign of any other people anywhere in the immediate vicinity—for like, a block.

Really strange!

Anyone driving by, might find that sighting a bit odd : Passengers, but no driver.

“Huh? How does that work?” would have to be the question people would ask themselves upon seeing “chauffer-less” riders sitting in the back seat of a parked car with no one driving it.

——7-Starting To Peak

Meanwhile, as Fair and Sheri were talking back and forth, my LSD-tripping mind suddenly realized that I had launched a good hour ago , or so. So, I was “peaking” as they called it. I was staring at the wall of “Pizza Palace”, a well-known restaurant at that time.

I was seeing non-threatening, tiny amoebas or paisleys crawling up Pizza Palace’s dark brown brick wall.

I was beginning to experience all the visuals associated with LSD trips as my mind was entering an entirely different “realm of thought”.

Jerry and Danny would soon be in the house; Fahrenheit and Sheri were in the car; and I was in a completely different dimension altogether—I was no longer present on Planet Earth.

Well, my body was, yes, but my mind had warp-driven itself well outside our own solar system, that’s for sure.

The music was “ridin’ the waves” and I was “groovin” with my smile getting bigger and bigger by the moment,

What an awesome trip!

If we had exited the car and simply wandered around the dam’s spectator section while Danny and Jerry were inside, we probably would have never been arrested, since observing the river from the damn’s observation point was not only not “illegal”, the observation point was built specifically to encourage people to hang out there—and I don’t remember ever seeing any signs that the dam’s observation point had a “closing time”.

It would have been completely legal to be seen there at 3:00 AM, with no official closing time.

But we didn’t exit the car, because it was chilly out, and we didn’t want to end up freezing our asses off while waiting for Danny and Jerry to return from scoring.

Staying put inside the car, triggered the whole episode. It would have been worth chattering our teeth for a few moments.

—-8-THE BIG RED FLARE

Approximately five minutes, or so, into our “ride in a parked car”, some tune came on the radio that Fahrenheit just absolutely loved.

Now that I think about it, it was either “Eruption” or “Runnin’ With the Devil” by Van Halen. I forget which tune it was, but it was definitely Van Halen, a band that I get absolutely no enjoyment out of whatsoever.

But Fahrenheit did! Big time!

In his “excited dog”-like reaction to the song, he suddenly sat up, leaned over the driver’s seat, and reached for the volume knob, and cranked it to the maximum level.

“Yeah, dude! Van Walin’!” Fahrenheit shouted as he sat back down to a sitting dance, during the blast.

The stereo that was in the Rambler was not the original factory, but some powerhouse car stereo with powerful six-inch Jensen’s, so that music was plenty loud.

In fact, loud enough to attract the attention of you-know-who : the police.

Just the sight of three teens sitting in the back seat of a car with an unoccupied front seat was itself a red flag for the cops.

But the thousand-watt blaring of rock music was also a nice touch that was just way too impossible to ignore.

“He might as well have shot up a big red flare into the sky to announce our suspicious presence.” I thought to myself as I took a momentary glance at Fahrenheit in blaming him as the culprit of all our problems that night.

——9-The Fuzz Arrives

Just as I’m staring at the wall, enjoying my visuals, a bright light is suddenly shining in my eyes, as the squad car had its spotlight on us.

“Oh, fuck! This ain’t good!” I’m thinking as I could see the flashing lights, and Fahrenheit suddenly leaned over the driver’s seat again, this time to turn the radio down—all the way down!

“Shit! What the fuck’s gonna happen now?” I was thinking as I was all paranoid ( and tripping on LSD certainly led to the wildest of thoughts and fears, all of which—fortunately—later proved to be of zero reality ).

As soon as Fahrenheit killed the volume, and rolled the window down, I could hear the sound of the chatter of the police radio going off in the background.

The sound of police radios is never a relaxing thing when you’re a teenager “up to no good” with such activities as smoking weed and dropping acid.

Those sounds and tripping just don’t go together very well.

“What are you folks up to tonight?” the officer asked, as he bent over to take a look to see who was sitting in the back seat of the car.

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to shit in my pants right then and there, or wait until we got to the police station.

He went through the standard motions of asking us who we were in lieu of an actual state I.D., which neither Sheri nor I had, being pre-driver’s age; but Fahrenheit did, in that he had a drivers license.

So, Fahrenheit gave the cops his license, and Sheri and I told the cops our names and where we lived, etc.,

——10-DANNY AND JERRY DITCH THE WEED

From the house that Danny and Jerry were at, it was around a curve and a corner of a building, so there’s no way for them to see the cops until they’ve turned the corner.

As they turned the corner and saw the flashing lights of what was now the presence of two squad cars, since the first cop had requested ( per official protocol, I’m sure ) backup, and they had arrived by the time Danny and Jerry exited the building and emerged from around the corner.

Fortunately, for Danny, they were still approximately 300 feet away from the scene of the cops surrounding his car.

He realized that he needed to ditch the weed, and there was a tree near the road and he flicked it as inconspicuously as possible by that tree, as they nonchalantly continued walking toward the police surrounding his car.

Although they were confident that they weren’t going to get caught with any drugs, Danny was not so confident that his involuntarily-ditched bag of weed would be safe where it landed, since, although it was removed from the beaten path by about 10 feet, the bag could still be seen by anyone walking by whose eyes just happened to randomly land on the bag at the base of the tree—we all like to look at all scenery and the trees in the picture, so to speak—so, a passerby accidentally seeing the bag on the ground was not exactly out of the question.

If I saw a bag on the ground like that, I’m sure I’d investigate.

And there were going to be plenty of people with a chance to see it as the path in question is the very same path that our connection’s other customers take when they park down by the Tower and walk over to his house, and if he averages 10 people each night, that’s 10 people who qualify for a front row seat to seeing Danny’s bag of weed; and if he averages 30 people in a day, that’s 30 people who could find themselves getting a bonus bag just for glancing in the right direction at the right time.

——11-Danny Couldn’t Talk His Way Out of This One

Being that Danny’s father was a cop in town, I can’t tell you the number of times his dad’s law-enforcement position, endowed Danny with some privileges not afforded to working class kids who dads were not politically-connected in that way.

In any case, I believe Danny actually thought he could talk his way out of this one.

Why not? He’d done it before! Was he a smooth talker?

Hardly.

As mentioned in the story of Fahrenheit getting “shot” in the chest by Danny, his father was not only a cop, but a cop in the very town we were getting arrested in.

He wasn’t on shift that night, but he was at home relaxing and enjoying his day off.

That is, until he got a call from the station, from his co-workers with a “come-down-to-the-station-and-pick-up-your-kid-who’s-being-detained-for-the-following-reasons” type of call.

——12-We All Wound Up In Separate Interrogation Rooms

We all ended up at the police station ( shock! ), divided up into separate interrogation rooms.

Danny was in one with his father; Jerry was in a room with Sheri; and yours truly got stuck with Fahrenheit in another room.

——13-I Got Stuck With Fahrenheit & His Razor Blade

Unfortunately, for me, I had to watch Fahrenheit do some really stupid stuff that he seemed to think was not only funny, but he was also under the erroneous assumption that we were the only ones able to see the shenanigans he was up to.

“Hey, Fair, that mirror is actually a two way mirror. They can see what you’re doing!” is what I wanted to tell him, but couldn’t because that would be pointless with Fahrenheit not absorbing even the most rudimentary of sentences..

What was he doing?

Unlike the rest of us, Fahrenheit liked to do any drug he could get his hands on.

In this case, he liked doing “Dummy Dust”, which, I believe, is PCP.

Getting buzzed on that stuff?

He called it “Moonwalking”.

Like cocaine, PCP was handled ( at least, the way Fair did it ) with :

[1] a razor blade for chopping and dividing the product into piles of reasonable doses; and

[2] a straw to snort the product up their noses with.

Well, he had such a razor blade in his wallet, which the cops had no intention of searching, but Fahrenheit did not know that.

In fact, he was convinced the exact opposite was true : that they were going to go through his wallet with a fine-toothed comb, and throw every charge in the book at him once they found that razor blade.

Thus, he wanted to get rid of it by tossing it into the garbage can.

Unfortunately, reaching into the very tight spot where he had the blade hidden in his wallet, he inadvertently ended up cutting himself bad enough to make it bleed .

“Fuck!” he said as he realized he cut his middle finger on his right hand.

“You’re bleedin’, dude!” I said to him as I watched the blood rapidly form a stream and started to drip on the floor.

“Find a napkin or paper towel or somethin’, man. It’s like drippin’ everywhere!” I said in LSD-enhanced horror at his macabre show.

“Watch this!” he said excitedly, and laughing as he started slinging the streams of blood across the room, landing on everything : garbage cans, tables, chairs, walls, you-name-it.

“What the fuck you doin’, Fair?” I mumbled, knowing that the mirror in the room was a two-way mirror and that anyone and everyone could have been standing on the other side of that window watching him act like a total asshole on so many levels.

I was also pointlessly hoping that he’d somehow—if even by accident—regain at least some of his senses and stop behaving like the demented person he really was, if only because I was stuck in the same room as him.

If he had been in any room other than mine, I wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass what he did, as long as it didn’t reflect badly on me, which this asinine behavior certainly did.

“Ah, man, what the fuck!” I silently thought to myself, closing my eyes and shaking my head with my face shamefully facing the floor in total embarrassment in being seen with him while he was in this mode.

——14-No Charges Filed : We All Walk Out Of The Police Station

At some point, a lieutenant was instructed to discharge us without further detainment, and he went to each of the rooms to announce our right to get up and leave.

And we did!

He didn’t have to tell us twice, that’s for sure!

As we each exited the rooms, we saw each other in the hallways, as they led us to the front doors, and told us to have a nice night, and don’t let the door hit us in the ass on the way out.

Moreover, since none of us were being charged with anything, and it wasn’t past curfew, the cops didn’t even call our parents to pick us up.

Walking out into the open air in front of the police station, was such a relief.

The last thing I wanted to do was call my dad, so he can come pick me up at the police station, and then ground me while I’m trippin’.

Thanks, Fair. You’re a real “friend”.

Yes, we had to walk home, although we didn’t actually go home.

We just wandered the neighborhood, laughing our asses off on our way back to our side of town, since we all lived west of First Avenue — i.e., the “West” side of town.

We had a ball, laughing our asses off, once we realized we were out of harm’s way.

But once on our side of town, where were we going?

Home (as defined by one’s parents’ home ) is not a place I wanted to be while in “cartoonland”—as some people were calling it back then, since reality can seem somewhat cartoon-ish when tripping. .

Come to think of it, I don’t remember where we ended up that might. I just know I didn’t go home until probably 2:00 AM or 3:00 AM—somewhere in that neighborhood, in that it was still dark out, and the sun didn’t rise for another three hours, or so, by the time I went to bed. .

——15-No One Went Back For The Ditched Bag of Columbian

Now that I think about it, I don’t remember any of us going back to retrieve Danny’s bag, since we knew he couldn’t do it, himself, if he was in his father’s “custody”.

It’s possible Danny went back later that night, or no one did, and some lucky son-of-a-bitch just found an ounce of Columbian to enjoy.

–H-THE BUST AT ARGONNE NATIONAL LAB WOODS

In yet another case of Fahrenheit-attracting-cops-while-tripping, would be the story of him getting us almost busted at the Argonne National Laboratory in Westmont, Illinois, off of I-55 and Cass Avenue.

——1-Those In The Group

Jerry, Fahrenheit, Chris, Jimbo ( Chris’s neighbor ), and myself.

——2-The Time Frame

The Time frame : late 1970’s or early 1980’s. Somewhere around New Years Eve or Day

——3-The Weather

The Special Element of that day?

The weather.

Specifically, it was unseasonably warm out, as in the upper 60’s or even mid-70’s.

In December or January?

That’s not the norm.

But when it happens, you want to get out and enjoy it.

And that’s exactly what we intended to do.

——4-The Amenities

We already had weed; but we needed to score some blotter and some beer, which we acquired both en route to our ultimate destination— the forest preserve of DuPage County.

——5-Our Destination

Rocky Glenn.

The forest preserve just outside the Argonne National Laboratory in Westmont or Darien, Illinois, south of I-55, along Cass Avenue.

We always loved going to the woods when tripping. The outdoors is where tripping should take place; at least., that’s my experience!

——6-Our Arrival

We parked along Cass Avenue just before the point where the road takes a hard left.

The entrance was in the corner where the “L” in the road was.

There was a Forest Preserve-supplied 55-gallon drum, painted white, and offered as a garbage can for visitors to responsibly deposit their garbage there, instead of leaving it in the woods as litter.

We exited the vehicle with Jerry carrying the case of beer, as we walked past the nearly empty 55-gallon garbage can.

——7-Our Entrance

We fired up a doobie as we walked past the threshold of the entrance way, and walked along the main path for probably around an eighth of a mile, where we came across a clearing a few feet lower in ground level where there was a bunch of flagstone along a creek, that we always joked was “radioactive” and loaded with three-eyed fish, being the likely recipient of “experimental waste water” coming from the lab’s sewage system.

——8-Thanks To Fahrenheit

We all had cottonmouth from smoking weed, and were thirsty enough to start slamming beers, so we “pulled over”, so to speak, ( on foot, of course ) at that flagstone rest area.

Initially, we were all sitting on the flagstone by the creek, in a semi-circle, as we passed around a second joint, cracked open a beer, and discussed what our first “tourist attraction” was going to be.

Over the course of the next 15 minutes, or so, everyone, except myself, stood up and just started stretching their legs, and walking around the immediate vicinity.

——9-Fair Builds a Fire

For whatever reason, Fahrenheit decided to build a fire.

If……it was cold out and we needed heat, or if we were going to cook a meal, or if it was dark out and we needed some kind of lighting, then maybe we might have needed a fire, but it was none of those things, so, we didn’t need to build one in the middle of a sunny day in 70-something degree temperatures at the end of December or the beginning of January in the upper midwest.

But Fahrenheit saw things differently, and he built a fire anyway.

——10-The Cops Show Up ( Did We Expect Anything Less? )

Unfortunately for us, the platoon of security personnel ( some of whom are in tall watchtowers ) who guard the lab and the forest immediately surrounding that lab, saw the tiny little plumes of smoke wafting up out of the tree tops, and in minutes flat, there was a small group of cops on scene, both on horseback and in a K-5 style Chevy Blazer.

While Fahrenheit was by himself by the fire, and I was by myself by the creek, Jerry, Chris and Jimbo were all just grouped together chattering away with each other.

All of a sudden, I heard the all-too-familiar sound of police radio chatter…again, and obviously, thanks to Fahrenheit.

“What…the…fuck!” I silently thought to myself, closing my eyes, and shaking my head, at how much I truly hated Fahrenheit for the shit he pulled that attracted law enforcement that spoiled the fun every single time!.

I think, “If the cops didn’t show up, it was a boring party” was Fahrenheit’s philosophy

——11-I Hid My Stash

With my back still to the cops, as inconspicuously as I could, I slipped my hand into my pants pocket to retrieve all my stash ( weed and blotter , alike—especially the blotter ), and then tucked it under a couple of receding layers of flagstone, with the intention of returning a few days later to retrieve it from under the rocks ( needless to say, I never did, because I didn’t yet have a drivers license so I would have had to ask someone to give me a ride there to go get it—and it is kind of remote, in that once you park at the scene, you still need to walk approximately an eighth of a mile to get to that flagstone landing—and I never did ask anyone to do me that favor).

That would have been 40-plus years ago, having taken place before 1979.

That stash had, no doubt, disintegrated a long time ago with all the weather extremes and animals sniffing and biting at the zip lock baggie it was in.

In any case, after ditching the evidence under the rocks, I stood up and turned around, and joined the others as the cops gathered us all around the fire.

After asking everyone for an I.D., except Chris and I since we didn’t yet have licenses, so it was just our word who we said we were.

——12-We Put The Fire Out With The Beer

“Well, we still need to put this fire out.” one of the cops chuckled, after they pretty much realized we were just a bunch of teens out to have a good time with a case of beer, “And since no one here seems to have a pail to go get some water from the creek, to put the fire out, I have an idea ! What do you say we put the fire out with this case of beer.”

What are we going to say? “No”?

Yeah, I don’t think so.

So, we each reached into the case, retrieved a beer, popped the top, and held it upside down over the fire as we emptied each can one-by-one.

Even after the fire was out, we had to keep emptying cans until all 24 cans were empty.

So, for the next five minutes, or so, all we heard were the sounds, “pssst” ( the can being opened up ) and “glug, glug, glug” as the beer “chugged” it’s way onto the soaked ashes in the now-muddy and bubbly soil.

——13-They Escorted Us Out Of The Woods

Finally, when the last can was completely emptied out, they watched us put all the empty cans back into the case, and then they escorted us out of the woods, watched us deposit the empty case of beer into the 55-gallon drum, and stayed by the entrance way, until they saw us pull away.

——14-We Drove Away

It was as we were pulling away from the woods, that I started to peak, and I was thankful that it wasn’t triggered while in the cops’ temporary, investigative custody

That would have made that far more terrifying.

We got lucky in that we weren’t taken in and having to be bailed out.

Boy, I’ll tell you, there were times that I really hated Fahrenheit!

–I-MY SECOND TO VERY LAST DAY OF HANGING OUT WITH “FAIR”

The end of my time of hanging out with Fahrenheit was just around the corner—only, I wasn’t quite aware of that fortunate fact yet.

The second to the last time I ever hung out with that nightmare of a personality, he called me up, asking me to give him a ride to his boss’ house in LaGrange Park, to go pick up his paycheck.

—-1-My Car’s Master Cylinder Problem

The problem : the master cylinder in my 1965, puke green, Chevy Impala, four-door sedan, was leaking and my brakes were soft and not exactly trustworthy, as I would truly find out the hard way, after listening to Fair’s advice on how to deal with a leaky master cylinder : “just keep pumping the brakes”.

I sat in my driveway, testing his theory that pumping the brakes rapidly built up the needed pressure to stop the car, and when the pedal seemed to be rising with more tightness with each rapid pump, I convinced myself that his advice was do-able.

So, I backed out of my driveway, going ever so slowly as I began to pump rapidly a half block before a planned stop, and that “prescription” did seem to be working, as the car’s brakes did seem to grab once I built up enough pressure for the calipers to squeeze the pads onto the rotors and bring the car to a stop, but the speed at which I drove the car was so ridiculously slow, that it could be argued that I should have had my flashers on to warn people to go around me wherever they could.

But I didn’t. I just drove enragingly slow en route to Fahrenheit’s house, and then to his boss’ house.

All the way there, our journey was problem-free.

However…

—-2-The Yankee Doodle Flag Pole Accident

On the way back home, we were driving southbound on LaGrange Road just north of 31st Street.

About three or four busineeses north of 31st Street, on the east side of Lagrange Road, was a hamburger/hot dog joint called Yankee Doodle, and just as we were within about four or five businesses north of Yankee Doodle, that’s when he suddenly said, “Pull into Yankee Doodle! I wanna get something to eat.”

There was enough distance left to pump up the master cylinder to sufficient power to slow the car down to turn into Yankee’s parking lot.

The place was packed, and the only two spaces open were the second and third spot from the very end, but the second spot was in fromt of the big $10,000 lit up, “Yankee Doodle “ sign, and the third spot was in front of the flag pole on which the American flag flew.

Specifically, the parking lot in front of the restaurant was divided up into two halves, with the lot being divided by a median strip about the width of a typical sidewalk.

So, for every spot facing south, there was another spot directly in front of that vehicle that parks north-facing vehicles.

In the middle of that median-strip, in betweeen the second spot’s north- and south-facing cars, was the large business sign that read “Yankee Doodle” that likely cost in excess of $10,000.

In the third spot’s slot, was the flag pole.

The third slot had no car parked in either the north- or south-facing spots; the second spot had a car parked on the north-facing side.

Something told me to not park in the second slot, but to use the third slot.

I’m so glad that I did because, as I pulled into that spot, the brake pedal went all the way down to the floor, and I panic-pumped as though I had a bionic leg, but it did absolutely no good.

Absolutely no pressure was being built up, and my car was not stopping as my pedal went all the way down to the floor — repeatedly!

“Oh, fuck, Fair!” I said with my eyes wide open like a Barney Fife moment, “We ain’t stopping!”

From that second on, I watched my front end climb over the curb of the median strip; then, I saw the front end hit the flag pole, and I watched the flag pole fall to the ground with no more effort than knocking over a nerf pole.

Even after the flagpole hit the concrete, my car showed no signs of slowing down.

Approximately half way to reaching the other end of the parking lot, I realized there was “nothing going to stop this car except that retainer wall on the south end of the parking lot, or me throwing the car into park while still in motion!”.

I wasn’t going very fast ( maybe five miles per hour) , but I still wasn’t going to crash my car into the retainer wall, so, I announced out loud, “Hold on, Fair!” and I threw the steering column-mounted gear shift lever into “P” for park!

Screech!

We came to a stop, alright!

With my heart pounding from the adrenaline of the moment, I stepped out of my car to see :

[1] all the customers inside, staring out the window at the kid who just ran over the restaurant’s flag pole; and

[2] the flag pole laying on the ground.

Had there been a car parked in slot for Number 3 northbound, I not only would have hit the flag pole, but also would have caused the flagpole to hit the opposing car, and also possibly landing on the hood of the car in the north-bound slot.

This accident was problematic because I was on probation for having three or more tickets inside a 12-month period ( and I had four), this would have made five.

Not good.

—-3-The $250 Meal

I immediately went into the restaurant to talk to the manager, who let me use his phone to call my dad, who, an hour later— came out with $250 and convinced the manager to not call the police in the matter at hand.

We thought the manager would use the money to put in a new flag pole, but instead he hired some contractor to simply core a new hole in the median strip, and he stuck the old post in the ground, making it literally short enough to where people of average height could literally touch the bottom of the flag.

–J–MY VERY LAST DAY OF HANGING OUT WITH “FAIR”

This was it.

This was the very last time that I would ever hang out with Fahrenheit—only, I didn’t realize that, at the beginning of the day.

As far as how we connected?

—-1-The Call

Ditto. Just like the previous week, he called up to ask that same favor.

“Hey, can you give me a ride to my boss’ house to …” he began before I interrupted him.

“Let me save you some time and breath, Fair : ain’t happenin’ ” I interjected.

Amazingly, despite his own personal eyewitnessing of not only last week’s accident, but also of my dad handing $250 cash to the store manager for the property damage, he still thought I was being “unreasonable” in saying, “no”.

“Ah, come on, dude!, you just didn’t pump fast enough…” he began to say attempting to use “logic” to persuade me into taking another ridiculous chance. ”

Finally after shooting him down repeatedly before the end of each of his wasted sentences, he switched gears and said, “Alright…tell you what…why don’t you just walk with me to my boss’ house, and we’ll smoke a bunch of doobs.”

Although walking from Lyons to LaGrange Park, and back, isn’t exactly a marathon walk, it’s farther than “a block or two”.

With nothing else going on, and it being fairly nice out (we were still wearing jackets ), I found the idea of just sitting at home doing absolutely nothing, to be less appealing than going for a nice long walk.

So, I left the house, walked over to Fahrenheit’s, and from there, we walked to his boss’ house and picked up his paycheck.

—-1-The Journey Back

Although our trip going there was uneventful, the trip coming back was an absolute nightmare—in fact, bad enough to where I never hung out with him again.

——a-The Thievery At The Gas Station

For starters, there was “the theft”.

At the northwest corner of LaGrange Road and 31st Street, was a convenience store, three or four businesses away from Yankee Doodle’s — the same block. .

As we were walking diagonally through the store’s lot, Fahrenheit said to me, “Hold on, Let me get something from the store”.

“Alright.” I replied as I stood just outside the store’s customer entrance door, and lit a smoke, waiting for him to emerge.

A few moments later, the door opened and he came out looking rather scared.

“Let’s go.” he said acting all funny, “Just walk fast and don’t look back.”

He was walking funny because he was hiding a quart of orange juice under his jacket that he stole from the store.

“What did you do, Fair? Did you steal something?” I asked

Back and forth I asked a valid question, and he evaded an answer .

“Just keep walkin’,, dude!” he reiterated.

“Fair?” I pressed for an answer.

“Just keep walkin’!” he said as he darted across 31st Street, crossing from Lagrange Park into Brookfield.

I followed him across the street, and he didn’t stop sprint-walking until we got halfway down the first side street, out of view of the store, where he shoplifted — after getting paid!

In cash!

Finally, mid-block, he opened the left half of his coat to reveal the quart of orange juice he crammed into the waistband of his jeans.

“Fuckin;’ ay, man.” he said with a disturbingly nonchalant, self-congratulatory smile on his face, ( feeling, I guess, some degree of pride in getting away with outright theft — like I said, despite the fact that he just got paid in cash ) as he “proudly” displayed the quart and opened it to take his first sip.

I’ll never understand that reasoning.

——b-The Lady and her Escaped Dog

Literally, a few strides later, as we walked southbound along the sidewalk, we saw, approximately 150 feet away from us, running toward us, was a small lap dog of the Terrier-type, with its leash dragging along the sidewalk.

Apparently, it had gotten away from its owner, who we could see about a hundred feet behind the dog.

She did not appear at all worried about the dog biting anyone, but was likely concerned about the dog running into the street and getting hit by a passing vehicle, or whatever.

It was a friendly dog, in that it ran right up to us, panting with his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth, and his tail excitedly wagging, expecting us to bend over and pet it, I guess, which I did.

Sucker!

I picked the dog up and it immediately licked me in the face as I continued walking toward the dog-less woman who was walking toward us with this appreciative smile on her face.

As we got within arm’s reach of each other, I handed the dog over to its obviously grateful owner, who exclaimed, “Thank you! You boys are so nice!” as she took the dog from my hands.”He slipped out of my grip, and off he went. So thankful that he didn’t run into the street”.

I genuinely felt all “warm-and-fuzzy” at that moment.

But, thanks to Fahrenheit, he brutally trashed that moment with an unprovoked insult ( pertaining to the woman’s “waistline” ) that, I think, should have resulted in his ass getting brutalized right there on the sidewalk by someone, such as that woman’s husband.

But she was alone. So there was no one present to defend her honor.

What happened was, as soon as she complimented us for being so nice, Fahrenheit so sickeningly and unnecessarily added, “Yeah, and why don’t you go on a diet, you fat ass!”

I imagine the look of horror on my face, when he spoke those words, would have definitely been worth a photograph.

But no one had a camera.

“What the fuck, Fair!?” I said in disbelief, as I looked at the woman and the look on her face, as I fumbled out am incomplete and incoherent apology . “I’m sorry, mam! I dunno wha…..”

“What the fuck’s wrong with you, man?!” I continued on, turning my attention to Fahrenheit, and noticing in my peripheral vision, the offended woman walking away in disgust.

He just kept walking like “it was nothing” , what had just transpired right before my very eyes.

——–* – The Awkward Silence

I had no intention of catching up with him.

“This was a bad idea.” I just kept thinking to myself, and re-hearing my father’s 24/7 warning : “Why you hangin’ out with this guy? It’s obvious he’s a couple cans short of a six-pack!”

But about a half block later, he slowed down in his pace, and “allowed me” to catch up with him.

We walked several strides in silence, without saying anything to each other.

Then, I had to ask.

“What the fuck’s up with you, man?” I asked all pissed off about his demeanor towards life, in general, and toward complete strangers , in particular. “Everything you do is designed to hurt property or offend people who’ve done not a fucking thing wrong to you?! I don’t get it! I really don’t.!”

“Oh, come off it, man!” he retorted, after a momentary stare, as though he was perplexed that I wouldn’t expect such behavior from him. “What? Are you from the Good Ship Lollipop, or somethin’? The bitch had it comin’, man! Fuckin’ walkin’ ’round out in public lookin’ like a fucking moose in jeans. She had to have been four hundred pounds for cryin’ out loud! What the fuck!” That’s disgusting!…..”

On and on he went in a tone that resembled the societal disgruntlement of someone like Charles Manson, in the sense that it sounded like he was just about to Machiavelli-ingly justify his ends via his criminal means, as I just started tuning it all out, staring down and “counting” the blocks of concrete in the sidewalk just to pass the time as we continued on in our increasingly quiet and estranged southbound journey, where I was beginning to feel like I couldn’t wait to get away from this guy.

——c-Smoking a Bowl Out in the Open in Broad Daylight

After about a half block of total silence between us, he began to openly fill a bowl.

“Whadaya’ doin’, Fair?” I asked sternly, letting it be known that I wasn’t comfortable, in the least, with what he was about to do, “It’s fucking broad daylight out, man! Even if that was a joint, it’d still be a little too risky being that open with it in broad daylight, dude!. What? You don’t think in the literally hundreds of houses we’ll be walking past between here and home, that not a single person is going to be coincidentally looking out his front window, or if he’s standing out on his own front lawn, for whatever reason, that they’re not going to notice two stoners walking down the street, smoking a bowl of weed? Seriously? Someone in that mix is guaranteed to get all offended, or whatever, and call the cops,

” ‘ There’s two hoodlums smoking marijuana as they scope out the neighborhood , looking for a place to burglarize!’ ” I mimmicked a resident calling the police, “And this is Brookfield, Fair! There’s never any real crime in this town! If they get a call from some Gladys Kravitz, and they’re not busy writing up a speeding ticket somewhere, at the moment, the cops will be here in like, … two freakin’ minutes, or whatever, and we’ll be standing on the curb talking to the cops who are parked there interrogating us about who we are, and why we’re in the neighborhood. And you?! You’re probably already a wanted man, being the one who stole the orange juice from the corner store….”

“They’re not even aware that orange juice is missing.” he interrupted to get me to stop ranting. “You’re just being fuckin’ paranoid!, dude!”

“And with good fuckin’ reason, I might add!” I retorted. “You’re a fucking walking crime scene, Fair! You’re a…a fucking cop magnet”.

I imagine anyone within earshot of our back-and-forth banter, would probably be amused by how comically futile it was for me to continue to debate Fahrenheit on anything, since that walks right into the ( I think ) Abraham Lincoln-parable of how foolish it is to argue with a fool, since onlookers will not be able to determine, from looks, which one’s the fool.

“Alright, whatever.” he said all disgusted and disappointed, as he carefully laid the already-filled pipe inside his top right coat pocket.

I suppose, just to keep things from getting too awkward with an over-abumdance of silence between us, he decided to ramble on about other things, that had nothing to do with robbing, cheating, assault, or whatever, and once I realized the content was not dangerous in the criminal conduct sense, I guess I felt far less compelled to hang on to every word, and I foolishly let my guard down and the volume of his voice faded out like the end of a song, as my mind wandered off into my own little world.

——d-Knocking on A Woman’s Front Window

At some point, throughout my hearing-“impaired” state of mind, I slowly switched gears into a more outwardly-aware state of consciousness as a question I wanted to ask Fahrenheit emerged from the back of my mind somewhere, but as I was just about to ask the question, I realized that he was no longer walking by my side.

I was that “tranced” : I didn’t even see or hear him walking away.

“Wow!” I thought to myself, “I’m actually free of that monster!”

But I wasn’t!

“Psst!” I heard coming from somewhere unseen, as I looked around in confusion at his unseen presence. .

“Psst!” I heard it again.

“Here! In the bushes!” he said in a loud, forced whisper, from behind the bushes of a two-story brick bungalow with a bay window as the front room window — only I hadn’t noticed the bay window until I went behind the bushes that camouflaged the window..

At this point, I wasn’t aware of the window, because I hadn’t seen it yet.

Although I was looking in the correct direction, I still couldn’t see him.

“What the fuck you doin’, Fair?” I asked, with nauseated concern at the recidivistic tendencies of Fahrenheit to repeatedly act out in ways that are unmistakably outside the bounds of socially-accepted behavior.

In this case, not only did I not know what he was up to, I literally couldn’t even see him, although he was only about 12 feet away from me.

“Come on, Fair! Let’s go!” I said, standing on the sidewalk, not being interested in whatever it was that he was up to.

“No, seriously! You gotta check this out!” he said rattling the branch that I should move to enter the bush area where he was.

Foolishly taking the bait, as I closed my eyes and walked across the front lawn by about five or six strides, toward the bushes, shook my head in disbelief at his relentless parade of dysfunctional conduct, and proceeded to spread the branches of the bushes apart to enter the area and see whatever it was he wanted me to witness, and as I spread the branches apart, there, in plain, unremarkable view, was some lady, dressed the part, doing aerobic exercises, in her dining room, while facing away from the window Fahrenheit was looking into.

“Really, Fair? This has your attention? How did you even know to come behind these bushes to look in the first place?” I said, having had enough of his behavior. “What if she suddenly turns around and sees us staring at her….What the…Ah, Fair!… I don’t get you, man!”

I stepped back out of the bushes and started walking toward the sidewalk to “just get the fuck away from this guy!”, as I kept repeating that thought in my mind over and over and over again. .

Suddenly, I heard him pound on the window loudly, and shout, “Hey!”, and then he ran out of the bushes, saying with actual laughter, “Go! Get the fuck outta here!”,

He ran past me, leaving me to be the one “last seen in the vicinity”.

“Thanks, Fair!”…not!

“Now, we’re running from someone’s house who might call the cops for us trespassing and disturbing the peace!” I’m thinking in my head as we ran, and I was hoping there were no other neighbors who might end up calling the cops simply out of a “neighborhood crime watch” sense.

Either way, whether it’s the lady whose privacy was somewhat violated, or one of her well-intended and concerned neighbors, the last thing I wanted was for either of them to justifiably call the police, at the suspicious behavior of one to two suspects, only to be interrogated, on the street, by the police for behavior I had nothing to do with, simply because I was hanging out with the guy when he decided to become a criminal, without formally asking me for my voluntary participation, which he knew I would not give, if I knew what he was intending to do at each step of his method of madness.

We finally got about a solid block or two away from that house, as we made our way closer and closer to the rail road crossing at Maple Avenue.

By the end of our sprint away from the crime scene, we were no longer walking side-by-side, but rather he was, at least, a half block ahead of me, and I was completely fine with that, since I could keep an eye on him, to make sure that I didn’t have to be aware of behavior, on his behalf, that I might have to answer for, if any onlookers or eyewitnesses make the erroneous claim that “we” did whatever crimes “together”, when nothing could be further from the truth,.

——e-The Train of Automobiles

Finally, we reached the crossing at Maple Avenue.

At that point, Fahrenheit was still safely way ahead of me.

Of course, there’s another crossing about six to eight streets eastward, called “Prairie Avenue”, and that’s where I wanted to cross the tracks.

Then, halfway between Maple and Prairie Avenues we see a lone train car , all by itself — with no engine or caboose.

It was one of those railroad cars that transport actual vehicles like cars, trucks, vans, and the like, and this train car, had actual vehicles on it. Brand new ones, in fact.

Suddenly, Fahrenheit had another can’t-pass-up obsession.

As he approached the train car, he began to climb all over it, peering inside the windows of the individual vehicles, presumably because he probably thought he’d see the vehicles’ keys inside the ignition, or something exciting along those lines, where he likely envisioned that he’d start one of the cars up, and drive it off the rail car, and possibly even drive it home.

Only Fair could think something like that. .

Anyway, as I passed by the train car while he was peeking into the car windows, he was talking ( I think ) to me. But I wasn’t paying any attention to his words, but couldn’t help but hear his voice, since was deliberately talking loud enough to be heard.

Whatever he was saying, I didn’t hear or respond to a single word.

I just kept walking and ignoring him.

——f-Our Very Last Moment “Hanging Out”

Finally, I reached the Prairie Avenue crossing, Prairie ran north and south.

The street that ran parallel to the east-west bound railroad tacks on the south side of the tracks was called Burlington Avenue ( presumably named after the Burlington Railroad ).

Crossing diagonally from the north side of the tracks and the west side of Prairie to the south side of the tracks ( Burlington Avenue ) on the east side of Prairie, was a three-store front building, sandwiched in between the bar on the corner and the mom-and-pop, hamburger / ice cream joint, called Cock Robin two buildings away ,

None of the stores were open; not even Cock Robin.

So, I knew I couldn’t stop in and get a soda to drink on my yet incomplete journey home, which was still, as the crow flies, only about a mile away, but when one factored in the zig and zag of the actual path, ( since there is no geographical path that leads directly from where one is currently at and where their destination is ) it’s probably actually closer to two miles.

Either way, it’s a journey I’d have to make, sans hydration.

Humorously, just as I crossed from the side of the street where the commuter train station is, to the business side of the street , and as I looked into the windows of the disappointingly-closed Cock Robin ( momentarily daydreaming of the Coke I would have bought had they been open for business ) Fahrenheit finally caught up with me, only to tell me what he thought of me.

What he did and said was :

Instead of actually poking me in the chest, he stood in front of me, going through the “poking” motions and aiming them at my shoulder, and said like an angry child, “You know what? You’re a fucking drag! And I ain’t never hangin’ out with you again!”

With that off his chest, he turned around and literally stomped his feet as he walked away.

That was the nicest thing he ever did for me.

However, the way he said it, one would get the impression that he didn’t mean it as a “favor”.

He probably thought severing our relationship was somehow a “punishment”.

Doesn’t matter to me, as long as it’s severed.

And severed it was.

Thank, God.

Like…wow!” I’m thinking to myself as I watched him storm off to the first side street and then started walking southward,

Finally!

It occurred to me .

“My dad was right. Fair was ‘ a couple cans short of a six-pack! ‘ ”

I, for understandable reasons, elected to go one more side street eastward, and take my own path home.

I never saw him again for, at least, 20-plus years — from late 1981 or early 1982 to mid-2000’s.

III—EPILOGUE

—A-SEEING FAHRENHEIT AT SPEEDWAY

The gas station where I saw him was, in a sense, a “social hub” for our side of town, in that it was the only gas station on our side of First Avenue, and it seemed like 90 percent of the residents in the area, came to this specific gas station ( having literally no other options, geographically speaking — the nearest gas station eastward, was eight blocks east of First Avenue; and the nearest westward was about the same eight blocks going into Brookfield at Maple Avenue . Neither could geo-realistically be considered a “neighborhood” gas station ).

Heck, if they had a liquor license to serve tap beers, it would be the “Las Vegas” of the west Side of Lyons. It was always ” a happenin’ place'”

The point is : it was never a shocker to run into faces one hadn’t seen in decades, while frequenting this gas station.

And, on this day, I ran into Fahrenheit.

Wow!

What he said to me next, just blew my mind!

First, however, allow me to preface this part of the story with the prologue that if you were to try to get away with something devious or nefarious in some way, I would think you’d do everything in your power to disguise you true intentions with whatever information you deemed appropriate to sway the person into granting you the favor you seek, right?

So, for example, if I was trying to rip you off, I wouldn’t knowingly and deliberately come right out and say it, would I?

Nor would I mention the fact that I was guilty of some kind of wrongdoing in another situation, that would cause you to doubt my sincerity.

You’d be understandably worried that I might rip you off.

And yet….

That’s exactly what Fahrenheit did.

I’m grateful for his honesty, but he just caused me to lose all respect and trust for him, in a way, that it’s not possible to ever trust him again…ever.

What did he say?

He admitted to : [ a ] an addiction ; and [ b ] a very special eviction, both of which are permanent disqualifiers in my book.

—-1-His Addiction

Over the years, we all heard stories that Fahrenheit had a gambling problem at the horse races. I’m not sure which tracks he hung out at — Hawthorne? Sportsman’s?

Who knows? Who cares?

Me?

No clue.

Didn’t care; don’t care; and never will care.

But, we’re told, the finances pertaining to raising the money for his betting, was generally funded by robbing garages and pawning the stolen proceeds at local pawn shops.

Nice, huh?

“Where did that fucking chain saw go?” asks an angry and un-informed homeowner as he pointlessly looks around his garage for his 20″ chain saw, not realizing that it’s on display in the store front window of Joe Blow’s Pawn Shop on Main Street, for $100, while the guy who put it there, is spending the $50 he received from selling it to the pawn shop, on a bet that will be lost forever, the moment his horse loses.

And if he had won?

Would he have shared the proceeds with the victim from whom he stole the saw?

Seriously?

Get real.

—-2-HIS ARREST  & INCARCERATION

That was Fahrenheit’s source of funding : garage burglary.

Well, one night, while “raising funds”, going up and down some alleys ( in the town of Maywood, I think ), he got stopped at the end of one alley that he was emerging from.

As he reached the end of the alley, the patrol car stopped directly in front of him, blocking his way, and Fahrenheit was forced to stop his car,

“Busted!” he must have been thinking, staring at the flashing blue lights on the cop car that was about to give him a free ride to the police station, with complementary and stylish steel bracelets for his wrists for the ride in the back seat.

Within seconds, a second backup patrol car came down from the other end of the alley, and parked immediately behind Fahrenheit’s car.

Even if he wanted to, Fahrenheit would not have been able to escape. He was trapped.

And busted.

One of the things the cops immediately noticed was that although the trunk was closed and latched, all of his car doors were slightly open and unlatched.

Why?

According to Fahrenheit, rather than making noises repeatedly opening and closing the trunk on the car, he thought, “just throw the stolen goods on the back seat and don’t close the door all the way. That’s the quietest way of hitting multiple garages in one alley”.

He told the story with almost no negative emotion. He almost tried to make his mistakes seem comical, with little, tiny chuckles in some syllables. His tone was similar to that of what someone might think a burglary instructor might sound like. It was nonchalant, with a touch of pride.

Anyway, he goes on to say that he just sat in the drivers seat as he watched the two officers walk around his car, “admiring” the evidence they had in the back seat of Fahrenheit’s car.

One police officer told him to step out of the car, which was a request that he claims he complied with immediately. .

From that moment on, it was straight to Maywood lockup, where he was eventually transferred to Cook County Jail, where he was never actually bailed out.

I don’t know if his mother refused to bail him out ( I know I’d forget his ass and let him rot ! ) or if he never even reached out to her to bail him out.

The only reason he got released was due to over-crowding — Cook County is packed with thousands of inmates!. They had people sleeping on the floors without a cot.

In any case, he was deemed among the non-violent, so he got out while awaiting trial.

—-3-His LACK OF GRATITUDE & JUSTIFIED EVICTION

Although his mother did not bail him out of jail, she did take him in to live with her once he was released from county jail —- whether that move was intended to be short- or long-term, I’ll never know ( or care about ), but, in reality, it was definitely short-term, as she almost immediately kicked him out of her house and changed the locks!

Changed the locks!

On her own son!

Why?

When he told me why, there was no going back. I couldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.

What did he do?

He stole from his own mother and her friend!.

Specifically, one evening, while his mom had a female friend over, they were all sitting in the living room, when the two women decided that they wanted to go into the kitchen to get something to drink, like tea, or a can of soda or whatever.

While they left the living room. Fahrenheit started rummaging through both of their purses, including his mom’s.

It’s absolutely mind-blowing the morals ( or lack thereof ) that he embraced.

His own mother!

He grabbed money, a bottle of pills, and who knows what else?

He then darted out the door to go do his thing wherever.

But…..

When he came “home” later on that evening, he discovered that she had a friend come over and changed the locks.

His keys no longer worked!

He was now homeless.

And for good reason.

—-4-His ( DENIED ) Request

Here is where all this got me : even if he had lied, and told me a story that made him look like an altar boy, I still would not have taken him in.

But he didn’t lie.

He told me the truth ! That he had stole from his own mother!

Why would he lie about that?

But, having laid out all his cards, I could see that it would have been a terrible idea to take him in.

I mean, come on ! : he stole from his own mother !

There is NO WAY you can trust somebody who rips off his own mother…literally!

“Sorry, Fair! No can do!” I said as I walked into the store through “Door A”, to go buy smokes, and when I exited out “Door B”, he was there again, and I reiterated my “No!”, proceeded directly to my car and drove off, leaving him there to beg whoever would be foolish enough to put themselves and their families into harm’s way.

As I drove down the street, I couldn’t help but contemplate all the questions ; “Why does he tell me up front that he’s untrustworthy?” , “Why would he steal from his own mother?” and “Who would be idiotic enough to trust such a self-destructive person?”

I never saw him again.

Whew!

–B-FACEBOOK DISCUSSION / UNSUBSTANTIATED RUMOR : “FAHRENHEIT’S IN PRISON IN MEXICO”

I’m not sure if that’s true but someone on Facebook said they thought they heard that he was in prison in Mexico.

I don’t miss him; and I can’t envision a single soul who would.

Wherever you’re at, Fair, if it’s nowhere near me, stay there!