Synthetic Dropping down from the very last step of the clunky school bus, I felt my breath abandon my lungs; I had also abandoned my bus stop and got off at my friend Donnie’s bus stop instead. Our mastermind-like scheme had been established not five minutes before; I would get off at Donnie’s bus stop, smoke an unknown amount of synthetic cannabis, and then proceed to my house where I would ride out the high. Donnie had the synthetic cannabis, the spice. Neither of us deemed the plan as full proof, but I already made my mind up. The plan was now in action. Approaching the once-brown wooden fence, I began to feel my heart accelerate. Unhinging the rickety old planks, Donnie held the substance that was rolled tight in an emptied Swisher Sweet cigar between his index finger and thumb. Sweat began to bleed through my salmon shirt, partially due to the summer heat. “You got a lighter?” Donnie asked as we propped ourselves against the brick wall in his backyard. It was not as much a question that sought a true answer ⎯ as I was known to carry a red BIC in my front right pocket at all times ⎯ as much as it was a polite way to get the lighter from me. “Yeah, yeah,” I said while hastily reaching into my pocket.
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I’m hella high.” I was not lying. Cars seemed to zoom past me at two hundred miles-per-hour. I would always look to see who was driving the car ⎯ to make sure it was not an undercover officer, of course. Whenever I made eye contact with the operators of the cars it would get my heart racing; the muscle soon pumped twice the speed I was accustomed to feeling. Soon, I made eye contact with the wrong person, Oh shit, that was a cop. I held my breath as I watched the car ⎯ a 2009 Crown Victoria ⎯ drive by. Every second was feeling like hours as I began wondering if he would loop back around. Sure enough, I saw the exact same Bartlett police cruiser, black and white, whizzing down the road towards me. I knew it was over for
I’m hella high.” I was not lying. Cars seemed to zoom past me at two hundred miles-per-hour. I would always look to see who was driving the car ⎯ to make sure it was not an undercover officer, of course. Whenever I made eye contact with the operators of the cars it would get my heart racing; the muscle soon pumped twice the speed I was accustomed to feeling. Soon, I made eye contact with the wrong person, Oh shit, that was a cop. I held my breath as I watched the car ⎯ a 2009 Crown Victoria ⎯ drive by. Every second was feeling like hours as I began wondering if he would loop back around. Sure enough, I saw the exact same Bartlett police cruiser, black and white, whizzing down the road towards me. I knew it was over for