Boston is Funny...

It’s been a few years, but maybe I should get a perm. It might just drum up a little business.

I’m a narc – a narcotics agent.

I first realized I wanted to be a narc when a little show called 21 Jump Street first hit the airwaves. I realized then that I wanted to be an undercover narcotics agent roaming high schools throughout the state busting kids for the drugs.

The year was 1987, I was twenty three, jobless, and high most of the day, and so, I needed to do something. I needed a change. So change I did. And boy did I change.

I made a choice one afternoon when I saw a commercial for a heating and air conditioning training program. I applied, was accepted and then expelled from the HVAC program after only three and a half hours. I was expelled for getting involved in a rather complex, large scale embezzlement scheme and subsequent plans of laundering the take. I was accepted for my dashing twenty three year old good looks. I applied with a number two pencil.

Minor setback – and quite possibly, it was a sign that I really was meant to be a narc. So, I got a degree from my town’s mid-level narc school in a couple of short weeks. It wasn’t the best narc shoolin town, nor was it the worst. It was there that I mastering the art of disguising myself as a sixteen year old kid, looking to score a little weed.

The first few years were good. I was good. Modesty be damned, I was great. I partied my fuckin’ face off, and I managed to make a few collars (37) along the way.

Then sometime in the mid 90’s all of the kids just stopped doing drugs. Every school I went to it was the same. No drugs to be had. The Nancy Reagan message of just saying no must have finally resonated with these kids. That’s the best explanation I can think of. Who would have believed that a woman like Nancy Reagan could reach the kids of America? When you think about it, she did have many qualities that would make the youths heed her advice. She was old, which equals wise. From her public image one can only infer that she was also caring, understanding – and concerned that kids were getting wasted. Plus she was probably a little promiscuous, and kids love an old whore, they are so authentically charming.

But alas, I’ve been on a ten year dry spell trying to find drugs in High Schools, and believe me, I tried everything. I’ve asked kids to go to a Floyd laser shows, to no avail. Nobody wants to come over to my pad to watch The Wall. They aren’t even interested in cueing up Dark Side of the Moon to the Wizard of Oz! Pink Floyd always worked. Always. These fuckers don’t even know who Pink Floyd is; even the ones wearing vintage Floyd T-shirts are clueless.

Fact is, these kids don’t even party anymore. There hasn’t been a house party in years. No beer busts at the quarry, no kegs in the woods, and no bongs at the beach.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I just don’t blend in as well as I once did. I drive a re-built Trans-Am; they drive Prius’ and little VW’s. I listen to Pearl Jam and Sting, they listen to Paris Hilton. I have a mustache and these kids can’t grow a decent sideburn if they wanted to, which apparently they don’t. I’ve got a wife, kids, a mortgage, and a receding hair line. They’ve got virginity, text messages, and sprouting pubic hair. They’re teenagers and I’m 42. Maybe it is me. I don’t think they believe that I’m 16 anymore. They probably think I’m sort of child molester trying to lure them with psychedelic Floyd rifts so I can diddle their bits, but all I want to do is bust ‘em for drugs!

No, I still hold that kids today don’t party or do drugs.

I should probably just quit, but I never got paid to begin with, so quitting a job that technically doesn’t exist loses that dramatic panache. I think I’ll just retire quitely. Besides, I was always conflicted with confiscating these kids’ drugs and then selling them at a very, very small discount to my friends and family.

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My Mom’s anniversary is coming up soon, which is great. It’s kind of a big one; it’s their fifth wedding anniversary. I think the fifth wedding anniversary is a big deal. The traditional wedding anniversary gift for the fifth year is not, however, a big deal. Wood. That’s what you’re supposed to get. Wood is certainly a practical gift, but not very exciting. I suppose wood is an improvement on the fourth wedding anniversary gift, which is fruit, but Jesus, in the days of mad bling, I think we can do better than fruit… or wood.

I digress… now, this aint Mom’s first marriage. This is actually her fourth.

My first “dad” was our mailman. He’d pop in for a few minutes a day, as we were on his route. He delivered our mail, but for mom, he delivered so much more. He would give her a little package every day, if you know what I mean. He gave her a little piece of certified male, if you catch my drift. He would fuck her.

Dad left when his route was transferred. He informed us one day, that the reason the office was transferring him was “all politics.” I didn’t question the reason, and to this day still believe that politics has something to do with reassignment procedures. Like when I had to switch offices because of asbestos, it was “all politics.” When my wife and I moved recently - purely political. Then she got all political when she moved my Clint Eastwood watercolor series into the basement. Fuck politics.

But, through rain, sleet, snow or shine, Mom was destined to be wed and she quickly remarried and stayed that was for quite some time. She married our church pastor. Controversial, because our church was of Catholic denomination. Father Daddy was a good man. They split after he got me pregnant. He was totally cool though, because he paid for half of the abortion. We went halfsies. He was a good man, with a great big heart. That might have been his downfall. He just had too much love to give. I miss him.

Mom settled down again with a quieter fella fairly soon thereafter. His name was Pete, which was short for a much longer name of Middle Eastern extraction. “Pete” told us he owned the local convenient store, but we knew he was just a fucking shift manager. He would follow us around the house making sure we didn’t steal anything, even though it was our stuff. In fact, the only things he owned were a sleeping bag that reeked of licorice and the key to Mom’s heart.

Things got really weird once, when I was reading my subscribed National Geographic (one particularly heavy with African tribal porn) and he scolded that I wasn’t in a library, and that I had to buy the magazine.

“It’s my fucking magazine, Pete. And I’m really uncomfortable with you staring at me while I’m taking a shit. I thought I locked that door.”

I think Mom had enough of his petty bullshit and finally called it quits. That and he would beat her until she was bloody and stupid every early Sunday afternoon before he cooked brunch for the family.

I miss Pete too; he made great eggs Benny.

I think Mom is finally happy now, and I really believe that she has found her soul mate. And I love my new Dad, Mary.

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Summer is in full swing. Yes it’s Summer time. I know you probably noticed it was getting hotter - hell you may have even xstarted wearing shorts. The reason it’s been warmer, is because it’s Summer.

You’re welcome. I know the seasons get confusing. I’m here to help. Oh by the way, tomorrow it’s going to be a hundred and four. That’s hot!

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