Theft, Mushrooms and More Trouble

“Well I guess you have made your choice,” my father said, making me want to crawl into a hole somewhere. My parents were separating, and he actually managed to make me feel guilty about not choosing who I wanted to live with. My continued silence on the matter was taken to mean I was staying with my mother. This of course was my choice, but I had been too afraid to say so.

I was glad he was leaving. Yet I felt guilty about it as well. After all, most of their arguments and fights revolved around me. No matter how many people told me otherwise, this was how I felt and there was no changing it. Added to this guilt was the burden of having to choose. I was glad that my not choosing was taken as a choice.

The summer before grade nine my drinking and drug use hit a whole new level. As long as I was buzzed I felt better. The insecurities and feelings of inadequacy softened. If I could have stayed drunk I would have, but smoking up was easier to get away with. Drugs cost money though and my stealing and shoplifting grew along with my drug use. I very seldom walked into a store without walking out with something. There were some occasions where I didn’t know for sure what I had taken because I was wasted…

“Holy fuck man, I don’t know if I have anything!” I exclaimed to Paul. We were walking towards the exit in a store in the Wabush Shopping center when the power went out. As the lights went black, employees slide the doors closed as we were approaching them, blocking us in. It would not have been overly serious, but I was on mushrooms. It was very serious!

“What the fuck do I do?”  I said, panicked. I tried to clear my head, tried to think. Ok, maybe I didn’t have anything on me. I could hear my heart beat in my head and I suddenly wished with all that I was that I was not stoned.

Wishing didn’t help.

We were asked to open our coats before being allowed out of the store I think and while that was happening I swore I would never touch mushrooms again. I sat out in the lobby with my back against the wall trying to calm down. Everything looked funny… the colors were all off. I kept fighting the thought that I had gone insane – this was forever and I was never going to come down. The people who walked by were kind of strobing, pulsating. Their timing was off… a little slow and jerky if you looked closely enough.

“My uncle man!” I said.

“Where?” Paul asked.

“In Nova Scotia!” I replied.

“What the fuck are you talking about Veinotte?”

“My uncle. From Nova Scotia. He is here!” I realized I sounded like an idiot but couldn’t seem to stop it. I pointed at the grocery store. “He just walked into Dominion,” I told him, referring to the store.

So off we went, me wired for sound, into the store to see my uncle from Nova Scotia who was suddenly here. I suspected Paul didn’t believe me, but there he was – at the cash register. My uncle from Nova Scotia.

“Barry needs a ride home,” Paul said, turning away and laughing as he left me there. It was an awkward meeting at first, my uncle obviously thinking that I was on some far distant planet.

“What the hell are you on?” He asked. I gave the standard reply: “Nothing.” Then added  Can I have a ride home?”

My behavior became worse in a hurry once I entered grade nine. I pushed the limits and occasionally someone would push back. One teacher had more of me than they could take, dragging me into the boys washroom where he proceeded to scream and thrash me around. He slammed me against the wall repeatedly, screaming at me and pretty much out of control. The cement wall didn’t feel very nice when it connected with my head, and by the time I got out of the washroom I was crying and shaking uncontrollably. I told him I would get him back. I yelled it at him, swore that I would get him.  He grabbed me and dragged me into his classroom where he did some more screaming and throwing me across tables. I don’t remember what was said through it all, but I know he asked me what I was going to do about it, calling me ‘Tough guy’.

I doubt if I told anyone about that incident. Probably not. I learned early that it was usually better to keep your mouth shut. My father would find the whole thing to be my fault and I would be in more trouble.

I would not make it through grade nine. The stunts I pulled didn’t get me expelled: Getting caught with drugs, setting gunpowder on fire on a teacher’s desk (Sorry Sam – it was me) as he returned from a smoke break in the staff room, or even hanging out the second story window and getting caught. No, these got me suspensions, strappings and detentions. Fighting, rolling joints in class, fighting with teachers – none of these got me expelled. When my behaviour and attitude were not enough, alcohol was.

I stole a bottle of rum from the cupboard that morning. I had no plan.  I would have a couple of drinks, when I got to school, that was all.  I had a flask that I could keep in my coat, filling it from the bottle and planned to keep the bottle in the ceiling of the third floor washroom. The same place I used to stash a lot of my stolen goods that I would sell. I sold an awful lot of curling irons, hair straighteners, and little electronic drums that year in school.

The bottle never made it to school before I started drinking it. I sat in the back of the bus, asking a friend to get in front of me while I took a drink so the driver and others wouldn’t see. I thought I was being a hot shot. Look at me drinking on the school bus! Ain’t I cool?

That day turned into one large blackout. I sat in class with the flask in my coat. I’d pull it out and chug it down, making sure that everyone could see me but that the teacher couldn’t. Then I would head to the washroom to get the bottle from the ceiling and refill the flask. Repeat until wasted. Soon I was.

I ended up running around the school like a madman, fighting with teachers, the principle, and eventually the RCMP as they were called in to take me out of the building.

I awoke in the hospital remembering almost nothing, knowing that I was in serious trouble this time. At first there was concerns about possible alcohol poisoning, then after about a week my doctor came to me. “If I let you go home today are you going to drink?” he asked me.

I was honest, telling him that I probably would. He said that was fine because I would not be getting out that day anyway.

I spent about two weeks in the hospital, rather enjoying it. It was peaceful there. A friend brought me a flask of whisky one night and on a couple of occasions I was brought hash which I smoked in the bathroom trying to blow the smoke up into the ceiling fan. I had no worries while I was there.

I didn’t realize what worries were waiting for me just around the corner.