---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “The Cool Cold” Down in the Dirt, v202 (12/22) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Paths Less Traveled the Down in the Dirt September-December 2022 issues collection book		get the 422 page September-December 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Cool

Bill Tope

The tinny strains of Elton John’s “Daniel”
arose from the VW’s speakers as I piloted
the Bug down Rt. 143, on my way to campus.

This song was particularly poignant for me,
as my own brother had recently been
incarcerated, sentenced to hard time in the
state prison.

Just yesterday I had journeyed to the prison
in the company of Gary’s girlfriend, in order to
visit the convicted felon and to toss a bag of pot
over the perimeter fence; one of the facility’s
guards would retrieve and then share it with
my brother. It was, said his girlfriend, the “cool”
thing to do. Also, it mellowed out the guards, so
they weren’t such assholes.

Up until that time, this episode marked my only
familiarity with controlled substances. But Vada
was well versed in such affairs, so I left it to her.
I was just the driver.

In the visitor’s area, I saw my brother for the first
time in two years; to say he was gaunt would have
been to do him a good turn. He had withered on
the vine. Gone were his Apollo-like, shoulder-
length golden locks, shorn before the trial in order
to negate the pejorative “hippie effect” of his
appearance and rep. “How’re you doing?” I
croaked out, embarrassed for him. “I’m cool,” he
said shortly.

As Vada and he embraced, I gazed across the
room at the other prisoners, all identifiable by
their gray trousers and chambray shirts. They
were all buff and many of them enormous.
Bleakly, I wondered how Gary was faring in the
so-called romance department.

He told me he was doing 400 pushups a day and
pumping iron regularly. It’s a matter of survival,
he said. He didn’t have much else to say to me.
When we arrived, he and I did not embrace; we
didn’t even shake hands.

All I received in acknowledgement of ferrying his
woman to the prison and breaking several federal
laws to get him drugs was a curt nod of the head. We
had never been close, even as children. A little
brother seemed to cramp his style, so I was largely
ignored. But I’d always thought him so cool.

So as Elton began singing “Levon” I considered all
this. I took myself off to the on-campus housing
complex, where I had a friend. There I would smoke
dope for the first time. An athlete while in high
school, I’d never indulged in drugs or alcohol before.

But I wanted to be cool like my brother—who was
locked up in state prison eighty miles south of the
campus. So cool.

As we six 18-year-olds sat around toking on the joints
that had been clumsily rolled by one of the group,
one stoner suggested—in fun—that we go to an over-
pass in nearby St. Louis and drop watermelons off
onto cars speeding down the highway below us.
And I thought, wasn’t this how my brother got started?
I remembered stories. But if you’re going to be cool,
you have to start someplace, I thought, pot smoke
swirling round my head.

On what passed for a component sound system in
those days, a new album was spinning on the turntable,
Neil Young’s “Harvest.” Playing now was “Heart of
Gold.” Somehow, the words affected me strongly. I
arose unsteadily to my feet. “Let’s get them water-
melons,” I said aloud.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...