A Story for My Parents
In what can be considered the longest hour of my existence, I made the perennial mistake of
adventure-seeking adolescence. Moments of mishap seem to drag on for eons when they occur;
but, when recalled from memory, they only seem flickers of a nanosecond. Memories and
mistakes: the vibrant colors of our life portrait. Parents: the stand holding the canvas. Brothers:
the bastards who stick gum behind it.
Like any teenager fond of rebellion films of the eighties and nineties, I became ecstatic when
my parents and brothers left the house all to myself. All the possibilities! I could try to break into
Dad’s liquor, or even watch dirty movies on Matt’s computer. Freedom had caught a firm hold
on me, if only temporary. I ran about the house searching for havoc to reap. When I reached the
basement, and had a brief glimpse at the crawlspace bordered by fluffy pink insulation
reminiscent of cotton candy. Hidden inside one section since a year before, when I had first come
into intimate contact with a green treat, was a small Ziploc bag of cannabis—Mary Jane, Maui
Wowie, Puff the Magic Dragon, or the green stuff that made you see pretty colors. I had
purchased it from a friend the year before, stashing it to avoid my Dad’s wary senses in the
insulation, and forgetting its existence the next day. I rejoiced: this is my act of freedom!
Not only was I inexperienced in the art of smoking, but I was a wannabe, a poser; I thought I
was non-conformist by abusing drugs, but in reality I was misguidedly conforming to the status
quo of non-conformists. Eager to please the rebellious urges of puberty and adolescence, I
ravaged my father’s tool bench for a socket small enough smoke from. I had learned of the
utensil only by the example of my fellow peers, who were just as naïve and inexperienced as I
was. After I gathered the socket and a lighter, I dashed to my room upstairs, not caring to see if
anyone had suddenly arrived home. The moment I lit up and took my first puff—I fell into a
coughing frenzy! My throat felt covered in sap, and every cough made it worse. After collapsing
into a ball, I stood with red, watering eyes, a sore throat, and a slight buzz which made the
furniture turn a slight shade of purple. I expected the bed cushions to start chatting; I felt
weightless, and my arms and legs seemed to shrink.
I thought I imagined hearing a slammed door, a pop, and a door creak open. As I dashed to the
window, checking to see if my parent’s car had driven up, I then heard footsteps creeping
downstairs in the kitchen—heavy footsteps, like Nazi boots in a hollow, wooden hallway. Was
this the weed playing tricks on me? Was paranoia setting in? Or was someone home?
Before the guilt and regret settled its way into my already queasy stomach, I ran to the
bathroom to grab deodorizer. To my dismay, the scent of white lavender brought more vibrancy
to the cannabis stench circling my room. I opened windows, turned on all fans, circled in wild
panic like a fish in a hurricane. This was it: my parents discover their precious baby boy was
only a stoner—how embarrassing.
The boots ran up the stairs in a fiery hurry, and—peeking around my doorframe—my brother,
Danny, glared at me, nonchalantly sitting on my computer chair. He flared his nostrils, giving a
few sniffs, and gave me the dirtiest look I have ever seen a brother give; like eyes across the
trenches, suddenly spying the elusive enemy and saying: I got you, you son of a bitch.
Maybe it was brotherly rivalry, or some age complex, but Danny took the stature of my father.
“What’s that smell?”
In a buzzed daze, my dim-witted response sneaked under my breath: “What smell?”
A few sniffs later: “I’m not an idiot; I know what it smells like.”
“Like what smells like?” I paused for a second to ensure my statement made sense. My poor
syntax revealed more than Danny’s senses.
“You’re a dumbass. Smoking pot. What the hell is wrong with you? You think you’re trying
to prove something? Smoking’s for jackasses and stoners.”
I was never skilled in the art of deception. Already aware of my poor attempt at subterfuge, I
could only respond with a scolded-puppy look. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad.”
“Oh, I’m telling. Just wait till they get home.” I pondered my options. Run away? Blame it on
Matt? Apologize to my parents and admit I made a bad decision? Hardly this was the best option.
Danny continued: “You’re gonna sit here while I smoke the rest of this.”
What?
“So Mom and Dad can smell it. Then you’ll tell them it was you. They’re gonna be pissed.”
He spoke while puffing every few seconds. I wanted to comment, but I was too distracted by
punishment, being banished to my room for two weeks with no television or video games. Grief
had settled, and my stomach began to churn more.
Not long after he finished—which only took a handful of minutes—I heard a door slam,
coupled with the sound of grocery bags, a sound which signaled the beginning of my demise. My
parents would have it out for me: what worthless son would betray their trust and succumb to
drugs? I heard a muffled voice mutter: “What’s that smell?”
Danny dragged me downstairs by the wrist; resilient as I was, he and I staggered into the
kitchen. Plopping me onto the chair, he gazed—red eyed—at my Dad, who stood across the
room. A cigarette smoking in his hand, my mother sitting at the table, sipping lukewarm coffee
(her fifth cup of the afternoon)—I felt a prisoner thrown to the whims of the judges of eternity.
This is it. Was I to reveal my crime before the daunting jury, or whimper to the corner and cry
for mercy?
“What’s that smell?” My mom said, innocently.
I gulped. “I was smoking pot.” I expected a gasp; I expected a scream from a hopeless mother,
and a shower of yells from an angry father. I expected anarchy in the Schmitt house, centered
around a soulless son.
“Sit down, Brian.” Expectations hardly coincide with reality. My mother chuckled a little, and
glared at my father. He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray by my mother, sat down, and placed
his hand on his knee. “First, we have to let you know, we’re not mad, we’re disappointed.”
Hardly had I considered punishment worse than disappointment, but that word—
disappointment—rang a hefty toll on my heart, much more than any punishment would
administer. My father continued: “You made a stupid mistake, but we all make mistakes. I’m not
going to tell you marijuana is evil, or you’re evil for doing it. I’m not going to stop you from
doing it, except under my roof. But I want you to know the consequences and outcomes of
smoking, be responsible for your decisions and actions. Know what you’re getting into. How
high are you right now?”
I had not realized my buzz had withered. I glanced over at Danny, still with glazed eyes,
hurriedly punching numbers a phone. My mom had asked, “Danny, who are you calling?”
“I’m not calling,” he responded after gazing up, “I’m texting.”
“You’re texting with the house phone?”
My Dad continued: “You made a mistake, even though it was a trivial one. And now is your
chance to learn from it.”
Mom chimed in. “We’ve done stupid stuff, too, Brian. You shouldn’t be ashamed of
experimenting.”
Danny staggered over to the fridge, eager to find a snack. While amazed that Danny had so
much trouble selling his sober stature, I believe my parents were too oblivious. I made a mistake,
ill-advised as it was; but, the seriousness of my offense was not as immense as my imagination
guessed. My father finished: “We love you, son, and all your mistakes don’t matter to us as long
as you learn from them.” My mom gleamed in agreement.
The longest hour of my life came to an end. I had realized my lesson. I err. We all err. This is
the perennial task of discovery. Smoking hashish was not my ultimate error, not worthy of
decapitation as my guilt led me to believe. My true mistake was ignorance to my true blessing:
having loving parents to instill responsibility, honesty, and integrity; displacing my true, loving
parents with imaginary demi-gods of judgment and punishment. Ignorance demanded me to
expect neglect and discipline, but I forgot how truly compassionate they were. Without them, my
life painting dribbles away, lacking the essential support of a loving family and caring parents.
They constitute all that I am and can be. Without them, I am a rootless tree.
“Where’s the rest of it, Danny?” Dad calmly asked. No answer. “Danny?”
He was sitting quietly, gazing emptily at a fly on the ceiling; head up, mouth gaped open, like
a turkey during a rainstorm. I’m sure that was a long hour for him, too.