TRUE.Mary Jane

a true story

by Astor W. Heinemann

Ricky was a mean guy. I remember hearing stories, before I actually met him, of how he had punched his mother in the face during an argument and was sent to live with an aunt on his father's side. His parents had been divorced long before the incident. His aunt lived around my neighborhood. People called him 'negroid', a very non-PC nickname, but he liked it and actually urged people to call him that. It's how he introduced himself. I met him at a friend's party and he was drunk as hell, I think we all were.

My friends and I were into the metal scene, which in that neighborhood kind of overlapped with the hardcore punks. Me in particular, I liked all kinds of music, so I shared a lot between the two groups. This was the main reason why Ricky and I became friends. Trading records, hanging out, talking about bands, going to concerts, all that crap.

He was hanging out with this girl called Shelby. She was kind of dirty and very much a tom boy, so none of us liked her, but somehow The Negroid and her hit it off as soon as they met. A few months later she became pregnant and Ricky didn't work, his parents didn't give him any money and they had both decided an abortion was the best solution.

Short for money he started stealing from all of us and selling our stuff among the group. It was not uncommon for you to go missing a record, a shirt, or some kind of scene related merchandise and see one of your friends a few days later bragging about his new acquisition. We all knew it was him, but none of us ever said or did anything because we knew the troubles he was in. I guess it was our way of helping him.

One day he showed up at my place and we were hanging out in my room, me keeping a specially observant eye on him to make sure I didn't go missing any of my tapes or records. He brought with him a tape of a band called The Accused. A bit of a crossover sound, very hardcore punk. I loved them immediately, so he sold it to me. I was learning how to play the bass and there was a solo bass tune in there, which was very unusual for this kind of music. I asked him where he got it and if he could get more of it. Eager to please, or get more money, actually, he told me he got it from a new rich friend and that I should come with him to his place to check out anything I might be interested in, he could swipe it and let me have it for cheap, and I agreed.

This new guy none of us knew. He was the son of the ambassador to Grenada, a big black dude. Very happy and easy going, the kind of guy you would imagine being the life of the party and getting all kinds of girls in spite of looking not so good, he still had a kind of magnetism that attracted people to be around him. The place where they lived was big and well protected. I thought it was reckless of Ricky to go stealing from this guy, but what did I care, really? I just wanted those records that were impossible to find and this guy had.

Hanging out at their pool while the guy was splashing over a couple of cute blonds The Negroid said he was hot and we'd go into his air conditioned room to listen to some music, Grenada-boy didn't mind, go ahead, he said. He had stacks and stacks of tapes and records, most of it punk, some of which I really liked. In any case, we listened to a lot of them and picked out a couple, which Ricky stuffed in his back pack before we went back out to the pool just to say good-bye.

We were all really nice kids, considering the stereo type you think of when you imagine metal and punk kids. We drank lots of beer, but we didn't do drugs or hard liquor. Later we found out a few of the other punk kids were also hanging out with Grenada-boy, not for his records, not for his magnetic personality, but because he could get pot and had no trouble sharing just to have someone to get high with. Negroid got involved in that and suddenly we rarely saw him. He was always hanging out and going out everywhere with this guy.

A few months later we heard Ricky was in jail. First thing that occurred to me was that he got caught stealing and the cops were called, but found out he actually took the fall for Grenada-boy. They were at this club that got raided and Grenada-boy was pissing his pants scared shitless because he was packing quite a stuffed bag of the product. Ricky said to give it to him and he'd get rid of it. Now, knowing Ricky I'm sure his actual intentions were to disappear before the cops got to him and run with the pot, but they got to him before he could run away. I'm sure he could have and may have attempted to say it wasn't his, but what difference did it really make? He had it with him, he's going down.

He was in jail for five years. By the time I got to see him again it had been probably seven or eight years after he was initially arrested. I bumped into him at this popular bakery in town with a beautiful German girl. We said our warm hellos and went our separate ways. I was a straight citizen by then, still loving the music, but not wearing the clothes or sporting long hair anymore. Ricky looked like he was a beach bum now. I meant to ask about the incident, but thought it might be best to keep it in the past, a grand mystery between the old neighborhood kids, now grown up and tricked into being productive citizens of society. It's kind of ridiculous considering songs like "I don't need society" by the Dirty Rotten Imbeciles were among our group's favorites.

When I mentioned this to some of my other friends they said he was living off tourists around beach hotels. I guess I wouldn't have expected any less from the old Negroid.

Ende.