Chapter Thirteen: Exodus Part One

I've said it before, when parents say they want you to be honest, they just mean they want you to do what they tell you to. Like when the United States says they want the Iraqi's to have an honest and open government, they really just want the Iraqi government to do what we want and give us exclusive oil rights. So one night a few months ago I found myself trying to be honest with my mom. My friends Tyler and Nick were over and we thought we'd like to have a relaxing sesh at the local hookah bar. I knew that the bar didn't have very strict standards for checking ID, so getting in wouldn't really be an issue. And even if they asked for ID I could always just...well, leave without buying anything.

My mom was having a few friends over that night, and if anything, I assumed she wouldn't mind getting me out of her hair for the night. So I went through my exercise in honesty and fired away.

"Mom, Tyler, Nick, and I are gonna go to the hookah bar, alright?"

"Nope. Absolutely not. It's illegal. Girls (referring to her visiting friends), what do you think?"

Friend One: "Well, if it's illegal then you shouldn't go."

"Well actually, it's illegal for them to serve it to me. It's alright if I buy it. They're the ones who would get in trouble. So why can't I go?"

"Because it's illegal. As a mother, I can't allow you to go do something illegal. If my friends and I come with you, you can go."

"Well fine, even if it is illegal, if a cop walks in to the hookah bar I'll take the possession of tobacco charge."

Friend One: "Why would you even want to risk it, Andrew? It's illegal you shouldn't go."

Friend Two: "Andrew, you're under eighteen. What if you get shot at the hookah bar? You'll be a minor so you won't be able to sue the hookah bar."

I should have known then that logic, reason, and basic risk calculation would not work with these people. But I fought on.

"Well, just because it's illegal doesn't mean it's bad. They used to have laws that black people and white people couldn't get married. That didn't mean they were good laws or that people should follow them. Even if I break the law at the hookah bar, nothing is going to happen. And I'm not going to get shot at the hookah bar."

Friend Three: "Andrew! I'm offended you would make such a racist comment!"

How do I even proceed at that point? I retreated to my room to plan out my next move with my friends. Tyler had seen far too many nights like this end in accusation and yelling, so he called his mom to come pick him up. He explained that we had asked Patty to let us go to the hookah bar, and he didn't think the night would end well.

We decided to ask if my mom and her friends wanted to accompany us to the hookah bar. Unsurprisingly, they declined our offer. My friend Luke had also been looking to hang out that night, preferably at the hookah bar, and was on his way to my house.

Tyler's mom arrived shortly thereafter. At nearly the exact same time as Luke. She decided that Tyler and I needed a thorough lecture on how we weren't yet eighteen and had to obey our parents. Conveniently enough, Luke began calling me, wondering whether he should come inside or not. Tyler's mom was starting off her lecture, so with Luke on the line, I just stuck my phone in my pocket.

What followed was a fifteen minute lecture about how I'm the dumbest smart kid around. About how I'm not eighteen and I need to take things easy and keep an eye to the future. And about how once I'm eighteen I'll be free to do all sorts of wild and crazy things because it won't be my parent's responsibility. She talked about Tyler and I's long friendship (I've known him since his birth) and personal substance abuse issues. And from the cell phone in my pocket, Luke got to hear all of it.

I agreed with most of what she had to say, but I also said that it's ultimtaly my life and my decisions to make. I just have a different point of view on some of the calculated risks in my life. She mocked the fact that I said everything is a calculated risk, just being alive means you live with the constant risk that you could die at any second.

When Tyler's mom finished her advice laden speech, I got away and took my phone out. Luke was busting his ass laughing, he told me he had heard the entire conversation that had just taken place. By then, Nick had had enough of our petty squabbling, and given his 18+ age just went to the hookah bar anyways. Nick was familiar with my mom's ways, and getting away from the brewing mess in my house was surely an appealing thought. But my mom's taint on his night would not end there.

After Nick left, my mom decided it was time for a Special Edition Patty G. Investigative Report. She went to the hookah bar so she could go check things out, talk to the owner, see how things are run. Basically, she was looking for ways to ruin all the fun.

Nick met up with his own group of friends at the hookah bar, relaxing, blowing rings of smoke. And on the coldest night of the year, he saw my mom standing outside the hookah bar window. Just standing there, staring at the people inside. What was going through her head is anyone's guess. Maybe she thought by standing out in the frigid night observing the operation of the hookah bar would reveal some enlightening aspect of parenting to her. Perhaps she could somehow figure out a way to shut down the hookah bar, and all the other hookah bars of the world. That way she could keep her precious son sheltered from all the negativity out there, and he wouldn't even have to make choices for himself. The fact of the matter, regardless, is that my mom was standing outside in single digit temperatures, watching teenagers, arab families, and other patrons at the hookah bar all for no apparent reason or objective.

More of that night lie ahead. It wasn't yet nine o'clock. There would be more strife to come in the hours that followed. But the rest is...

...to be continued.

Chapter Twelve: K-9

It was mid-September, 2008. My mom and I were still testing each other out. Patty G. was unsure of how far I would go in my recknlessness and rebellion, and I was unsure how far she would go in her efforts at being a normal parent. In the this mutual process of testing each other's waters a tension had fallen over the Gray home. It was a stalemate of sorts, both of us eager to find some excuse to hop out the trenches and drop artillery shells of acusation and yelling in each other's ears.

One afternoon, I hear my sister, resident canine lover, blurt out,

"We're getting a new dog!"

I was puzzled at my sister's curious emphatic outburst. It seemed we'd already got enough on our hands with Charlie, the infinite-energy wonder dog. Hell, with Charlie, we practically got three dogs for the price of one. Although dogs are clearly superior pets, did we really need another slobbery mouth to feed and more poop to scoop (specifically, more poop for me to scoop)?

Well, it's not like my family is known for rationality or thinking things through in its decision making. If it was, this blog would blow pretty hard. I had to see what was going on. If we were buying a new dog I wanted to know why, given that my student loans were (and still are) fast approaching. So I inquired my mom as to this alleged new canine member of our family unit.

"He's a drug dog."

Not many other statements have the ability to afflict such fear that I felt in that moment. I think I pretty well hid the fact that I right nearly dookied a shooter then and there. There are numerous constitutional tricks criminals can utilize, when questioned, to side-step even the most senior law enforcement officers. But if a drug dog sniffs something on you, you're toast. My mom says I squirmed like a fish out of water. Having a drug dog in the house could be a major setback to my extra-legal activities.

With this dog in the house, I wouldn't just be sleeping with the enemy. This would be like a Jew cozying up with Hitler, Goering, and the rest of the S.S. after a long day of crunching numbers and analyzing profit margins; he might as well have pre-heated the oven while he was at it. While using dogs to do law enforcement's bidding is a cruel manipulation of nature's beauty and dog's innocence, many a smoker knows that it sure is effective. And there was still more.

"His name is Toker. He's a retired police dog."

Toker? Seriously? At least I could get a chuckle out of all this. And still...

"Mary-Anne and I are starting a business where we search kid's rooms for an hourly fee. We're gonna be rich!"

Well, that's just excessive. If I was scared of a drug dog in my house, imagine the victims of these room searches. I could imagine some Johnny B. Goode coming home to a yelping dog and the sight of his stash swirling down the drain. And chances are that this Johnny B. Goode wouldn't have the balls(/stupidity) to challenge his parents, and would probably end up 'voluntarily' enterring some rehabilitation program to ease his deeply troubled, subrban-minded, and probably white, parents. Chances are if you have the means and are willing to dish out $200/hour to have some odd woman take a retired drug dog to your child's room, you're probably uptight and white. And there's probably something else wrong with you, too. Hint to parents: there are better ways of handling these things.

Even my dad had to throw his hat in on this one.

"You guys don't even take care of the one dog you have now. And your mother thinks you can take another? Man, you better not let that dog in your room (chuckles)."

These were still the times before I viewed everything my mom said through the lens of her cumpulsive lying. If this dog was actually coming to live with us, I had to be prepared.

Option One: sprinkle bits of contraband everywhere in the house. Obscure places, literally everywhere. This way the dog would bark at everything, and would be unable to acutely identify my stash. Potentially effective, but also potentially expensive.

Option Two: try to disable Toker's olfactory nerves in a way that would not cause pain or otherwise harm him. No dice, there's no known procedure that does this.

Option Three: 'Accidentally' run Toker over. This has some obvious ehtical drawbacks.

Option Four: Feed Toker some of my homemade brownies. Maybe he'd realize everything he's been missing out on, and revert to non-compliance with my mom. Even if it didn't work as I intended, it would still be a loving funny sight to see.

I would have time to mull this over. The dog wasn't coming until Thanksgiving. Allegedly. I filed away the drug dog in the back of my mind. I had more important things to stress about in the meantime. But Thanksgiving came and passed. That's not to say our Thanksgiving passed quietly or uneventfully by any means. It was nearing Christmas and I had to find out what my mom was really up to.

"So when is that drug dog coming?"

"Are you kidding? I made that up to see how you would react. And it worked! You freaked out. Why would I actually get a drug dog?"

"Are you kidding? Here's a better question: why would you actually lie about getting a drug dog so you could see how I reacted? One of these actions is definitely much more manipulative and crazy than the other."

Stuff happens. I don't know what else I was expecting on this one. The frustrating part was that she went through so much effort, fake phone calls even, just to convince me that we were getting a retired drug dog named Toker. Toker, for Christ's sake. The best part is that the whole thing seems totally normal to me now, in context with the rest of my mom's behavior. Just another day in the office, you know.