text: “This one right here,” August said. I peered into the car. There wasn’t much inside, not what it looked like. I got the window breaker ready. August stopped me. I was about to smash it and car alarms were about to go off like crazy, and I wasn’t ready for that. I was crossed on some strange mix of Adderall, weed, and caffeine, and August was pretty drunk, otherwise we wouldn’t be doing this, would we? He doesn’t drink much anymore, so he was fucking obliterated (NOT EVEN OFF MUCH EITHER. FUCKING LIGHTWEIGHT WHORE! I HATE YOUR GUTS). I was about ready to straight up smash the window, but August’s hand caught mine. “Let’s check if it’s unlocked first,” he said. “Sounds good to me.” It was unlocked. Me and him looked at each other, and both started moving silently. Considering the fact that we were drunk and high, we were moving gracefully. I checked the trunk. Nothing worth taking. The Back Seats were empty. The car was dirty, trash everywhere, to the point where if there WAS anything worth taking, you’d never find it underneath all these old McDonald’s bags and empty cigarette boxes. And the inside of the car? Smelled like an ashtray. August had the front. I saw him check the glovebox and find nothing. Nothing in the center console. We almost gave up until he remembered there’s a little place to keep stuff in between the seats. He opened it, and found a small bag. We closed the door and ran into the park to look at what we found. We first looked inside and didn’t see anything except for makeup. I threw the thing, considering we just wasted time and committed a felony for nothing, but August picked it back up, saying the bag looked expensive. We walked into the light part of the park, where our friends are. August takes a second look at the bag, in the light. His face changes instantly, now filled with a mixture of what looked to be excitement and/or anxiety, probably both at once, but completely fueled by adrenaline. He mumbles something incoherently and we both run into the woods, into pitch black darkness, leaving our friends behind in the park, confused. There wasn’t really a trail, we just ran until we hit a road. THEN we decided to start strategizing. There was really no plan at all. We only started planning after we were too far to go back. Well now we’re on this road, and it’s really empty. We’re not near much. There’s nobody around at all actually. We walk up onto a trail, and look in the bag. August holds the light while I count. 20, 40, 60, 70, 90, 100... so on and so forth until we reach a little over 200 dollars. This is the most money we’ve had in a while, and at such little effort that I seriously considered breaking into cars as a career. Glad I didn’t pursue that. I got away with it this time, but again? Probably pushing my luck. At this point we’re on a trail through the woods in the dark. August takes the money out and hucks the bag off a cliff into the woods. Goodbye, designer makeup bag. You won’t be missed, at least not by us. We call our friends, and they meet us on a street corner near a bridge. Obviously they were upset: me and Augs put all of them in danger. Not serious danger, but danger. What if the people who own that car come back, see their stuff missing, and call the cops? Me and August weren’t there anymore, but who would be? The good ladies and gentleman, the finer people of the Washington DC area, the real people you want on your side, and the ones with the best, or mostly best, intentions. And they were with us. I don’t give a shit what happens to me or August, he feels the same way too, he couldn’t give less of a shit about what happens to us, but I’m not putting anyone else’s safety at risk, especially when they didn’t partake in the activity at all. Me and him are one thing, but our friends are a whole other ballpark. Naturally they were pissed. They were probably the most mad that they had to leave the spot, but when I produced a fresh 20 for a 30 pack of beer, they said it was all worth it. Once they got that free beer, on yours truly, they were a lot happier. In case you were wondering, my name is Jared. I’ve lived down the street from August for a while. For a long time I avoided the sick bastard like the plague, he was just so damn strange. He was never particularly threatening to me, or most people, but he was known to act erratically, without much thought. He had the mindset, when he was in a moment, that he would throw his whole life away for one thing, and that it was totally worth it. But the things he’s done, by dumb fucking luck, have never ended up throwing his life away, while they very much could have. He won’t admit it, but whatever god there is up there is looking out for him, and he definitely knows, he just won’t ever say it. He’s only had to truly learn a couple times, but when he had to, he really did fucking learn. I don’t remember when he moved in. He’s interesting, but definitely weird. Some people would say it’s weird in a fun way. It keeps things moving, just untraditionally. I didn’t say a fucking word to him for the first 2 years I lived down the street from him. He was always looking around, analyzing everything, asking questions in his head. That’s where we differ. I blindly accept the world around me for the way it is. He’s always analyzing. My first few conversations were interesting. He was obviously a people person, but only if he wanted to be. He was good with people, but only sometimes. I remember him saying some strange things, and then asking if I wanted to light something on fire. That’s when we first became true friends. We collected all the math homework from our previous year, put it in a pile, poured some lighter fluid on it, and threw a match. Then we watched it burn. “We should burn down Ms. Smith’s house,” I heard to my left. “That’s a little much. I know you don’t like her but I don’t think it’s worth it. We can do other things. Why don’t we order pizzas to her house or something harmless like that?” I got no answer. Just the sight of him vacantly staring into the fire. I can’t see in his head, and was never able to, but he was definitely thinking about actually doing it. Legitimately burning his math teacher's house down. He was probably 11 or 12 at the time. He was even more mentally unstable as a kid than he is now. Now, he has the common sense to not genuinely think about doing something like that. He fantasizes, but he’s not actually going to do it, because he’s 18 now, and I’m 19, and we’re both adults, and we need to make it in this world. Neither of us are big tough guys either. I don’t think prison is a real option for us. So now these ideas just sit in his head. I’m sure he still thinks about burning down her house. Thankfully he never did. He had the common sense not to. Sometimes, I have tried to imagine what it’s like to be him. I can’t. When he feels an emotion, it’s stronger than a normal person would. He’s very emotional but won’t admit it, and tries to hide it. He’s actually quite the emotional person. He used to commit a crime more or less every day, usually at someone else’s expense (money from their car, food from the restaurant, etc) but he still had great capacity for empathy. He could understand what people were going through every time. Sometimes he just didn’t care. He had a great deal of empathy for people he was close to and loved, like family and good friends. He would feel guilty if he hurt them. He really would. He won’t admit it, but I can see it in his face. The thing is, if he doesn’t know the person very well, or at all, he won’t really take their feelings into account in any way. And if he does, it’s a save-face type of thing rather than a guilt thing (I’d rather not yell at this guy so I don’t *look* like an asshole, not because I’d rather not *be* one). These things don’t paint August in a positive light. They definitely don’t. But there’s a flipside. When you make it into his circle of empathy, he has a lot of it for you. He’ll have your back. He can be the sweetest boy in the world, it just has to be the right person. Him and I have gotten into physical fights before out of anger, and we always resolved it after. And his girlfriend? Despite the fact that I spent the last 2 pages painting him as a psycho, he really is trying his best to be a good boyfriend. He loves that girl to death, I can tell he does. And he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. And he has hurt girls in the past, when he was younger, and didn’t think through what he was doing. But he promised to himself that this would be different, and it was, They’ve been dating since halloween. He can be such a sweetheart. But if you wrong him, he’ll remember, and he’ll NEVER forget. He’s not capable. He holds grudges, and has a hard time forgiving people. He has a tendency to act vindictively, seeking revenge. There’s people out there who will be dodging him until the end of time. I’m not giving much background about me, because honestly I’m quite similar to August, in a lot of ways. I’m way less unhinged than he is. I have good control. Here’s where him and I differ. I’m crazy enough that I would do all the same reckless shit he does. I’m just smart enough to not do those things. August wasn’t that lucky. He’s plenty intelligent, but smart? No. He makes an absolute fool of himself sometimes. And the decisions he makes aren’t the wisest. Why did I even let him talk me into breaking into a car? We bought our friends the beer. Still had almost 200 bucks left. Me and August were discussing what to do with it. He said, “obviously we split 50/50.” “That’s fair,” I responded. We divided it into halves, so we each had roughly 100 bucks. Maybe a little more or less. “I say we invest in stocks,” I said. “Waste of fucking time. I tried and I couldn’t do it. It’s bullshit.” “That’s because you invested a dollar, and didn’t hold them long enough. You panicked and sold before any money could be made. You have to wait a bit, it’s a long term investment.” “How about Bitcoin?” he asked. “It’s not really real. I don’t trust it, it could crash at any moment, and it’s not really based on anything.” “We could buy some cards and do some nice fraudulent activities, make a quick buck, or at least get a new pair of shoes or something.” Neither of us liked this idea. I’m burnt out on fraud and so is August. It’s tiring. “Drugs,” he said. “What should we sell?” I asked. “Anything we can find.” I pondered the idea of wandering into Anacostia, capitol heights, and up and down H street with nothing but a vial of PCP and a pack of cigarettes, or maybe to the rich areas, with some baby powder or allergy medicine, walking the trenches to find a crackhead to send into psychosis or some moronic white kid to con. Maybe I could load up on every drug I could find and sell them all at once. What had the most money in it? Me and August found out later that weed was our best bet. It ended up working out. Me and him rarely commit other crimes than weed related ones. The closest we get is slinging pills or some other random stuff we can find that isn’t weed. We’re both from DC. Weed is legal here, basically fully. It is illegal to “buy and sell” marijuana, but legally you can “gift” up two ounces. Meaning you buy a T-shirt, or a postcard, or in our case, a literal designer drug bag, and you get the “gift” of marijuana. It’s legal but not really. And that’s how every dispensary in DC works. We ended up both selling weed, which we do to this day. It seems to be working. At the time we were scheming what to do with the money. We both ended up buying a couple of dab pens, and saved the rest of the money. We both really like the fucking things. They burn your lungs up and make you cough the signature “dabs cough.” A dabs cough isn’t like any other cough, like a cigarette cough or sick cough. It’s a hollow cough from deep in your lungs, and you can tell they’re trying desperately to get whatever dabs you inhaled out. Your body rejects what you just put in it, in the most simple form: coughing your fucking heart out. The writing you are reading is currently being conjured up from MDMA. Today is my first day doing E. August has done it before, but he says it was probably fake, so he didn’t count it. I texted August to see how he felt. No answer. It’s possible he’s asleep, but if he’s anything like me, he’s probably not, and I am WIDE FUCKING AWAKE right now. I wonder what would happen if we both ate a few rocks and went to school. If I’m being honest, I feel pretty fucking good right now. I’m cranking 4 pages or so at this moment, feeling focused, and sharp, and creative. If I can do this at home, I can do it at school. This wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe I should write that down in my notes... 3/10/21, 10:41 PM: buy more molly. Maybe try before school, and see how it goes. You owe your boss 15 bucks. Sell more weed tomorrow. There we go. I probably won’t forget now. Not like this is gonna ever really leave my head anyway. You rarely forget your first time doing a drug, unless it’s your thousandth time doing the drug. And by then you don’t remember the first time you did it, just that it’s a part of your life now. Maybe I sound like a drug addict. This is the first time I’ve done MDMA ever. I used to be pretty heavy into worse shit when I was younger, maybe 14 or 15. Wrong fucking age to be getting into this. A lot of the time, I look back, and I think to myself “I wish I didn’t like drugs.” But I do. This is life. Weed is medicine for me. It’s like a pill I take that helps me get through the day, not much different than the pills I currently do take to get through the day. I take a kind of speed in the morning, and then tranquilizers at night, as well as anti seizure meds, for my mood swings. I take my meds. August doesn’t. He’s nicer when he does. Sometimes when he doesn’t, he gets angry and worked up, and starts yelling at people, and hitting stuff. He needs his night meds to sleep. Sometimes I wake up at 6 AM and see him walking down the street, with dark bags under his eyes, because he hadn’t slept at all in the past 22 hours, and was looking extremely deranged, with a crazed look in his eye and a strange lilt in his voice, like a man trying hard to control some inner frenzy. August had it worse with drug addiction than I did. I had a minor problem, but August had a serious issue. He recognizes what is bad for him now though. He doesn’t do anything crazy anymore. He hasn’t touched DXM in years, not even medically, and he claims he never will. I saw what it did to him. He did too. He ended up going to the psychiatric ward. I got my shit together before I had hit that point. So August spent the next 2 years or so wandering the different halls and campuses of psychiatric facilities, I walked the streets without him. It wasn’t quite the same. I was functioning, but things happened that probably wouldn’t have if he was there. One week after August was admitted to the psychiatric ward, hearing nothing from him, I’m walking down Kennedy st. I don’t know anyone here. He knows everyone here. They don’t know me like they know him. They’ve only seen me. I look behind me and I see two people following me. I look ahead, and at the end of the dark, empty street, I see two more people. They start to walk towards me, while the people behind me do the same. I see what’s happening here. I get ready to run but they got me just in time to catch me. I hear a metallic snapping noise, and now there’s a switchblade (pressure activated) half an inch from my face, and I can just feel it, even though it isn’t touching me. I never carry weapons, that’s August’s thing. I’m scared of the idea of using weapons on someone, or physically hurting someone. I don’t want to go to court over it. August apparently doesn’t seem to care. “Just take everything I have, I don’t care. Just take it.” Then 4 different sets of fists start pounding down on me. When the crowd dispersed, I had no shoes on. My backpack was gone. My phone was gone. Everything worth taking, gone. I couldn’t make out anyone who was there, but I’m sure it was who I thought it was. August tried to warn me: don’t con people here. I didn’t listen. It had caught up to me. I had finessed one too many people, and they all found out at once. That’s something I’m better than August at. I can con just about anyone. He’s simply not capable. He can do it on a basic level, but not the same way I can, and definitely not to anyone. And now I’m paying the price for it. He warned me this would happen, and I didn’t listen. And he can’t even help me get revenge, because he was confined within the walls of a psychiatric ward. It was a tough two years. I felt very stagnant. It didn’t feel like I got much done, or achieved very much those two years. We could ask August what those two years were like for him, but that conversation would carry on infinitely. I remember walking up to a police officer. I was covered in blood and bruises, and I was limping because they stomped one of my legs. He asked me questions. I mumbled something like “dominion psych ward... not my fault... orange team” and then went unconscious. I woke up in the hospital. I had a concussion. I refused to tell the police who did this to me. It wasn’t their god damn business anyway. Not many other notable events happened in the next two years. I passed 9th grade, and then 10th. When I was in 11th, August came back from treatment. Two years without weed will do a fucking number to you. August was on another planet when I smoked him out for the first time since being in there. He was back to the old “can’t handle his weed” August that he used to be. A cluck and a tweaker, but a fun time to be sure. Fun to laugh at, at least. Then we started planning. “Fuck jobs. I’m 17, and you’re 18. Whatever jobs we get now are gonna suck. Do you wanna work at McDonalds? Becuase I sure fucking don’t,” he said. I agreed. “What about fraud?” “On a large scale, like a profitable one, really profitable, the risk gets too high. We could both go to jail for longer than a rapist.” “We could do another...” “Don’t even bring up the idea of doing that again. I just got out of treatment, I am not going back,” he snarled. “So what does that leave us?” I asked. “Drugs, I guess.” But we didn’t have money to start out with, so that plan was put on hold temporarily. Then August told me about this kid he knows who goes “car hopping.” And that brings us right about to where the story started off. We decided we were going to invest the money we found in some drugs and make more money. It was a maniacal plan if I’ve ever seen one, considering how little actual planning went into it. But, I guess it worked in the end so far, right? Neither of us are in Jail, or the psych ward. As far as I know, I never even heard sirens when we finally did get into that car. I doubt the police ever even did anything. They have other things to avoid doing. After we bought the beer, we each drank some more. August could no longer form a sentence. I was starting to feel tipsy. The weed had worn off for the most part, but the adderall was running strong. It didn’t mix well with the alcohol. I remember throwing up, and waking up the next morning with a pounding headache, and August, snoring on the floor. To this day, I don’t know whose house we were in. I fucking left. I couldn’t think about anything else. I left August in there, with whoever the house belonged to. He could figure it out for himself. Technically we didn’t get in any serious trouble, but the previous night was so intense, that it felt like my brain was at 110 volts, and the idea was almost completely August’s, so I felt vaguely angry at him. I didn’t feel like waking him up. He’d have to find his own way home. I walked outside. It was about 45 degrees, at 7. I was on some block of 7th street I’ve never seen before. The sun was shining bright in my face. Everything felt alright. For the first time in about two days, I felt stable. I had some money in my pocket, and it was nice out. And for once, he was present.