High Price

laughing at us—and not with us. We’d thought that the tool shack, which blocked the sight lines from the house, would give us cover from adult eyes. We even felt like we were making some progress with those ladies, flirting over the fence while we tried to look like men with our “squares,” which was what we then called cigarettes. But either my aunt’s boyfriend Cooper had noticed that some of his smokes were missing or something else caught her attention. They both came out of the house, very quietly, signaling to the girls not to let on that they were behind us.
    Before we even knew what was going on, they were screaming at us, “What in hell do you think you’re doing?” and chasing us around the yard. The girls were barely able to contain their hysterics. I never tried another cigarette until I was in the air force in the United Kingdom—and even then, was never more than a social smoker, for the same reasons that drove my moderation with marijuana, primarily concerns about athletic performance. I have never purchased a pack of cigarettes for myself in my life, but during my military service, I did smoke with friends at pubs to enhance the alcohol buzz. I felt that this intensified the excitement that the first drink stimulates. Later, I was intrigued to find a study that examined this phenomenon, suggesting that I was correct.
    My first alcoholic drink had been less eventful than my first cigarette. I was probably twelve. I remember going to the refrigerator, desperately thirsty after playing football in the stifling heat. Other than water, the only beverage in the fridge was a pink Champale (the poor person’s champagne) and I wanted something better than water. I drank down the whole twelve-ounce bottle, thinking I was enjoying its cloyingly sweet taste.
    But what I later realized that I really liked was the sense of relaxation, that calm but also somehow exciting chill that came over me. Again, though, alcohol never became something I needed or even particularly wanted. Street lore had it that twelve or sixteen ounces of the malt liquor Private Stock would keep your manhood erect forever—so I tried that from time to time when I was with a girl. Of course, like most lore, this too was an oversimplification. Sure, a low dose of alcohol can reduce anxieties, and thereby enhance sexual performance. But larger amounts will most likely be disruptive to performance. And so, other than my occasional use of the drug as a sexual aid, alcohol wasn’t my thing.
    In fact, I was so uninterested in alcohol as a teen that my mother actually kept a full bar including liquor and other supplies in the bedroom I shared with my little brother. She had no fear that we’d indulge. I’d seen how alcohol could make some adults lose their cool and look foolish (I wasn’t observant enough to notice pleasant, stress-relieving effects occurring when people drank moderately). I’d also seen how it could make people sloppy and pathetic. One of my mother’s friends was a Vietnam vet named Paul. He would frequently show up drunk in our living room and lament his experiences of the war. I felt sorry for him in that state. Mom’s alcohol was safe in my room.
    Weed was probably the drug I had the closest relationship with during high school. It seemed to be everywhere in the late 1970s and early 1980s (of course, every generation of high school students after the 1960s has said the same thing). But at that point, more than two-thirds of all high school students reported having tried it at least once. In my world, reefer was ubiquitous. Someone in our group always had it. Until I was about fifteen, though, I’d never bothered to smoke it myself. As with cigarettes, I was concerned about potential detrimental effects on my game. But one night, two of my friends—Derrick “Super Slick” Abel and the other I’ll call Frank, whom we referred to as Snake—decided that they were going to get me high.
    Snake was probably the best basketball player in our neighborhood, about six foot four and two hundred pounds. He was being raised by his grandparents, who spoiled him by giving him pretty much anything they had, as little as that was. They let him drive their old clunker of a car whenever he wanted. Smoking reefer was one of his favorite things to do. And that evening, he and Slick were determined to share the experience with me.
    Snake drove us to the spot in Opa-Locka where he bought his stuff. Then we parked at the end of