Not Dead & Not For Sale Read Online Free Page B

problem,” said the nerd. “I’ll front you.” Fine, except that I never sold an ounce. I snorted up everything in my possession except for a small amount that my stepdad would find in my room. That small amount, you will soon see, led to a major crisis.
    DAD DAVE HAD HIS POSITION AT TRW. Mom was selling real estate in Orange County. I was finding my way through society at Edison High, athletics, music, and girls. One girl, with whom I was sexual, became pregnant.
    “I’m going to have an abortion,” is all she said.
    I didn’t argue. I believed—and still do—that a woman has jurisdiction over her own body. But I was also heartbroken. I drove her to the clinic, and then I drove her home. Neither of us said a word. It was incredibly sad. We cried silently. Our relationship was ruined. Intimacy between us was no longer possible. The fun, the playfulness, the pleasure of sex was gone. Something tragic had happened.

T HE START OF MY FIRST GOLDEN LOVE AFFAIR. Heather. “Affair” is the wrong word. “Affair” sounds sleazy. Heather was heavenly. Heather was true love. Heather was my soul, my future. When we met in high school, I was convinced that we would live happily ever after. There was her physical lure: lustrous, wavy brown hair; enticing heart-shaped buttocks; beautiful, big sky-blue eyes; full breasts; warm and loving smile. Then there was her metaphysical lure: She exuded sweetness and light; her temperament was soft and mellow; her kindness gentle as a summer breeze. Together, we could talk about anything. I knew that the love we made was enduring. It was a world away from casual puppy love; it existed in a far deeper dimension than your routine high school crush. It was, in short, forever.
    One summer afternoon when we were sixteen, we were making sweet love in my bedroom when, like a bat out of hell, Dad Dave barged in. Enraged, he started screaming. We scrambled for our clothes. Heather rushed out of the house. I heard my stepdad calling her parents, explaining what happened. I was incensed. Coitus interruptus is one thing. Getting ratted out by Dad is another.
    A postpunk song called “Pork Chop,” sung in the mode of Echo and the Bunnymen, was playing inside my head. The chorus went, “Pork chop, pork chop, you better eat your pork chop.”
    That night at dinner, my stepdad was still furious.
    “Aren’t you going to eat that pork chop?” he asked.
    “I already ate a pork chop,” I said. “There were two. Now there’s only one.”

    “There were never two,” he insisted. “You need to eat that pork chop.”
    “I’ve already eaten a pork chop.”
    The music got louder: “Pork chop, pork chop, you better eat your pork chop.”
    His voice got louder. “Eat it!”
    My voice got louder. “No!”
    “You never ate a pork chop!”
    “I did eat a pork chop!”
    “Pork chop, pork chop, you better eat your pork chop.”
    “You must be on coke,” he said. “You must be hallucinating.”
    “If I were on coke,” I said, “I wouldn’t be hallucinating. That would be acid.”
    My stepdad, six five and 240 pounds, exploded; he turned over the table and went after me with a clenched fist.
    “Pork chop, pork chop, you better eat your pork chop.”
    He chased me around the kitchen but couldn’t catch me. I ran up to my bedroom, locked the door, threw some clothes into a gym bag, climbed out the window, jumped onto the garage roof, jumped down onto the driveway, climbed on my bike, and took off. I went to a friend’s house, where we got high and listened to records for five straight days.

    Meanwhile, back at my parents’ house, Dad Dave searched my bedroom and found weed and a little blow. Without telling me, they called the authorities. The first time I learned of their call, I was back at school. I was in music theory class. Our teacher was Mr. Otey who, at six foot four, was an imposing presence. I was also in the choir and band, but, because I wanted to learn more, I signed up for