Locks, Keys, and ID’s

Mitch and Gina came in from Detroit this past week for a visit. Unfortunately, I had no place to offer them, so they roughed it in the RV. I think they secretly enjoyed it – who wouldn’t?

From the beaches to the bridges, I ran Mitch and Gina all over this town. I was like a walking tour bus; at one point Mitch asked me to stop making so much commentary. It’s not my fault I talk so much, there is just so much out there to speak about.

For the first part of our tour, we walked 15+ blocks in the rain to the auto shop to pick up my RV. That was fun. On the way, we passed a smoke shop, “Locks, Keys, and ID’s.” By day it’s all boarded up and looks like it should be ripped out, but by mid-afternoon, this id slinging, bong selling, place of business is the hottest place for blocks; it changed my life.

When I visited SF at the ripe old age of 15, I learned about this palace of freedom. With very little trouble, I bought my first fake ID here. It was a terrible one, really terrible. It looked nothing like the real California ID cards you get from the DMV, and it was way too stiff, like it was excited to get me into trouble.

I paid $10 for my new identity, “Mark Hector Harwood,” and I was off. I hiked all the way to a liquor store in North Beach to test out my new fake. To my surprise it worked. I wasn’t even able to grow facial hair at this point – what was this guy thinking? My buddy thought he’d give his new ID a try as well. He wasn’t met with a receipt and a brown bag. They snagged his ID, kicked him out, and threatened to call the cops. We took the train home after that; sharing our warm bottle of Michelob.

I was visiting my mom who lived in Sacramento. I spent the summers there, and then returned to Chandler, Indiana for High School, where I lived in my friend’s basement on a couch.

Come fall, when I returned to my dank shelter, I put my little laminated friend to work. I told some of the seniors that I could get them liquor if they drove me to the other end of town. My illegal business went up as fast as an old western saloon. It was simple – I charged $ 25 a visit and bought myself some extra bottles so I could sell it without a ride. I was making about $ 300 a week – sure beats a paper route.

Eventually, I was caught and suspended from school. Got a job at Arby’s for a few weeks – what a miserable place. That meat is seriously gross. It comes as a congealed mess in a bag; you slice it open and wash that preservative jelly off and throw it in the over for a few hours. I was never put on meat duty; I always washed and peeled potatoes and worked the register. I took up smoking while so I could take a few breaks throughout the day.

I eventually returned to school, quit my day job, and teamed up with a friend, Chad Augustine, who owned two Pontiac Fieros – one black and one gold. He was really into acid; I never tried the stuff, I think because I saw what it did to him. He would cruise me to the liquor store with orders and I would buy him a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 for his troubles. Sometimes, we would have to stop at his dealer’s house. His dealer had a robotic wrist cause his hand got cut off once, and every time we visited, he would make me put my finger on his wrist so I could feel the little gears moving around. He was a pretty creepy man, and I felt sorry for his little boy.

I continued my business, but on a much smaller scale. It got me through Castle High School, there in Paradise, Indiana.

Thank you kind Smoke Shop of Market Street.