Wake and Bake

I went to a smallish state college probably more known for its baseball than its academics. I'm quite sure when the Trustees got together they vacillated between new shrubs to surround the baseball grandstands or books for the library. At least the field always looked nice!

Anyway, my sophomore year I was lucky enough to land housing in a "suite". A suite meant four guys, two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room and bathroom. One of my roommates, Steve, and I became very good friends although we didn't share a bedroom. His bedroom roommate quit school about 4 weeks into the semester so he had a room all to himself. Well, all to himself on nights his pornstar-moaning girlfriend didn't stay over. Which was often.

My bedroom roommate worked as a dispatcher for campus police. He was rarely around in the evening and when he didn't work stayed over his girlfriend's place or went home to mommy. So essentially, Steve and I shared a two-bedroom suite with occasional visits from my roomie, usually in the form of an afternoon nap.

Now Steve liked him some ganja. Pot. Weed. Herb. Mary Jane. He was a wake and bake guy. Within minutes of his morning alarm going off there was a sweet smell emanating from his room. When he came back from class he sparked up. After dinner he hit the pipe again. It didn't bother me at all but it wasn't my thing except for maybe after a raucous night of drinking when I might be thinking none-too-clearly and imbibe with him. Frequently we would start some crazy drinking game called Mexicans where if you rolled snake-eyes you did a gravity-bong. Yeah, good idea Bob Marley, I'll go along with that! Then I'd get all paranoid.

Of course, Steve could get away with partying his way through school. He freely admitted his instructions from his old man upon leaving for college was to just graduate. That's all he had to do. Graduate. Naturally, he went for the easiest business degree available and fist-pumped his nights away with every "C" or better. Then he'd get himself good and baked. You see, his dad had a million dollar business from which he was ready to retire and Steve was an only child.

The lucky bastard never had to work a day in college. He never had to worry about how he might pay the cable bill, or buy a book or eat or fill his tank. In fact, he would come back from winter or spring break with a new engine in his vintage Monte Carlo. Or paint job. Or stereo. Or tires and wheels. I would come back having worked 70 hour weeks and that much closer to bankruptcy. Nobody was paying my ride through school nor down the highway. My car at the time cost $200. The stereo cost $300. Insurance was the minimum allowed by law.

At the time, I was a biology major and studying my ass off all while working full time in a ski shop. I'd come back with a lab due the next day and see Steve sitting comfortably watching television with a glassy-eyed smile on his face. I hated him during those times. But it was impossible to hate Steve for long. He was a really good guy.

My work benefit was I got to ski free on Sundays too. I loved that and went almost every weekend. Sure, I had to pinch some pennies for gas and bring peanut butter sandwiches along for energy but other than that the day was free. Hell, I remember eating relish packets and getting back with only fumes in the gas tank. Good times!

Anyway, good old Steve had a great philosophy on studies as well. Besides his credo of "if you study baked, you HAVE to take the test baked" he apparently had the uncanny ability to assimilate information through his penis. How else could one sit on the couch, with a book open on his lap, the TV on, the stereo blaring and a bong at the ready and actually learn anything? Steve had it all figured out.

Eventually we graduated. Perhaps he carried a 2.02 or thereabouts but he did it. He went back to his home state and married his all-too-loud girlfriend (whom I adored except for the lost sleep) and shortly took over his dad's business. I'm guessing he probably makes $500,000 a year and I'd bet that even now, not a day goes by that he doesn't wake and bake.

Good old Steve.