In high school, I waited tables at a local diner a few nights a week. Save for the other teens like me who were trying to make some extra cash for a cell phone or new kicks, there was a small group of employees who exemplified the cast of the Ryan Reynolds movie “Waiting;” slightly older, at community college, bad habits, no car. Jack was one of them.
I had recently gotten out of a relationship, and knowing I was leaving for college in the fall, I wasn’t looking for anything serious. Jack was nice enough — moderately attractive with at least a slight sense of humor, which was an improvement over many of the other employees at the diner. We had some mutual friends, even though he was a few years older than I was and grew up two towns over.
One night after closing the diner with Jack, he asked what I was up to later. Not wanting to say, “I am going home to do my math homework and get to bed early because I have high school in the morning,” I played it cool and said I would just be “hanging out.” He said he would “come hang out with me,” his tone implying he was inviting himself over. Against my better judgement, I told him to drop by.
We stood in my living room, my parents asleep not too far from us, making awkward small talk. He told me he was tired, and I told him it was okay if he went home, promising we could hang out sometime soon. He said not to worry about it, that he would find some energy, and he pounced.
We started hooking up on my living room couch, both of us still in our greasy diner clothes and reeking of french fry oil. Soon enough things were progressing to the next level, which I was prepared for — and he didn’t seem to be holding anything back, either.
As we were fooling around, he wasn’t able to get hard enough to have sex, but we kept trying. But after awhile he seemed to get uncomfortable and frustrated and he stopped me. I asked him what was wrong, and all he said was, “Sorry, I smoked too much weed.” He buttoned his pants back up and said, “see ya, kiddo” before he left, with me still sitting on the couch half-clothed in my parent’s house.
We never spoke of that night again, although we were coworkers for another eight months. After I left for college, I heard from a friend he was arrested for transporting weed across an international border and spent a year in jail. I guess he had too much weed.