My last year of high school, I hung out with a guy named Poops.
Well, Poops wasn't his real name. But all my friends had a nickname.
There was Snoop, Dook, Pebbles, Gin-Gin, Buddy, Farmer, Nurd AKA C2, Tease, Scoot, Duff AKA C3, Woody AKA Country Boy AKA Country F, Pappy AKA Laurel and Hardy, Juice, Big Daddy, Money AKA Money Man AKA Tin Man AKA C4, TP AKA Total Package, Q, C-Shell AKA Corn-Husker, Hollywood, Junior AKA Scotty D, The Original, and I'm sure I'm forgetting someone. Thankfully, I was just Bee.
Back to Poops.
Poops lived with his grandparents, and his "Drunk Uncle" lived out back in the shed. His father had died when he was young, and I can't actually remember why he didn't live with his Mom. I only met her a couple of times. Needless to say, Poops didn't have the best childhood.
His grandfather had a light blue Chevy S10 pickup. One day he borrowed it and we went riding. We ended up on a dirt road moving at a very high speed and Poops said, "Let's get crook-ed!" He then snatched the wheel and we went flying down this dirt road sideways. Thankfully no one else was coming.
Not long after I graduated (he dropped out and got his GED), Poops started hanging out with some folks that was smoking alot of weed. I wasn't interested in going down that road so we eventually stopped hanging out. The last time that I saw him, he had come by my folks house when I was still living at home, with his much younger girlfriend and their new baby. Not long after that I heard he was locked up for drug possession. Meth.
Not long ago I tried to locate him without luck. I was starting to fear the worst.
Finally, another friend heard that he was again recently arrested for possession of meth. I found out what prison he was in and wrote him a letter. I waited for a reply. Nothing.
About a year and a half went by, and another friend said that she had contact with one of his family members that said that for the first time he voluntarily enlisted in rehab. I pray that the days of "getting crook-ed" are over.
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