SNITCHES GET STITCHES

The first time I learned not to snitch was in high school as a freshman.  I was on the basketball team and sat next to a teammate we will call "Deion" on the back of the bus one morning. Everything was normal until...he started smoking smoking weed on the bus, right next to me which is fucking insane.  Like any considerate person would do, he asked if I wanted to hit it.  I said "no thank you."  Mainly because it's 7:15 in the morning, we are on a bus, and I've never smoked before in my life.  

The week before I had seen Deion pull a plastic liter of Popov Vodka out of his Carolina Panthers Starter jacket, so who was I to judge.  Dude was a savage, he didn't even had a chaser.  If you haven't tried Popov Vodka, then you've probably never had unprotected sex with a complete stranger in an alley before either.  Good for you.  

He took a hit and told me to open the window.  I hate school bus windows, you had to use both index fingers and click those grey things together and the window would always get stuck halfway down.

With every hit, he would stand up and try to blow the smoke out of the window.  I tried not to stare as he leaned over me, so I drew 3-D boxes on the foggy windows as we drove down San Juan.  That's all I ever draw is 3-D boxes and the sides are always uneven.  I'm a terrible Asian I don't draw, tag, break dance, or race cars. 

Each hit he took lead to beads of L.A. Looks Mega Hold 5 infused sweat dripping down my forehead, piercing my eyes like the chlorine in a public pool.  The scent of the weed also overpowered the five sprays of CK1 cologne I had on. It was awkwardly quiet, as students began to whisper, "is someone smoking weed on this bus?"  I kept looking forward thinking, "Yes, someone is definitely smoking weed on this bus.  That person is also wearing red Franklin batting gloves."

I got to school and immediately the vice principal Mr. DeArco pulled me out of history.  He asked if I noticed anything strange on the ride to school that morning.  I said, "Strange?  No. Nothing out of the ordinary."  My heart pounded like we were playing Texas Hold Em' and I just went all in pre-flop with a 2/7 off suit.  Mr. DeArco asked, "Really?  Who were you sitting next to?"  My inner voice screamed, "It's a wrap, he knows!!! I'm fucking done!!!"  I calmed myself down, don't be a bitch Robert.  I replied, "I sat next to Deion I think.  I was pretty tired from practice last night, so I fell asleep right away."  He cut to the point, "I heard there were students smoking weed on the bus this morning?"  You know someone is lying when their response is, "whaaaaaaaaaattttttt?That's crazy."

It was at this moment, I had an epiphany.  Not so much an epiphany, as seeing one of the most hood dudes in the school hiding behind a pillar directly in back of Mr. Dearco.  Well call this hood dude "Craig."  Everyday he wore the same maroon Natomas track suit to school that he never returned.  I could see Craig over Mr. DeArco's shoulder shaking his head at me as if to say, "You better not say shit, or it's a wrap for you bitch."  This was like a poor reenactment of the movie "Dangerous Minds", only Michelle Pffeifer can't save me with her fake ass leather jacket.  

I knew Craig vaguely, he would come over to hoop and after would leave on his bike to steal Kit-Kats from Albertson's.  One time Craig was eating cherries off my neighbors tree and my neighbor came outside pissed yelling, "I hope you know I sprayed those cherries with pesticide."  To which Craig had the greatest comeback known to man, "I hope you know I sprayed yo' momma wit pesticide!" As he continued to eat cherries off his tree and threw the pits at him.

Anyways back to the weed story.  Why is Craig outside right now?  Does he have a hall pass?  How'd he know Mr. DeArco was even talking to me?  I had a new thought, it would suck to get my ass whooped so that Brandon Williams and Rodney Toole could clown my ass in the cafeteria when they see I have two black eyes.  Fuck this lazy eyed guy Mr. DeArco and his irregular Ross dress shirt (his left sleeve was way longer then the right, but that's irrelevant). 

I shook my head, "Like I said I was asleep. I don't even know what weed smells like."  He persisted, "What if you left a list of names in the trash can right here and I was to come by and pick it up?"  I looked over Mr. DeArco's shoulder to see Craig still shaking his head at me.  I envisioned myself getting pinned against a chain link fence absorbing furious rib shots to the bitter sweet melody that was Craig's swishing track suit reigning down upon my frail 130 pound body.  I imagined waking up in a bloodied daze to some Mexican dudes wearing Nike Cortez's, with Tres Flores glistening off their slicked back hair telling me to get up.  Un moment, por favor carnad.

I snapped out of it, this is real life.  This ain't the Karate Kid, ain't no Mr. Miyagi gonna teach me how to fight in one day.  Craig is gonna catch my crane kick and I'm gonna get hit in mouth with a red Franklin batting glove.  Then I'm gonna get kicked in the stomach so hard that the buffer flies out of his Grant Hill Fila's and the blood from my mouth ruins my  brand new Jnco's.

Besides this dude is my teammate.  I ain't going to practice to have that red headed super tall freak Kyle Gabanni head butt me with his goggles, getting my Penny Hardaway's scuffed, as I fall back into the gravel ruining my Izod pullover.  Fuck you Mr. Dearco, I ain't see shit.