School of Psychedelics
Back when I attended high school in the mid-70's, taking LSD was quite a popular form of recreation. So popular, in fact, that many chose to take it at school for some unknown reason. As for me, sometimes I would be riding the bus to school, and sunshine would be bursting through the window, and I would just get the notion that this was a sign, and I should eat some acid that day. It was always available, and a relative bargain at $2 per hit.
And so it was that one Monday morning, like many others, I found some psychedelics for purchase before class began, and ate them. After hallucinating and giggling my way through my first three classes, I found myself in one of the school's designated smoking areas at lunchtime. It was crowded like usual, and I stood off by myself, leaning against a support post, smoking a Camel. A short distance away stood a circle of people, most of whom I knew from DeMolay (yeah, I was in DeMolay, amazing isn't it?). They were enjoying a smoke and the usual lunchtime banter.
One of the people in the circle was an acquaintance of mine who I had known for several years named Bill Miller. Bill was a fellow DeMolay member. He grew up in a military family, somehow minus the travel. Both his parents were in the military, and Bill considered himself to be quite an expert on all things military. He used this expertise to try to impress people, which, this being the 70's, didn't work. He had a really obnoxious style of speaking that demanded your attention even though you weren't interested in a single thing he had to say. So people generally avoided him, and he got ditched a lot.
Before he had joined his friends, who were smoking about 30 feet away and slightly up a hill from me, he had stopped to talk to me. I told him I was on acid as a way of giving him the brush-off. So after joining them for a smoke, Bill of course told them all I was on acid. Pretty soon they started staring at me and laughing. I didn't like most of them anyway, so it didn't bother me much. Soon, I finished my cigarette and decided to head out. As a gesture of disapproval, I flipped my cigarette butt in the general direction of the group, then began to walk away.
Now, that red-hot cigarette butt could have landed anywhere. Most likely the ground. Maybe in some chick's hood on her coat at worst. Perhaps bouncing off someone's Levi-clad leg unnoticed.
But no. Of all the places it could have gone, it went directly down Bill Miller's shirt. Bill freaked out, jumping around to get the flaming butt out of his shirt. His friends jumped out of the way, screaming with laughter at him. I saw the whole thing, and I was beside myself, laughing too.
So here came Bill. He came out kicking for my crotch. He missed me three times, getting me in the lower stomach, before I got a handful of his hair and bent him down. Bill was not a big guy at all, and as I began punching him repeatedly in the stomach with his head bent down, I backed him right up the hill. Soon, we were at the top of the smoking area. I must have nailed him in the stomach 10 or 15 times, missing only once when I got him in the jaw. Now we were against the wall, nowhere for him to go. It was at this point I stopped and looked around. About 200 people had formed a huge circle around us, viewing the fight with glee and much shouting. I realized this would bring out the school's Dean of Students, a tall, skinny, weasel named Mr. Smith. I never got in any serious trouble for any of the shit I pulled in high school, and I certainly didn't want to start now, completely fried on acid. So I stopped punching and let go of Bill's hair so he could stand upright. But Bill remained bent over. I was really starting to panic now, wanting to get out of there. So I reached down and grabbed Bill's right hand with my left hand, and placed it in my right. With Bill still bent over, I shook his hand, said "Everything's cool, all right?". After all, we were DeMolay brothers, and there was a DeMolay meeting that night. Bill made sort of a gurgling sound. I then proceeded to walk very fast the hell out of there, much to the chagrin of our impromptu audience, whom booed lustily in response to the fight being over already. As I briskly walked away, I actually heard someone yell, "What a shitty fight!".
At the meeting that night, Bill was generally subdued and quiet, except to complain out loud about his sore jaw.
I never heard of him fucking with someone on acid again.
Bill Miller later joined the Coast Guard, catching smugglers off the Oregon and California coast, and often smoking the contraband with his fellow sailors.