My Broken Pipe

It was a cool fall Saturday afternoon. I was in my junior year of High School and I was the man. Just kidding, I just thought I was. Like most Saturday afternoons during that time period I was getting ready to go to my friend’s house to smoke some pot (yes, this friend was Trevor). I put on my black zip up hoody and got my favorite blue and yellow glass pipe from its not so secret hiding spot behind the books on my bookshelf. I placed the pipe in the right side pocket of my hoody and headed downstairs. As I was leaving I ran into my parents in the kitchen and they asked me where I was headed (they always seemed to be standing there when I was trying to leave and do something they would not approve of). I told them that I was going to Trevor’s house to hang out, which my entire family probably knew was codeword for smoking pot. I was not slick.

I proceeded out of the house and walked onto the driveway where my brother was shooting basketball with one of his friends. Being the cool, athletic older brother that I was I told them to throw me the ball so that I can take a shot as I walked passed them, towards my car.

My brother tossed me the basketball and I shot a fade away jumper. Just as the ball went flying out of my hands, my glass pipe went soaring out of my hoody pocket. In what seemed like slow motion, I saw my glass pipe go spiraling through the air, land on my concrete drive way, bounce once, and shatter. The basketball I shot went nowhere near the basket. At that exact moment my parents came out of the house and saw the entire event go down. I am pretty sure time stopped for a good five-minutes.

I tried kicking the remains of my shattered, glass pipe into the bushes, but it was too late, my parents already saw everything. I tried playing dumb and acting like I had no idea what this glass object was. My parents weren’t buying it. My brother and his friend were laughing hysterically as my parents stood by the garage door stunned and angry.

My parents summoned me over to them. “We know what that was, Andrew.” I guess my dad saw a glass pipe or two while he was at Woodstock even though he claims (to this day) that him and his friends were the only people there who were not doing drugs.

I followed my parents into the house and my dad asked me how I think I should be punished (because handing out punishments is a group effort in a Jewish household). I looked down at the ground and in a last ditch attempt to get off the hook replied with, “Well, my pipe is broken, so I think that is punishment enough.” The room was silent for at least a minute and a smirk came across my dad’s face. “Yea, I guess you are right.” Amazed that this tactic actually worked I quickly headed back outside, got into my car, and drove off to Trevor’s house to smoke a joint and tell him how my pipe broke.