Acid for the Children: A Memoir

by Flea

Halloween night. I was still thirteen and at the end of my trick-or-treating career. It was just before I stopped following the candy and started following the hope of teen romance. I was out with my pals the Cervanteses and the Shadids, candy gathering and creating trouble. I like to think that the other kids’ mischief was more mean-spirited, and mine was more innocent; like Omar was the one who would approach the door of the nice lady with a tray of choice candy, then quickly and violently bash the tray out of her hands, the candy scattering everywhere, grabbing everything for himself, the lady crying out in despair, and Omar running off cackling into the night. And woe to the benevolent lady who gave out quarters from her bucket of silver coins. But I grabbed the stuff too when it went flying. I thought of myself as a nice person. When I took the bus, which I did constantly until I perfected my hitchhiking skills, I’d always give my seat up to a woman or an elderly person. I’d offer kindness whenever I could, helping people out with things or being sweet to little kids. I knew the peace and satisfaction that came from being of service. I wanted to be good so bad. But my moral compass was just so damn wacky, I veered from the path of kindness into dishonesty and exploitation with just a modicum of provocation. Like I had something to prove to my friends.