Ferris Bueller Shorts

When the Druggie Found Jeanie

[This is my last short, folks. It's been real fun. also fun fact: this whole thing is based on things from the original script that got cut! The druggie had a whole backstory. His parents were the Vermont people that Katie Bueller sells the house to and they also own the towing company that gets Rooney's car! And his name is Garth Volbeck! Isn't that wild?]

It was almost eight in the afternoon that day when he got released from jail. Most other times he'd been let out, he'd be inebriated or coked out of his mind. This time, however, he was fully sober and he had only one thing on his mind: Jean.

They'd met for maybe thirty minutes. In that time, they'd discussed their family, their reasons for being in jail and the essential meaning of life and how to stop worrying about it so much. It was like therapy. He'd never connected so well with anyone before, especially not a girl.

That was part of the reason why his family had moved to Chicago anyway. He'd been seen as a 'troubled child' back home, doing drugs, picking fights, getting thrown out of schools. He was described by authority figures as a 'punk,' and a 'delinquent.' He had a reputation and people avoided him like the plague unless they were picking a fight or bullying him to his face. He was a problem child, alright, and his parents were at their wits' end. His therapist and many school guidance counselors had suggested to them that maybe moving to a new place would help turn him into the model child he was supposed to be.

He was rebelling.

He'd ridden with his dad in the tow truck while his mother and younger sisters rode in the family car. He hated that tow truck. That was another reason the family had decided to move. Living in a tiny, hobunk town out in the middle of upstate Vermont, there hadn't been many cars to tow. The business was starting to lose money, and his parents had been worried. They figured they'd have a lot of luck in Chicago, where his dad's parents lived. That's where they were staying while they tried to find a new house. His parents were meeting with some realtor that day about it, in fact, but he didn't care enough. That's why he'd blazed one in public. Apparently that was frowned on in Chicago. Lesson learned.

He tucked his hands in his pockets finding his only real possessions in life: a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and his wallet. The cop had been reluctant to give it back once he'd released him but whatever. He didn't care about what some dumb cop thought.

Now he realized he was lost. Well, he wasn't lost. He was just wandering. He'd get a ride or find a payphone and call his dad or something. He wasn't worried.

As he looked around, he noticed some remarkably large houses. A street sign read Country Club Drive. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. Rich people, he thought. All their streets had the same ridiculous names. He hated them.

Rich people were always so well-to-do, buying things they didn't need and looking down on those who didn't have anything. He never wanted to be rich. He'd rather die young than live to be successful to such a degree. His boots clacked on the pavement and the noise startled some dog somewhere.