Nobody told him he wasn’t supposed to. That was the mindset of twelve year old Willie or “Worm”, the first time he got high. Even if someone had told him “just say no,” it probably would have gone over the cornrows on his head atop his four foot tall body. Raised in the land of vacant lots and dope spots, which is the west side of Chicago; Worm’s natural reaction was to do as he saw, not as he was told.
When Worm was eight, his mother and uncles used to throw raucous card parties with all of the neighborhood super-heroes: gangsters and hustlers. They would send little Worm back and forth to the store and have him light their squares (cigarettes) and joints. So, when he was twelve and one of his friends passed him a blunt and told him to light it, Worm did so like he had been there before.
During these same social gatherings, his mom would give him beer and put Worm in a circle of family and friends to sing and dance. Times like these inspired Worm to want to be a rapper and comedian. He associated the weed and alcohol with fun and celebration. By the time Worm was fifteen, he was smoking and drinking every day.
With a father who lived in the suburbs, who he only saw when he got in trouble, Worm bonded with his step-dad; a small business owner and a well-known drug dealer. His step-dad gave him a small amount of drugs to sell so Worm could buy clothes and maintain his habits. Having been inducted into street culture by his uncles when he was big enough to sit on a watermelon and break it, this was a natural transition for Worm.
In an attempt to pull her son from the tumultuous waters he had dived into, Worm’s mom sent him away to boot camp, where she hoped he would finish his education and learn discipline. It was just a vacation for Worm. When he completed the program, Worm came back home to the same poverty and hopelessness he had left. The weed he smoked to see the silver lining of the gray cloud over his environment would evolve into something more severe.
One day, a hail of gunfire parted a crowd that Worm was congregated in, causing them to duck in panic, behind parked cars and porch steps. When the shots let up, two of Worm’s closest friends lay on the unforgiving concrete, bleeding to death. That night, an angry and saddened Worm tried a drug that he had been shielded from up to this point. One of his homies, also grieving from the day’s mad drama, lit up a blunt laced with PCP, called shock. “Let me hit that shock,” a dejected Worm demanded. That first hit would consummate a long relationship between Worm and shock, that would only end when he was charged with first-degree murder, five years later.