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Ganja Tales
For Ian, a fine son and best friend.
And to all the brothers and sisters who languish in jail for smoking the herb. Our prayers are with you.
Reefer Madness
A person does strange things when no one's watching.
The marijuana sat like an art object on the white pedestal in the middle of the room. Looked like a nice ounce or so of fat kind buds. But the people lounging about the sofas and chairs, drinking wine, smoking cigarettes and acting oh-so-sophisticated, ignored the green goodies.
Mike couldn't figure out why.
To make matters worse, in his dream he didn't have a lighter, papers or pipe--nothing to get high with. So he couldn't shout: “Look everybody, some wacky weed! Let's load a bowl and find out if it's any good.”
Still, he wanted to get stoned in the worst kind of way. That's why he found it hard to concentrate on the anorexic chick in the red dress talking to him about something he couldn’t quite focus on. She zeroed in on his lack of attentiveness. “You're not listening to me, are you?” she barked, blue eyes blazing.
Mike gazed forlornly at the kind buds on the pedestal, turned back to her and smiled weakly: “Of course I am,” he protested, putting on his most sincere face. But she reared back and punched his arm, muttered “Men!” and stormed off.
Bitch! he thought, rubbing the sore spot and wondering why no one would acknowledge the marijuana on the pedestal. This was definitely not his type of party, not his type of scene. And by the way, he asked himself, What was he doing here anyway?
The river of his dream rocked him back and forth from bank to bank, reality to illusion, until eventually, squealing tires outside brought him to life in his apartment bedroom. Waiting for his eyes to open and his rational mind to work, it hit him: Marijuana was in the apartment. He couldn’t get to it—didn’t know where it was in fact. He only knew the buds were somewhere nearby. Where though? Funny, just like his dream. The stuff was there; he just couldn’t get to it. And thinking was so hard. Then the river rolled over him again and he went under.
The marijuana was the reason he'd passed out. Marcy had shown up a few hours ago with a half-pound after being gone almost a year. She and Sean, his roommate, had known each other since second grade. She had family in Dallas, knew plenty of dealers through her mother, a strung-out meth freak-slash-bar waitress. When Marcy busted out the Texas weed, she explained how there was a lot more in Dallas, and all Sean needed to do was help her sell this half-pound (a mere 8-ounces for a weed-starved city!) and they could drive back to Texas where, she was sure, with a couple hundred bucks down, she could get a nice load of reefer fronted to her by her mom's biker friends. The real deal, baby … pounds, and plenty of them.
Mike had listened to them talking it over as they fingered, smelled and examined the fat green buds and got thoroughly wasted. The Texas nugs were good commercial weed, light-green, copper-blond highlights. And best of all, very few seeds; in other words, some very salable weed left out. Not that he could have gone with them had they asked. Not only was he in school, but he wasn't one to cast his fate to the wind--couldn't just take off for who knows how long. He liked a little more continuity in his life than that--liked waking up in the morning knowing that six months from now he would be somewhere he could put his finger on, a place of his own to count on. He just wasn’t your spur-of-the-moment kind of guy.
And he woke again, a bag of skin, bones, organs and a couple gallons of blood, trying now to get it all working. Okay brain, turn yourself on. Time to start thinking. Sean and Marcy were out getting the oil changed on her Camaro. Marcy … now there was a woman. She always seemed to be grinning about something in spite of having survived a less-than-perfect childhood, being arrested numerous times for DWI and possession-under-an-ounce, and being knocked around by abusive boyfriends on a regular basis. Her devil-may-care attitude complemented her tight blue jeans and cowgirl boots, and she tore through life in her red Camaro like she was leading all the barrel-racers at the county rodeo, hair flowing in the wind, leaning into a turn, racing the clock. Sean used to brag about how many ways he had screwed Marcy while they were drunk and stoned out of their minds back in high school: in the water, in a car, in a closet, on a pool table …
Yadi, yadi, yadi, Mike thought. Must be nice. Over, under, around and through, bringin’ home the pleasure to you. Images of naked Marcy sprang to life before him—the splash of butterscotch freckles across her throat and shoulders, the tautness of ripe breasts hiding behind her long tresses, the creamy whiteness of her belly leading down to the fuzzy orange fullness of her sex. Jesus, it had been a while since he got laid! How he wanted someone to hold, to make love to, to be with; someone who cared about him, to ask: How was your day? That would be nice. A person to share stuff with. His penis strained in its moorings--all systems go but nowhere to launch to--no warm pleasure-galaxies to explore, and it was with keen disappointment that Mike saw himself gasping for air, fish-like, on the banks of reality. Hungry. Horny. Lonely.
Too many wants, he thought: Sex. Love. Food. Well, he mused, at least food was available. He got out of bed and for some reason found himself pausing in front of Sean’s closed bedroom door. Then his hand was on the knob and he knew, of course, that he was the only one in the apartment …
The bedroom was as they'd left it after smoking earlier--a mess. Only one thing missing Mike thought, glancing around. He walked over to Sean's desk, stood on the chair and looked along the top bookshelf. He knew from experience Sean sometimes kept a joint, a nug or a nickel bag there. Maybe he'd left something from the half-pound that Mike could pinch a bowl from. One bowl ... that would be nice. Actually, Mike was surprised they hadn't left him something to get by on until they returned. They had eight ounces, probably were going to keep two and sell six. What would one little nug be from a stash like that?
He opened the cabinet doors, surveyed the contents: nothing but CDs. He pulled them out, looked behind them. Nothing again. Then he caught himself. It flashed in his mind that Sean was standing in the door behind him, waiting to say What in the fuck are you doing going through my things!?
Suddenly feeling embarrassed, Mike left the bedroom and headed for the jamoca almond fudge in the kitchen, delighting in the first few bites that always chilled his esophagus. Outside the kitchen window a single crabapple blossomed amidst the concrete jungle of apartment-complex parking lot. Its pink buds fluttered in the wind and Mike was careful not to make any sudden moves that might scare off the two doves in the tree, each one taking a turn guarding the small nest while the other went out gathering more stems and twigs.
Thunderheads roiled on the horizon. What to do before the rain hits? Renew his drivers license, study for a biology test. But it was Friday, and he wouldn't have classes for a whole two more days, his thoughts drifted to leisure--mainly what Sean and Marcy were up to. Earlier, when they had smoked out, Mike offered to chip some money in on the deal with Marcy. Quiet fell suddenly, then Sean said: “I already got it fronted through Marcy. But we'll set you up, dude – don’t worry.”
Then Mike knew Sean and Marcy were going to make hundreds off the deal and he was going to be left on the sidelines; an observer, not a participant. The old feeling returned then, like the first time he'd been turned down for a date, or when he lost the election for class secretary his junior year. It was that old feeling of rejection.
Fine,
