(Pot To The Rescue)
The other day someone mentioned that their brother smoked marijuana sometimes, and I realized I hadn’t thought of that in a long time. Not in any serious way at all. I don’t know why I never thought of it as a cure for my lack of appetite! For God’s sake, it used to be a mighty primary cause of Munchies and other food attacks!
I don’t know, though. I’m more afraid of the illegality these days than I ever was in the past. I have no concern at all about it being “dope”. I take prescription “dope” all the fucking time. I don’t really want to feel dopey but if it pot would have an effect on my appetite, that would be more than ever happened for me when I took the appetite pill a few months ago. It never did jackshit. I quit taking it to save the money. I used to smoke tiny amounts of pot by myself (in a hash pipe) at night and listen to music through the earphones. Before long, I had to get up and raid the refrigerator! Ah, those were some of the good old days! Stoned, and sitting around in my underwear eating cold God-knows-what out of the fridge with no one to make me feel embarrassed! With Cheetoes and Coca-Cola thrown in! Not the best life, but better than some!
Anyway, this got my mind to meandering and recalling things. I remember that visit to Stuart’s one evening getting stoned on his good pot, drinking his beer, having a pleasant visit with him and his sweet pretty girlfriend. Everything was cool until she went out of the room and he informed me he had stuff to do! I was hustled from his apartment with a full beer in my hand before I knew what was going on! By the time I got to my car, I knew what he was doing and it probably involved sex with that beautiful young woman. I would have been happy to leave, except I was so stoned. I wondered if I could drive, though.
I had the beer, but couldn’t drink it down fast and get rid of it for some reason. Maybe I’d already had too many. In any case, it was still in my lap when the policeman came up behind me and saw me make a left turn without giving a signal. He turned on his lights and siren. Mortified, terrified, I moved to the side of the road and stopped. I balanced the beer as far out of sight as it’d go while trying to not be conspicuous about my motions. A lot of good that’d do me if the police came up to investigate my car with a flashlight.
I got out of the car and went back to speak to the policeman. First thing was, he knew about the beer already. I guess I’d taken a sip in plain sight. I went into one of my best apologetic modes (in my twenties I could do it well!), all the time worrying about how stoned I was. I was so stoned that I was afraid the lid of grass in my jacket pocket was going to leap out and fall at the cop’s feet! Oh, did I forget to mention that I was carrying? It seemed to me that I was a Sure Bust waiting to happen! After speaking for a minute or two in My Best Apologetic Mode, the cop, never getting out of his car, waved me away. He said he could tell I wasn’t drunk, so he’d let me off with a warning. Verbal warning!
No, not drunk at all, just stoned out of my mind!
That’s when I discovered how unapparent one’s stoned behavior could be to straight people. I wasn’t Acting stoned, I just Was stoned. Go figure! I was grateful, exceedingly grateful to God. Thank you, God, for protecting my ass and my dope! After I stopped shaking, it was funny and I told the story a number of times in the years after. It was a good one.
But, being older now and no wiser, I wouldn’t have any pleasure in that kind of fright any more! Being stoned would be fun, but not being that afraid!
