Marijuana-be
Friday, December 17, 2010 at 12:46PM Maybe I haven't told you this story, but I was reminded of it today after seeing a friend who now "grows and sells pot for a living." That's how she said it, and it was so nonchalant that I felt I was living in some sensible world that wasn't afraid of Reefer Madness. Even weirder is that this is a woman who, as far as I can remember, wasn't all that turned on by the pot crowd. Apparently she's just a capitalist who saw an opportunity. So legit.
I'm not so keen on finding those opportunities. Or at least I don't have the courage to make that kind of leap: one day I'm producing a public service announcement for the Census Bureau and the next I'm trying my hand at cultivating pain medicine. Besides, I just suck at marijuana.
In college most of my friends got stoned with ease, and the effect seemed to fit them like their Birkenstocks. Whenever I did it there was no guarantee it would end well. The first drag there was nothing. And so I tried it again. Nothing. Again. And then there was something. Or whatever eating most of a pack of 48 hot dogs is called.
The second time I ended up shirtless at McDonalds. They let me walk through the drive thru for several one-dollar Big Macs. I should disclaim here that there was always alcohol involved. Except for that one time I smoked something that my neighbor's boyfriend called "some serious shit." PRO TIP: When a dude who talks like Keanu Reeves and has the attention span of a Red Bull test rat calls something serious, you should not light it on fire and put it in your mouth.
About ten minutes later I was hiding on my back porch. I was smiling but distressed. My smile hurt. It seemed so exaggerated that I believed it was injuring my face. When I tried to wipe it away I could see my reflection in my hands. It was kind of nauseating.
But the story I mean to tell you was pretty much my last run in with the weed.
It would all start with my eating a half a pan of brownies, not knowing that they were "special" baked goods. Medibles. It would end a few days later with one of the "chefs" finding me and, with great care and in her Sally Struthers soft voice, ask if I was OK. I wasn't sure who she was but Sarah, my girlfriend at the time, reminded me of the incident. We had been at a party where I thought the dog was attacking me so crawled over the fence and fled.
She explained to Sarah and me that she and her friends had spent days isolating the potent part of the plant to make the most powerful brownies ever. Shortly after they were baked, I showed up and found them in the kitchen. It was as brownie eating typically goes. I had a little corner and swore that was it. And then passing back through I had a bigger piece, and another, before finally losing myself on the pan. They were the best brownies I'd ever eaten.
That was the beginning of a very long day.
First, I did the aforementioned fleeing. In front of a backyard full of concerned college-aged peers, I threw a beer at a dog, ditched my girlfriend, went over the fence and sprinted down the alley.
Sarah would eventually find me crying on her front lawn. I was certain that I'd finally drank enough beer to drown my brain in alcohol. What seemed like another innocuous Milwaukee's Best was in fact the final dousing. I told her I'd never be the same again. She told me I was being a little bit dramatic. I told her I was going to be mildly retarded for the rest of my life, and that I needed to go to work.
My work started early in the morning, but I still had about eight hours until I needed to be there.
At the time I was the "Russell" half of the "Martin and Russell" show on Farmington's Big Dog 96.9. I lived north of Durango so had a two-hour round trip commute. Every morning I'd drive into New Mexico and get to work at about 5am. On this morning, one that I think was in the spring of 1997, I would leave shortly after midnight. Sarah delayed me for a while, trying to get me to sleep, but I was bent on sharing with our listeners that my world had gone wrong.
I drove in fear. Everything was attacking me, especially my headlights. I'd drive past reflecotrs and their light would trail after me. It was terrifying. I used my wipers to try and clean them off the windshield. I rolled down the window to let their bright vapors out of the car. I even tried to drive with my headlights off, but I was too scared...even at ten miles per hour.
And then the true challenge: oncoming vehicles. Every time their lights would pop over the horizon I'd pull over and shout at the passing car. Their lights were so bright, and often flying right over me. Several times I actually ducked, at least twice sliding to the floor of the vehicle. What gets me now is that I was only bothered by how painfully bright the headlights were, not that they were taking off and streaking into the desert sky.
It would take me about four hours to get to work. I was starving and parched. I went to the all-night convenience store and bought as much water and beef jerky as I could hold. They knew me well from my commute. Days later, when I would explain what had happened, they'd say they thought I was acting strange. I guess I spent thirty minutes trying on and talking to sunglasses, often in little self-reassuring bursts, before eating a hot dog off the carousel.
When I got to work, Todd Martin, the host of the show, looked me up and down.
"Have you been crying?" he asked.
I told him everything. How I drank one too many beers. How all my partying had caught up with me and how for the rest of my life I was going to be affected.
That wasn't the answer he expected. He grabbed the morning's news and headed to the studio. Later, when he came back out to get me, I was standing in the same place and examining my body. I looked at my hands in soft rememberance of how my fingers had once belonged to a healthy and functioning individual. I watched them move. They still worked, but because of my excess these hands now belonged to a different person. I closed my eyes and tried to go back into time. It seemed possible.
"Hey mister," Todd shouted, "are we going to do this?"
And so on the radio I shared a tearful story of how I was going to be different. From behind his microphone Todd squinted in disbelief, watching me divulge my unedited story of overindulgence and regret. After he turned off the mics and hit a song, Todd said, "You know, all I needed was the weather."
I explained to him that I was developmentally disabled. He suggested I go home. On the air he asked the Farmington police to give the guy in the red Mercury Tracer a break.
By then, however, I was exhausted. I took refuge on my boss's couch. I tried to sleep but everything was so loud, and worse, everyone was going on about their lives as if nothing had dramatically changed.
I tried a few more attempts at going on the air. Each one ending with my monologue of how dire things were, while Todd did everything to get into the next song. Finally, I left for home. I drove slowly and with the jittery awareness of an abused animal.
Sarah came home from work and found me at her house. I was sleeping and would wake up feeling a little less sad. Over the next day things would clear up, and later in the week I'd have everything explained to me by the concerned brownie cook.
It was a huge relief, and nice news to celebrate with a drink.
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