Since a career in politics is not in my near future, I would like to share yet another intimate story starring Marijuana as the protagonist.
One uneventful high school day, my friend Jenny leaned across the aisle in homeroom and in a loud whisper asked, "Hey, do you wanna go somewhere special after school?" Among my high school clique, special meant finding the right pharmacy to shoplift from or locating the key to a liqueur cabinet teh belonged to Bethany Brennan's rich, jet-setting parents. What would far surpass any five-finger-discounted tube of mascara or Sweet Amaretto? A free supply of Mary Jane. Weed. Reefer.
It was a retirement complex for seniors surrounded by large pine trees and shrubs that gave the small apartment the privacy it coveted. Jenny and I would pad lock our getaway wheels against a small tree in front of an unobstructed path, just in case the cops came.
His name was Jersey,
a slow-moving, 74-year-old,
pot-smoking World War II vet with a fondness for only the finest Cannabis Sativa money can buy, paired with a couple of rowdy high school girls which Jenny and I happily filled that category.
He called us Goils with his North Jersey-slightly-diluted-Brooklyn accent "Would you Goils like to get high? Are you Goils listening to me!?" he would always shout, his loss of hearing from the early days of World War II Battleships. Jenny and I would yell back 'Yes!' and minutes later Jersey would reappear, slightly hunched over holding with a solidly carved, wooden box filled with what Jenny and I coined "the finest grass God had to offer".
We sat in a circular fashion around his well-worn wooden kitchen table in an apartment furbished with 70's decor and hanging spider plants; plants that seems to come to life after we reached our expected state of smoke euphoria. My back was always closest to the kitchen since it was my duty to make the Nescafe Instant coffee, ironically the same coffee my Mother would drink every morning. If only she new I was here. Jersey would pan-fry us Sea Legs while reminiscing of his days as a young sailor on the Battleship. "Sea Legs and Instant Coffee, the poifect meal" he would preach to us, a meal we only stomach when the munchies were called to duty.
Occasionally, Jersey would drop these heavy navy blue photo albums on the table filled with pictures of his WW II paraphernalia and attempt to engage us in war tales. Young and ignorant, we would break into contagious fits of laughter not from his stories but from the shadows casted on the walls by the spider plants.
"Look, thats Alfred Hitchcock-no seriously-the profile!" Jenny would point to the shadow above my head.
"That's not Hitchcock", I would counter, "That's-wait. Jersey, I think that's your shadow!" we would burst into a stoner giggle.
"You Goils neva listen to me!" he would slam the album shut.
These high late-day luncheons became a secret ritual, riding our bikes there every Wednesday. More Sea Legs. More Shadows. Jersey was lonely and loved our company until he went on a long drinking binge. He wouldn't even have the strength to answer the door. We would just knock and call, "Jersey, its the goils! Can we come in?" And then we'd wait. We'd wait and moments later the door would open. We would come in. The place would reek of week old liquor and his eyes were so glazed over he could barely remember us. We would offer our help. Did he need food? Help dressing? Where's your pot, Jersey? Help cooking? He would tell us his binges would last five to seven days and then he would be back to normal.
One Wednesday, Jersey's daughter answered the door. Who would have thought that Jersey had a daughter. To us, she was just another road block, another authoritative adult; tall, plain, in her thirties and questioned us at the door.
"Why are you here to see my father?" she questioned.
I was scrambling in my head for a good lie. Ugh...ugh... Jenny was more of the honest one answering, "He gets us high. Is he here?"
"No, I came to pick up some of his things," the tall daughter said.
"Is he dead?" Jenny asked. "Shut up!" I elbowed her. "She's just kidding."
"He won't be back for a couple of weeks. He's back in rehab." Door closes.
An hour later, Jenny and I found ourselves still sitting under the same tree we chained our bikes too while contemplating our next move. "That's a shame." "Yep." "Well maybe its the perfect time to stop smoking?" She looks at me like I had grown an extra head. "Well maybe its the perfect time to break in?" Peer pressure won me over.
Dressed like a pair of bank robbers, we showed up the following night. Time was limited since we were "in drama rehearsal" and my mom would be picking us up in front of the high school at nine, we critically mapped out our strategy outside of Jersey's side window. Jenny would take the bedroom and bathroom. I would take the kitchen and den. I being the shorter of the two, was boosted into the window head first onto the kitchen faucet, an unprofessional landing for a wannabe thief. My heart was pounding even though this had been our second break in-the first was at high school senior Kyle McQueen's house when he and his family traveled to Florida. We just wanted to see the interior of Kyle's bedroom.
Jenny emerged from the bedroom holding the familiar solidly carved, wooden box. My heart was still pounding as we opened the resin-stained box. Nada. No wonder Jersey was in rehab, I thought. Rumor had it, Sally Shillings brother had run out of heroine and had to go to rehab to detox. Would I be next? Still curious and stupid, we rummaged through sock drawers, kitchen cabinet and even a freezer filled with Sea Legs. "Maybe Jersey knew we would break in eventually and created a secret hideout?" Jenny entertained. "Let's keep looking."
"I wanna go home" I said leaving my brother's black knitted cap behind. "Drama rehearsal, remember?"
"You're no fun," Jen added. "Let's go".
After two weeks passed, all is forgotten, we would come back and find the temperamental Jersey at his front door, once again, nodding us in with a stoned smile, pan frying Sea Legs as I mixed the instant coffee and reprimand us like his children when another wave on contagious laughter would hit right in the middle of his story of ,"...did you ever hear of a place called Poill Harbah....Goilz are you listening to me!?".
Our second year into high late-day luncheons and growing up just enough to realize Jersey's time might be limited, we started listening to his war tales aboard the USS Arkansas.
