Pot Stories for the Soul, page 24
Joe, the single man, admitted that he had some money and said, “Well, if none of you guys have enough gumption to do something about it, I will.” And he took off for the city to buy a kilo of Acapulco Gold, which cost $250.
While Joe was gone, Linda told me that I didn’t really understand her rat. I thought I did. I mean a rat is a rat. That was actually the attitude she was complaining about. She took me into the kitchen and got her rat out of the cage on top of the fridge.
“Look,” she said, “notice his tail. There is not a scale or hair out of place. Look at his feet and claws, just perfect!”
As she showed me her rat, I saw that she was right. The rat was beautiful, intelligent, friendly, clean, and sweet smelling. He was an excellent rat. Linda and I got on well after I understood her rat.
That evening we saw the car Joe had taken to town coming up the drive. When Joe left the car, he had such a jaunty air and such a good vibe that we caught eyes with each other and lifted eyebrows. It must be really good stuff, we thought.
Joe came into the house.
“Well,” we said, “where is it?”
“Where is what?” he asked.
“The pot!” we said.
“Oh, that. Well, I didn’t actually get any.”
We were confused. His good vibes seemed to persist.
“What happened?” we demanded.
“I got robbed.”
We freaked out. “Wow, man, what a drag.” We were mystified. His good vibes remained evident.
Joe said, “I met these guys and asked about dope and they took me in this alley and robbed me.”
He continued to smile. We had to ask, “What the hell are you smiling about?”
“They didn’t hurt me!”
Joe’s good vibes and attitude adjustment lasted so long that we decided that he had gotten his money’s worth out of his dope adventure. He might not have been so sweet for so long if he had actually scored.
Ms. Deal
DAWNA KAUFMANN
I’ve learned as a comedy writer in Hollywood, if ya wanna be a player, it helps to be a player, which is why my writer pal Jason’s weekly poker game had for years been great for off-duty schmoozing with the TV elite. His regular group consists of an agent, a director, a producer, and a star, with an occasional drop-in. Whenever I’d try to wheedle an invitation, Jason would snipe that they “don’t play with girls,” which would cue my lecture on affirmative action.
After hearing this argument a zillion times, Jason finally relented and agreed to let me attend that coming Thursday’s session, if, as he said, I could “cut it” Ha! Cut it? I can cut it, shuffle it, and deal it, I chortled, as I promised to show up at 7:30 PM. And bring cash ’cause they “don’t take checks or credit cards”—as if I was gonna lose!
During the week, I bought a poker book, memorizing important things like the author’s name, Scarne (which rhymes with Carney), and rules and strategy for the game. It reinforced my feeling that you can’t fear high stakes—it’s all relative, and winning is proportional to skill. Play your odds. Bet intelligently. Know when to fold ’em, know when to hold ’em. I felt “in the chips” already but bought a Kenny Rogers CD for extra inspiration.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t played before—I’d racked up hundreds of hours on my video poker for Windows program—I just hadn’t played with humans. As long as I had my little card that says what beats what, and can keep straight which way is clockwise, I could reasonably take on these manly men. Besides, I’ve always been convinced of female supremacy, a point on which no male’s ever agreed with me, and on behalf of sisterhood everywhere, I welcomed the challenge of pitting my shrewd intellect against their macho egoism. Prepare to die, scoundrels!
So, it’s Thursday night and Jason introduces me to the crew. I come on strong, singing, from Guys and Dolls, “Where’s the action, where’s the game? Gotta have the game or we’ll die from shame,” but when they don’t react, I figure they’re not theater people. As we take our places around the table, the director wisely suggests that I watch the action a bit first. Right away I’m impressed with the speed of things. In the time it takes them to rotate around the table so that each player gets to select a dealer’s choice game, I’d still be dealing one hand. Whew!
The producer mentions white chips are $1, reds are $5, and blues are $10, and while I rationally accept that, emotionally all I see is a patriotic pile of rent money in the middle of the table. The star hands me a beer in a can, and I’m glad he doesn’t patronize me by asking if I want a glass like some sissy, although actually I would’ve liked one—so sue me. Despite their banter, there’s a thickness in the air. I resist suggesting we turn on the nearby TV for Friends, fearing they might throw it, and me, out the window. Concentrate, concentrate, I beg myself.
You know that feeling you get when your instinct for survival is threatened and you’re forced to rely on devious and drastic weapons to stay alive? Well, it occurs to me that I have one of the fattest joints in captivity in my purse, and not only is it a bomber, it’s Maui Wowie. Certain that I’ll have these clowns on their knees in moments, I light up, inhale deeply, and pass the joint to the guys. “No, thanks,” they mutter and echo. They don’t smoke dope? I’m screwed!
Not to seem a fool by putting it out now, I keep toking, each hit of the potent gold forming a cosmic key that unlocks corridors of mutinous brain cells which are, at this very moment, lining up single file and jumping like kamikaze parachutists out of my eyes and ears and into the poker chip quicksand. Whereas I originally couldn’t wait to get into the game, my head’s now so clogged I suspect someone’s poured bacon grease in my ears.
An hour later, I know they’re wondering when I’ll join the game, a thought that crosses my mind, too. They play on, perfectly aware of the impact of each newly dealt card, knowing exactly which raise they’re on, and how every hand’s financial history is recorded—as I sit there, blitzed, pressing my body hard into the plastic of the kitchen chair, hoping that instead of me, they’ll see just another orange daisy on the pattern.
How I wish I could astrally project myself home. What a perfect opportunity this would be to clean my oven; I’d been meaning to disengage that exploded baked potato residue from 1995. My enfeebled brain drifts back to their game, which is still vicious as ever. I’m not sure if it’s a mean ruse to bilk me out of my humble life savings, but the agent speaks up to see if I’m ready to play. My senses prepare for red alert but my mouth settles for automatic pilot and I meekly mumble, “Any minute now . . . ”
Nuts! Here’s my chance to score points for feminism and I’m blowing it. What would Gloria Steinem do if she were here? And would she play with queens higher than kings? While contemplating this, I sense Jason’s displeasure that I’m not in the game. After all, he promised these gung-ho gamblers a fellow Amarillo Slim, not some gutless lookie-loo with the canny aptitude of a blow-up doll. Plus Jason’s losing—Lady Luck, I’m not. I try to steady my gaze and study their game, but it’s no use. With cards flying at warp speed and chips clicking like a Saint Vitus flamenco dancer, my already pathetic attention span’s in urgent need of new elastic.
Just then—miracle of miracles—my cell phone rings. I answer it: It’s a wrong number, but I don’t tell the fellas. “Hi,” I lie into the receiver. “Oh, no! I’ll be there in ten minutes!” With a whimper I announce that my father’s in the hospital and I must go to him. They all understand—especially Jason, who attended my dad’s funeral several years ago but, mercifully, keeps my secret.
As I head to the door, I state boldly, “Gentlemen,” then weaken like a fist without bones. “I . . . I really planned to take all your money tonight, but, uh, now that I’ve watched you, I gotta admit I’m nowhere near your league. Unless you’re willing to play open-handed till I catch up—like in 2023—it’s better for me to just cut my losses and thank you for a most educational evening.”
My embarrassment is cut short by a genuine release of tension, with laughter and good cheer replacing the formerly serious facades. They chatter about how much ahead they’d be if they were only smart like me, and Jason winks that he wants to borrow my cell phone. I make my escape, never mentioning the script I’d planned to pitch them, and head home to destroy my collection of Vegas junket brochures and immediate plans for world domination.
If there’s a moral to this story—and I’m not sure there is—it’s that poker and pot don’t mix. At least for me, at least that night. But I’m happy to say video poker for Windows and pot mix just dandy, and that’s what I did when I got home, and have done frequently since. There are just some pleasures one should not live without.
Smoking Pot in the White House
STEVE DIAMOND
Certain cities have a mystical aura, such as New York, Paris, Rome, Rio, Tokyo, and Washington, to name a few. In D.C., tourists stop and pose their families before the big iron fence in front of the White House and snap away. This phenomenon allows these visitors to take a little magic home and put it on their mantle.
It was 1977, and an early spring made D.C. a city of flowers. The traditional cherry blossoms, azaleas, tulips, and lilacs flowered in profusion, giving Washington the smell of an arboretum. I was working as executive director and lobbyist for a nationwide association of doctors headquartered in Washington, D.C.
The Carter administration was a group of likeable boobs. President Carter fanatically believed that if something was right, in a Biblical way, it would grow like mushrooms and become law. While this simple optimism worked in church, it would never do the job in Congress. Deals were made—“I’m for you, you’re for me.” Carter’s lobbyists in Congress believed the same scripture.
Carter won in 1976 because he was considered an outsider. Gerald Ford, of course, spent over thirty years in the House of Representatives. Carter won because Ford pardoned Nixon. Ford was attempting to put the government, shaken by Nixon’s fascist regime, back to normal. Ford was attempting to heal the war wounds of Watergate.
My Uncle Bunny, a veteran of World War II, was in the 82nd Airborne Division—a storied outfit that was on the front lines of the war, from Italy to the Battle of the Bulge and beyond. I remember something he once told me as we listened to a Cubs game on the radio.
“Stevie,” he laughed and lamented, “near the end of World War II, we marched through Germany. As the inhabitants begged for cigarettes and chocolate, they all would say, ‘Hitler was a bad man and I’m not a party member and I fought to overthrow him.’ There wasn’t a Nazi civilian in sight.”
Similarly, in the mid-’70s, nobody in Washington had been a Nixon backer or even a Republican. They had no idea what Tricky Dick was doing in that consecrated White House to destroy our democracy.
Through my work, I often met for dinner with Don Harvey, Carter’s health advisor. He was from South Carolina, had a country drawl, and wore Brooks Brothers suits. His prize possession was a roofless Corvair—the car Ralph Nader called a moving death trap.
Harvey invited me to do dinner in his closet-size office at the White House and tour the premises because only a few staffers worked past 10:00 PM. He was the tour leader, and we saw the offices of Dr. Peter Bourne (he had been dismissed because he proffered a prescription for quaaludes to a pretty, young secretary), Zbigniew Brzezinski, Burt Lance, and the whole sorry crew.
Unfortunately for his inexperienced administration, Carter and his majordomo, Hamilton Jordan, made the tough decisions. Carter hired many of his cronies from Georgia to fill policy-vetted sensitive positions.
Don’s office was on the lower level of the building. It sported English windows three-quarters of the way up the wall and had no view, except of the Secret Service guards. Don and I walked up to the Rose Garden, planted by Jackie Kennedy Onassis, which was so small it made me sad.
Remember, this was precrack, and many of the ’60s activists expected marijuana prohibition to end soon. Half the people in the country found it mildly relaxing and an appetite enhancer. They laughed at the movie Reefer Madness, directed by Louis Gasnier and adopted by Harry Anslinger and J. Edgar Hoover, the director of the FBI who denied that the Mafia ever existed.
Harvey made a small joke about this house being the safest place in America. He reached into the inside pocket of his made-to-measure suit and pulled out a huge reefer.
“You like the weed, don’t you, Stevie?”
“Sure,” I said, “but not here in the White House surrounded by cops, Secret Service, and executive-protection gumshoes.”
Harvey asked, “Do you have a match?”
“No, but I’ve got a Bic lighter in my trench coat. You can keep it. Bob, I’m going home—thanks, but no thanks.”
“Steve, you’re a rookie in this town. Look up at the windows.” I took off my glasses, which improved my astigmatic eyes, and I saw shoes moving back and forth next to the windows. “Relax, man. Do you see the shoes?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Which way are the heels pointing?”
“Outward,” I whispered.
“Steve, their job isn’t to bust us. They never involve themselves in our business. They’re looking out on that crowd of stalkers that could cause harm to the chief executive.”
Scrabbled
MAXIMUM TRAFFIC
Whitey’s house was shared by a half dozen guys—truck drivers and construction workers. They all smoked weed, a lot of weed. There were bags of weed all over the house. Everywhere there was an ashtray, there was a bag of weed. Little bags and big bags. They told me to smoke all I wanted. All these guys were a few years older than me, and most of them a hundred pounds heavier, and I was kind of nervous. They drank a whole lot of beer and smoked a whole lot of pot, and I got even more nervous.
There was a wired-up Mexican guy there who started hounding everyone to play Scrabble with him. They all just kept laughing at him and telling him that he couldn’t spell in English anyway. He started getting really mad, so to cool him off, his buddies told him that I would play Scrabble with him. I could hardly refuse; actually I was afraid to refuse.
So I sat down at the kitchen table with this bad-tempered, wound-up, drunk Mexican construction worker and set up the Scrabble game. I had taken two years of Spanish in high school, so I asked the guy if he would like to play using Spanish words. He instantly became friendly to me. “Hermano! You know Español!”
He fired up another joint and we started to play. Well, the guy was a terrible Scrabble player and within a dozen plays I was miles ahead of him, even though we were playing in Spanish. It turned out that his friendly feelings toward me were very short-lived. He jumped up from his chair and threw the Scrabble board at my head, scattering pieces all over the room.
“You motherfucking cheater,” he screamed at me. I ran for my life. His buddies all grabbed him and held him off me, but they were all laughing hysterically. The drunk Mexican didn’t like it one bit. That was enough party for me. I told Whitey that I was tired and asked him where I could sleep. He took me to an unused attic room with a nice cot.
I was just starting to calm down when someone knocked on the door. It was a plain-looking girl, maybe ten years older than me. She walked in and sat on the cot. The guys downstairs had decided that they should provide me with a woman. I was seventeen years old and had never had my clothes off around a woman . . . and I didn’t have the nerve to start with a total stranger. She was sweet and tried to talk me into it. A woman trying to talk me into sex—now that was a first.
So, you might imagine, this kind of experience changed my perspective on the world a bit. It made me feel a lot less “white bread and corn-fed.” When I came back to my hometown, I felt that I belonged to a much bigger community than the one I had left behind. And that community was very fond of smoking dope.
Miracle Cure
ROBERT DELANCY
I am fifty-five years old. In 1986, when I was twenty-nine, I suffered a stroke. An aneurysm, to be exact. The doctors performed a right frontal lobotomy. The blood vessel they had clipped, the following day, let go. It broke. Needless to say, I suffered another stroke. Much more severe. They gave me less than a 1 percent chance of even making it to the operating table. They had already told my parents I was not going to make it.
As I am writing this, you can see that I survived. I was a vegetable for a while. It was like being born again. I had to learn to walk, talk, eat, think, and see. Just everything. Of all the visitors I’m told I had, I did not know anyone was even there. My sister tells me how I would just lay there looking right through her as the drool dripped from my mouth.
I was a nonfunctioning vegetable until about a week after the operation, when my good buddy George stopped in to see me. But first I must tell you that the doctors did say that I would definitely have some stroke effects—like a drooped mouth or the loss of function in one or more limbs—because of the severity of the stroke.
Anyway, my friend George comes walking in my room. He had no idea what kind of condition I was in. I had no idea that there was even anybody there. Not just yet. A little while later, I realized that he had asked me if I wanted a hit off his one-hitter. Somehow I understood and conveyed a yes. He lifted me up off the bed into my wheelchair and rolled me over to the window.
I took two hits back-to-back. Almost instantly, I snapped back to reality. I then remembered him coming into the room and what had followed. Instantly, I knew who he was and what he was saying. Instead of just drooling, I started communicating. At least the best that I could.
It was like, at that instant, my brain started functioning. I knew what was going on around me. I was actually thinking. Those two hits were absolutely a miracle for me. Since I have never heard of any other cases like mine, I thought that this might possibly be another area for the medical community to explore.
