This night wasn’t different from any other. I was slightly drunk and
walking back home from the bar. Checho, the bartender, had taken away
my keys as usual. Normally, Checho’s practice of taking away his
patrons’ keys never worked. They were always too drunk and too macho to
let Checho decide if they could drive home.
I didn’t question his wisdom because he didn’t question my ID. I’m 18 and Checho’s bar was the only bar that let me in. Why ruin a good thing?
Beer had flowed into me faster than my hard-earned money going back into the socioeconomic system which I thought repressed me. That’s why I drank. The Man could have my money, but he’d never have my mind. No. My mind I saved for philosophy, drugs, and alcohol.
That’s how I spent my time. I gave my money to Checho. Checho would use that money to buy his wife a bracelet. The jeweler who sold Checho the bracelet would take his money and buy whatever it is jewelers buy. I essentially traded in my time at my job for beer. From that, a jeweler was capable of satisfying his material needs. The world kept turning.
“Hey man. What’s good?”
I turned to the speaker. I didn’t know what to say. I have trouble with slang. Would “Not much.” be an appropriate response? I have no idea. It was only then that I took in my surroundings and the look of the speaker.
I had taken a shortcut home as always. The alley was not well lit. The only light was the moon’s. The speaker addressing me was under a broken lamppost. His face was obscured by the shadow from his hood. Our clothes weren’t so different. What is it about baggy jeans and a hoodie? I could’ve been him had things gone differently in life.
“Not much. How are you?”, I said.
“I’m good man. I got the chron. 25 a g.”
So many things pass through your mind when confronted with such a sales pitch. Why does he assume I smoke weed? Is he gonna rob me? Do I have enough money for this? Do I need more weed? Is he a cop? What drives a man to selling weed to strangers in a dark alley?
A strange feeling comes over me. Its a mix of confusion, terror, and glee. This man at this hour at this alley and here I am. Questions are zooming through my mind, but I already have my answer.
I say, “Sounds good.” And, we step into the shadows. Three things are true: he’s not a cop, he’s not going to rob me, and I want to be high. We both reach into our backpockets. Its a beautiful ballet. I reach for my wallet and he reaches for a gram of chronic. The chronic comes out in a plastic bag shaped nicely into a ball. The money is crumpled lettuce. We exchange our goods in a mock handshake of goodbyes.
I get to get high and he gets to pay his bills. Some guy at the electric company will be able to put his kid through college. This lettuce is powerful.
The hardest part about smoking is the preparation. You need to clean
the weed, put it in some kind of smoking apparatus, and light it.
Thankfully, good chron stems can be smoked. So, I didn’t need to clean
it. I have a pipe. No need to roll a joint. Lighting is easy. A lighter always seems to appear
in my hands at the exact time I need one.
I was already on my way down the alley. If you know me, then you know that I carry a bag wherever I go. My dad always told me, “Just like the Boy Scouts, always be prepared.”
From my bag, comes the pipe. The pipe is in my left hand as I search for my smoking tool with my right. This tool is perfect. It cleans, it scoops, it packs! I feel it in my bag and grasp it. The tool is now poking a hole in my bag of chron. It scoops up a good amount for the walk home. I pour the chron into the pipe.
Chk! Chk! The lighter in my hand clicks into the night and finally comes alive. Fire meet chron. Chron meet fire. You two are a wonderful match.
I inhale deeply.
The walk home is much more comfortable. A day of working and yet it is now that I feel I have contributed most to society. I have finally gained happiness from a purchase of material goods. I have joined my brethren in sweet bliss.
But, tomorrow I will still see Checho. His wife wants more jewelry and I will need more beer.
