All right kids, enough fun and games. Gather ’round Uncle Ross, because things are ’bout to get real for a minute up in this bizz’ook. Sit down, ’cuz you just might overdose on a massive hit of life lessons and I’m the only dealer in town.
I want to make an important public service announcement about something that is no doubt affecting you or someone you know. It’s an insidious danger that’s lurking around every corner, at every park across the street from every school and has been featured in at least one “very special episode” of every sitcom since the dawn of time. I’m talking about the original bad girl herself, a lady that goes by the name of Mary Jane. She has many nicknames: the Pot, Grass, Weed, Reefer, Ganja, Chronic, Cannabis, Sticky Icky, Maui Wowie, Acapulco Gold, and the Devil’s Lawn Clippings, just to name a few.
I’ll be honest with you, dear reader. Even I—squeaky clean Mr. By-the-Book himself—couldn’t resist being lured into the smoky web of the Wacky Tobaccy. Yes, I’ve danced the forbidden dance with the Pot many a time and, boy, can that lady move!
When I was younger, I used to think I’d never try drugs. I knew drugs were for losers like that one cousin of mine whose other poor choices included a rebellious haircut complete with spiky bangs, shaved sides, and a rat tail. A look that screamed, Back off, I’m trouble! Hang out with me, and you’ll end up gettin’ a neck tattoo!
Keep in mind, this was in the early 1990s, nearing the end of Nancy Reagan’s Just Say No campaign. I was constantly bombarded with anti-drug messages, just like every other sixth grader across America. A huge part of this community outreach frenzy was an in-school Drug Awareness Resistance Education program, better known by the sassy street-smart acronym, DARE.
To a kid like me, DARE was kind of awesome. Real-life police officers came to our classrooms loaded with freebies like stickers, erasers, and pencils, each one emblazoned with DARE’s bright red, graffitilike logo. These totally radical prizes were given out as rewards to those of us courageous enough to participate in the educational fun. And, boy did I participate!
I was the absolute best when it came to role-playing the variety of dangerous drug-related scenarios in front of the class. I would often portray the part of the Voice of Reason when we practiced different ways to handle the inevitable peer pressure. “I…I don’t know, Melissa. I don’t think doing drugs is a good idea. Why don’t we all go to Jimmy’s house instead? He’s got a Super Nintendo and his mom always has Jeno’s Pizza Rolls in the freezer.”
As raw and utterly believable as I was as the Voice of Reason, I was even more powerful when I’d immerse myself in the dark, gritty role of the Sinister Tempter. “Hey guys,” I’d mumble, shuffling across the multipurpose room with my hands in my pockets. “Homework sucks, am I right? I don’t know about you, but I could really blow off some steam with a good rolled-up joint of a marijuana cigarette. You know what I mean? A nice, deep inhale of drugs? Well, I just happen to have an entire Ziploc sandwich baggie of the Pot right here in my fanny pack. I know narcotics are against the law and our parents and teachers will be disappointed if we do them, but who cares, man? Let’s have a wild drug party.”
The program culminated with a year-end graduation ceremony held in front of the entire school. I had been in the audience for the DARE graduations of sixth-grade classes before me and, frankly, was underwhelmed. Paper police badges were taped to the shirts of all the graduates, and everyone was served a tiny cup of ice cream. That was it?!? These kids fought for an entire year in your war on drugs and they’re rewarded with a dinky Post-it note badge and a single scoop of vanilla? Where’s the pageantry, the celebration, the chocolate sprinkles?
I approached my teacher with my own plans for a new-and-improved finale to our upcoming DARE graduation ceremony. “Just picture it,” I implored her. “The entire class dressed in matching black-and-red DARE T-shirts, beat-boxing in unison. The crowd begins to clap along to our cool, funky beat. Suddenly, I break away from the group, stepping forward into the spotlight and then…I begin to rap! I rap about drugs! I rap about drugs like no one’s ever rapped about drugs before! It’ll be sensational!”
I must’ve really sold her on it, because my teacher gave me full creative control. “Sure, Ross. Go for it. Whatever. You’re in charge.”
OMG. Do you know what that meant, you guys? I was going to be the star, director, producer, and choreographer. This was huge. I was basically a young Barbra Streisand, and this DARE assembly would be my Yentl. (Feel free to sing along, “Pothead, can you hear me…?”)
Under my sure-handed guidance, my classmates and I rehearsed relentlessly for weeks. It was important to keep morale up among my backup performers, so I encouraged them to customize their DARE T-shirts. I myself opted for a tastefully simple yet elegant costume, pairing my T-shirt with a classic red mock turtleneck (to set off the color of the DARE logo and make it really pop), pleated khakis with a stylish half-inch cuff, argyle socks, and a brand-spankin’-new pair of penny loafers. Hot!
Cut to the day of the big DARE graduation assembly. All of the students performing in the show gathered for a final dress rehearsal. As the visionary in charge, I was meticulous, insisting on perfection. “Rodrigo, it’s one-two-pivot-pivot, not one-two-three-pivot! We’ve been over this like a hundred times!”
I could tell my backup performers were getting restless, but I begged them to run through the rap just one last time. I’m not going to lie to you, it wasn’t great. No, it was phenomenal! I came alive on that stage, each succinct rhythmic rhyme pouring from my very soul, echoing throughout the multipurpose room with such glory!
Don’t be a fool
’Cuz drugs ain’t cool!
Take it from me
Avoid P—O—T!
Prove you care
Only if you DARE!
We invite you to hang
With our drug-free gang!
’Cuz the way to go
Is to “Just Say No”!
Oh, and dear God, how I moved! I covered every inch of that stage, clapping, jumping, popping, ’n’ locking like an overeager extra from one of my mom’s Sweatin’ to the Oldies VHS tapes! Richard Simmons would have been so proud.
Reaching the glorious climax of my routine, I threw myself into the final one-two-pivot-pivot when something…happened. Something horrible. I had spun with too much passion, miscalculated a turn, and had veered dangerously close to the edge of the stage. The floor that had once been securely beneath my penny loafers was suddenly gone.
Suspended in midair between the edge of the stage and the linoleum floor—a distance of over five feet—I didn’t think of the impending injury to my body. Instead, I thought one thing and one thing only: Oh noooo, the shooooow!
And then…a sickening thud. In mere seconds, I had gone from a dazzling, magical rapping sensation to a mangled pile of pleated khakis and argyle socks.
At the emergency room, I was an inconsolable, sobbing mess. Not because my wrist was broken and my knee had nearly swelled to the size of one of those disturbingly huge pumpkins people in overalls grow and then show off on the covers of small-town newspapers. No, I was upset because I knew that less than three miles away, the show was going on without me and, to add insult to injury, with Rodrigo as the lead.
I was shattered, just another casualty chewed up and spit out by the voracious monster known as Show Business. You would think if I was ever going to turn to drugs, it would be then. But actually, it happened two years later.
The first time I tried the Pot was in the middle of my freshman year at the wrap party for my high school’s production of the musical classic Oklahoma! I was in the chorus (I still remember my one and only line—“Oh you would, would ya?”). You’d think the natural high of a Rodgers and Hammerstein show would have been intoxicating enough, but I was jonesin’ for more, and these musical theater thugs were only too happy to share their stash.
One puff and I lost my stuff. I became a one-man giggle factory, and business was boomin’! And not only was the Pot at the party good, but the food was amazing, too. For some reason, I just couldn’t get enough! And the music was fantastic. I’d never really paid attention to the words in “All That She Wants” by Ace of Base, but it’s actually a superdeep song.
Needless to say, I quite enjoyed my first foray into the Pot. I enjoyed it so much, in fact, that from then on I often found myself shamelessly dipping into my older brother’s hidden supply (sock drawer, duh!). When I came home to an empty house after a long day of school and extracurricular activities, I’d light up, grab four or five after-school snacks, sink into the couch, and disappear into another episode of Rikki Lake. But eventually, as much as smoking the Pot made me feel cool and rebellious, both the novelty and my buzz wore off. I mean, yeah, it was fun, but it made me love food and hate homework even more than I already did. As a result, my grades were falling and my pants weren’t. It was time to get my shit together. I had to quit the junk.
But, wouldn’t you know it? Just as I was beginning to turn my life around, I was dragged right back into the seedy underbelly of the drug world when my brother suddenly noticed that the only thing in his sock drawer was socks. “Hey, Dickwad,” he hissed at me under his breath in the living room, “replace the fucking weed you stole or else.”
Fair enough. Along with my new sobriety also came a new sense of integrity. After all, I did steal his drugs. The least I could do was put on my big-boy panties, buy him some more of the Pot and finally wash my hands of the rough-and-tumble underground drug world once and for all. The only way to accomplish this was to do something I never thought I’d find myself doing: I had to do a drug deal.
Let’s face it, drug deals weren’t for kids like me. They were for down-on-their-luck hoodlums, weak-minded thrill seekers, and former child stars. But these are the dirty back roads you’re forced to walk down when you dance with the Devil and smoke his lawn clippings.
So, I ventured into the bad part of town. Just like the rest of small-town America, the bad part of Mount Vernon, Washington, is near the railroad tracks next to the diner that sells biscuits and gravy (with real sausage in the gravy). Wanting to look the part, I wore my version of a “druggie” costume—a backward baseball cap, an oversized filthy T-shirt, ripped jeans, and a bandana tied around my upper thigh. It occurs to me now that I looked much more like a chunky Punky Brewster.
I approached a kid who couldn’t have been much older than me. He looked like the demon offspring of Kurt Cobain and Alanis Morrisette and he kept swatting his long greasy hair away from his forehead with his middle finger. I couldn’t tell if he was flipping me off or just couldn’t see through his Jared Leto–like bangs. He struck me as surprisingly angry-looking for someone with such unlimited access to marijuana. I remember thinking to myself, When they inevitably turn my life into a movie, this character has to be called “Dealer Dude.” Oh my God, the guy who plays Becky’s boyfriend on Roseanne would be perfect for the part!
“Dealer Dude” didn’t seem to notice my hand shaking with fear as I held out a wad of crumpled dollar bills. Saying nothing, he reached into the flannel shirt tied around his waist, handed me a sandwich baggie of green buds, and shuffled away (exactly, by the way, as I had done as the Sinister Tempter in DARE).
I had survived my first (and last) drug deal. And now, once I handed over the Pot to my brother, I could leave the sordid drug world behind me once and for all!
After my momentary detour to the dark side, I returned to the anti-drug movement with the same fervor I had during my glory days of DARE. But this time I was armed with what they call street cred. Now that I’d walked the walk, talked the talk, and smoked the Pot, I had a newfound perspective that would add an invaluable yet invisible layer of depth to my mission. I found my calling in the Straight ’n’ Narrows, an aptly named after-school program comprising the best and brightest sober students in our small county. The mission of the Straight ’n’ Narrows was to perform at all the schools in the area, offering up lots of drug-free drama and healthy humor in the form of entertaining skits.
I heard about the Straight ’n’ Narrows from my friend Aubrey, a soprano whom I’d gotten to know in our school’s jazz choir. Aubrey was featured prominently in the Straight ’n’ Narrows, most likely because her mother was the founder and director. During my drug days, Aubrey was constantly pushing to get me involved in their sober celebrations. I may not have been interested back then, but now that I’d kicked the junk, I was intrigued.
“Aubrey,” I asked one day, “what exactly do you guys do at Straight ’n’ Narrows?”
Her face lit up. “Omigosh, Ross! It’s amazing. The Straight ’n’ Narrows is all about merging theater, drug awareness, and abstinence education. We meet every Wednesday night at the alternative school. You know, where boys on parole and pregnant girls go to class? Anyway, we start with an improv game. Like, we sit in a circle and everyone has to say their name and a teenage temptation that starts with the same letter. So, for instance, I’d say something like, ‘Aubrey, Angel dust!’”
I was definitely a little interested, but didn’t want to commit to anything. I mean, Wednesday night was Melrose Place night. But I’m a real sucker for a word game. “So, like, I could say ‘Ross, Reefer’?”
“Omigosh! Exactly! You’re perfect for this!”
She did have a point. I really was perfect for this. Still, I wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know, Aubrey. I’m pretty busy…”
Then she really went in for the kill. “Aw, that’s too bad, because we have those big tubs of Red Vines from Costco and we always order way, way too much pizza.”
That manipulative little bitch. “Should we carpool?”
And so started my career as a Straight ’n’ Narrows standout. It turned out to be even better than I’d imagined. At my first meeting, I landed a killer monologue about a five-year-old kid whose deadbeat mom was a hardcore pot addict. I have to say, I was impressed with just how cutting-edge this group of community crusaders actually was.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, Aubrey’s mom clapped her hands and announced, “All right, my little thespian soldiers. It’s time for Total Eclipse!”
The room exploded with excitement. I whispered to Aubrey through a mouthful of Pizza Hut Meat Lover’s, “Hey, what’s Total Eclipse?”
“Omigosh, Ross, it’s the absolute best performance piece! I play the Girl, and the rest of you represent temptations that we teens all face on a daily basis. You each wear a T-shirt with a different danger written on it, like LSD or PCP or Shoplifting or whatever. It’s all set to that song “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” and you all dance around in a circle, each enticing me to dance with you, symbolizing the—”
“Okay, I get it, Aubrey,” I interrupted her. “I’m in.”
The only T-shirt left was Sex, which was actually fine with me. As an artist, I’m always looking to stretch myself (and in this case, I was also stretching the size Small T-shirt over my XL body). I was still a virgin, so it wasn’t like I could pull from life experience. Instead, my inspiration came from a strange mix of what I imagined sexy to be, from the sweet, innocent chemistry between Jasmine and Aladdin to the trashy, softcore heavy petting I’d seen on late-night Cinemax.
Attempting to describe a dance this visceral is like trying to describe color to the blind, but I’ll try: Imagine about fifteen teenage kids in a circle with Aubrey in the middle. As “Total Eclipse of the Heart” began to play, we each swayed like seaweed in the ocean, slowly back and forth. We took turns approaching Aubrey, who valiantly fought against the onslaught of our advances, our hands grabbing at thin air, our bodies spinning in a lustful frenzy.
First Cigarettes tried to burn her, but she courageously pushed him away. Then Gossip attempted to whisper an unfounded rumor into her ear, but she’d have no part of it. That was my cue. I approached her like an animal in heat. My hungry arms were outstretched, and my hips were suggestively undulating, shamelessly dry humping the air.
It’s fair to say that my steamy character Sex totally eclipsed the inexperienced real me. To really express the push and pull of addiction, I lifted Aubrey into the air a la Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing. Granted, I could lift her only a few inches off the ground (I’ve always had the upper body strength of a four-year-old girl), but still, it was quite a moment.
In the months that followed, we took our show on the road and performed in countless gymnasiums across the state. My career with the Straight ’n’ Narrows came to a screeching halt, though, when my secret, hard-livin’ past finally caught up with me.
It happened at a local high school in the midst of yet another flawless, crowd-pleasing Total Eclipse routine. I was twirling with passion in my sweat-drenched, skin-tight, threadbare T-shirt featuring iron-on letters that spelled S-E-X across my heaving man boobs. After my turn trying to seduce Aubrey, I looked out into the audience and saw a face that somehow seemed familiar.
He seemed to know me, too. We locked eyes, but I couldn’t place him. Wait, I thought. Do I sit next to him in Driver’s Ed? Or is he the kid who bags groceries at Food Pavilion? Wait, what’s he doing now? Is he flipping me off? No, he’s just brushing his greasy bangs away from his—OH MY FUCKING GOD IT’S DEALER DUDE!
Any possibility that he perhaps didn’t recognize me flew right out the gymnasium window when he suddenly stared me right in my guilty face and blatantly started smoking a phantom joint like some marijuana-mad mime. Busted!
And as if it wasn’t bad enough that my less-than-sterling life choices could possibly mess up my future, I had just messed up the choreography!
The very next day I respectfully resigned from the Straight ’n’ Narrows, making up some flimsy excuse. I couldn’t risk my unsavory past rearing its ugly head to possibly taint this amazing anti-drug group with a drug-related scandal. So I quietly folded up my Sex T-shirt, placed it in a plastic Food Pavilion grocery sack, and left it on Aubrey’s front porch—along with my teenage passion for philanthropic dance.
You think I never would’ve touched the stuff again. But I did. Oh, I’m almost positive that I should just stop here and save myself any further embarrassment. But for you, dear reader, I will tell this story.
Most people will assure you that it’s not possible to overdose on marijuana. Even bona fide doctors with training and fancy medical degrees will say so. But let me tell you, I’ve been there.
It was Thanksgiving weekend of 2003. I had returned from college to spend the holiday back in my hometown, but it was certainly no vacation. My mother was down in Seattle at a special cancer hospital where my father was slowly dying. Fun story already, huh? Don’t worry, it gets funnier in a bit. Stay with me.
One night, I found myself all alone in the big, empty house I had grown up in. God, what a sucky time. This Thanksgiving it was hard for me to feel thankful at all. It was hard to feel anything. I just wanted to escape.
I called my brother. “Eric, do you have any pot? I just wanna, like, zone out for a bit.”
He got it. He was under the same stress I was. “Sorry. I don’t have any weed, bro. But I have some pot butter in the freezer that’ll do the trick. I could bring that over.”
Pot butter? The idea of getting high by simply snacking on something scrumptious sounded exactly like the perfect cure for the moment, even if it was in the form of fattening butter. This was no time to think of my waistline; I just wanted to get wasted. “How soon can you be here?”
God bless my brother. About ten minutes later he came bursting through the front door. Before I knew it, he had sliced off a Paula Deen–sized portion of the pot butter, melted it in the microwave, and poured it over a piece of toast. “Eat this and you’ll feel great in about twenty minutes.”
Eventually, my brother left, informing me on his way out that he had put the remaining pot butter in the fridge in case I wanted any more. Trust me, I didn’t want any more. In about three minutes, I was tripping my ever-lovin’ nards off. I’d never been high like this before. It was fun, but scary, but fun. But scary. So I did what I always do when I’m scared: I called one of my best friends, Lisa.
Lisa still lived in our hometown and came over right away. By the time she arrived, I had calmed myself down and was in a warm and fuzzy place. Seeing how blissfully high I was, she immediately wanted in on the action. “Fire up the toaster, I want some of that!”
I did exactly as I had seen my brother do and made Lisa a delicious slice of pot-buttered bread. She made a face when she took the first bite. “Ugh! It tastes like a skunk wiped its butt on this.”
In no time at all, we were laughing and smiling so much, our faces hurt. At one point, we laughed so hard that we began coughing, and I had to leave the room to get us both some water. When I returned just a few moments later, I found Lisa staring straight ahead with eyes like those creepy dolls that blink. She was as quiet as a stoned little mouse and she had two fingers on her neck, checking her pulse.
Still smiling, but confused, I asked, “Are you okay, honey bunny?”
She responded in the most serious tone I’d ever heard from anyone in my entire life. “I think my heart’s going to explode.”
“Oh, sweetie. Stop it,” I said, trying to calm her. “Your heart is not going to explode.”
“Ross, you don’t understand.” She was insistent, fanning herself with her hands to keep from crying. “While you were in the kitchen getting water, I was looking at a magazine and I swear to God, everyone in the magazine was looking back at me and now I’m freaking out. I’m not an expert or anything, but the pot butter must have mixed with my birth control or something and, I’m telling you, it’s going to make my heart explode. I need you to call an ambulance.”
I tried to reason with her. “Lisa, you’re not even making sense! I am not calling an ambulance.”
She got right in my face. “Ross, I’m not fucking around. I’m asking you as a friend. Please call a motherfucking ambulance!”
I should’ve just wrapped her up in a blanket and sang a soothing Enya song, but she had just used the F word twice in ten seconds. She’d never done that before, and it chilled me to the bone. Against my better judgment, I dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” The operator was already freaking me out.
“Um, I’m visiting from college and have been superstressed out, so my best friend and I did some pot to relax. It was very The Big Chill, you know? And now we’re kinda, I don’t know…her heart might be exploding? So can we get, like, an ambulance or whatever? And is it possible to request that they don’t turn on their sirens, ’cuz I mean it’s like ten o’clock at night and I don’t want to bother my neighbors, you know?”
“Ma’am,” the 911 operator told me flatly, “that’s up to the driver’s discretion.”
Maybe it’s because I was stoned out of my mind, but I swear before I even hung up the phone, I could hear an ambulance barreling into the driveway with sirens wailing like a dying Tyrannosaurus rex. The next thing I knew, we were in the back of the ambulance, still parked in front of my parents’ house. I was kind of relieved. At least now there were medical professionals attending to Lisa, and things had settled down a bit. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Lisa sat up and declared, “Oh my God, this is what it’s like to die.”
We all looked at her, and then at each other. She continued, “Yes, I get it now. Oh. My. God.”
Holy shit, she was really beginning to lose it. Her delusional epiphany was building momentum at an alarming rate. “Oh dear God, I’m dying. Tell my parents I love them. Everything makes so much sense now. I never really thought Seinfeld was funny before, but now I get it. I fucking get it! I fucking get Seinfeld! ”
Up to that point, I thought maybe calling an ambulance was overreacting. At that moment, I realized perhaps I’d made the right call.
As the ambulance pulled away with Lisa strapped in the back and me buckled in the front passenger seat, I turned to the driver and asked, “Is Lisa gonna die?”
“No,” he responded sweetly. “She’ll be just fine.”
“Oh good.” I was glad Lisa was going to live. “Am I going to die?”
“No, you’re not dying, either.”
Everything was spinning, my heart was beating overtime, and I was beginning to sweat profusely. “Are you sure? Because I really feel like I might be dying. My heart is beating super-hard.”
The driver, keeping his eyes on the road and his left hand on the steering wheel, grabbed my wrist with his right hand and checked my pulse.
“Ted,” he yelled to the medic tending to Lisa, “we’ve got another one!”
They rushed a mumbling Lisa and me into the emergency room in matching wheelchairs and booked us into a shared room. It was like a trauma slumber party. They gave us both something to calm us down and hooked us up to IVs filled with fluids. A nurse came in and asked me to sign something. I was confused. “Is this for my insurance?”
“No, it’s for me,” the nurse shamelessly replied. “Can you make it out to Nancy? I love you on Leno !”
Are you fucking kidding me? But I signed it anyway. Sometimes I’m just too nice.
Eventually, after Lisa had thrown up all over her hospital gown and I had eaten three servings of butterscotch pudding from the cafeteria, the doctor came into our room. “Okay, guys,” he said in a patronizing tone, checking his clipboard, “you’ll feel better soon.”
I could feel his judgment. How dare he? I mean, we were good kids. We had just made a stupid mistake. I spoke up. “You know what, Doctor? We’re good kids. We just made a stupid mistake.”
He paused at the door and looked back at us, over his glasses and down his nose like a cliché doctor character from a lame after-school special. “Yes, and that’s why we don’t do drugs.”
As he left the room, Lisa and I looked at each other with shame, but then slowly began to chuckle. Even then, hooked up to EKGs and IVs, we just couldn’t help ourselves.
We took a cab home and slept about ten hours that night. In the morning, Lisa and I could barely face each other, the humiliation hanging in the air as thick as the scent of vomit wafting from her hair. Like soldiers who had survived battle together, we now shared an unspoken bond that was even stronger than before. There was nothing more to say. We just hugged (I held my breath).
I knew I had to come clean when my mom finally got home from spending the night at the hospital in Seattle with my father. I knew if my mother forgave me, I could forgive myself. That’s what parents do for us, right? I spent most of the day looking out the living room window for her blue Chevy Malibu to round the corner. When she finally arrived, I greeted her at the front door, ready to unload my tawdry tale of tainted toast.
She uncharacteristically slammed the door behind her. “I’m done!” she screamed, clearly exhausted and at her breaking point. “I am so sick and tired of it all. If I hear one more thing about a fucking hospital, I swear, I’m gonna punch someone in the goddamn face!”
I discreetly covered the hospital bracelet I’d purposely kept around my wrist in hopes of enhancing the story that I’d so looked forward to telling her. As she stormed through the house swearing like a sailor, I thought to myself, Well, I guess it can wait. She can just read all about it in my book one day.