IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE 1989. I am paranoid, edgy, and wracked with guilt. Within two months I’ve thrown my older brother Smiley and teenage nephew Jason out of the house. Though Smiley was a drain on us all, he is still her son and Mom is livid. Mom’s most worried for Jason, now living with relatives, and she’s pissed off at me. I try to relax but I can’t. I try old soothers like listening to music but the effect is hollow. I have a yearning deep within me that I am afraid of. I want to smoke some grass.
I’ve been clean since the end of October but the stressors of leaving a job prematurely and not being able to find another decent one have torn me down. I hoped that after I gave up marijuana the strange thoughts would cease. There is still a part of me that knows the things I think are completely off the wall but I can’t maintain and stabilize this part of my mind for more than two or three days at a time. I believe I have to self-medicate to cope. As embarrassing it is to admit it, I need the drug right now.
The problem isn’t resisting the temptation, for I’ve already given in to that. What lies ahead is scratching up the cash to buy the evil weed. All that I have on hand is a mass transit token. I am thankful for that little bit. I use it to take a short bus ride to the local shopping district on Jamaica Avenue, finding the nearest cash machine. I don’t linger in this busy buying center any longer than it takes to tap my low funds and quickly buy Mom a gift. I am back home in no time. Soon, I am on the phone to Dial-A-Dime, the neighborhood reefer delivery service.
Within fifteen minutes of impatient waiting, the weed-mobile pulls in front of my house. When I hear the car horn beckon, I have to perform the task of reefer retrieval. The Dial-A-Dime delivery thing has been in service for a couple of years now. They operate out of a legitimate neighborhood car service, hence the phone orders, stating your address and speedy delivery. All one has to do is go out to meet the deliverer, sit in the car for a moment (to make the transaction less obvious) and then return to your home. I have severe misgivings about parading my drug use before the neighbors because I believe everyone knows the weed-mobile. When people see that car pull up, hear the horn, and then watch it pull away without a passenger, it is sure as shit that one or more members of that particular house is smoking dope. During its operation, every member of the house, except my nephew, is seen at some time or another stepping into that sleek, silvery Town Car only to retreat gleefully moments later.
I know even before I light up that I won’t get the high I am looking for. I am so disappointed in myself for breaking my sobriety and succumbing to the fog that I can’t fully enjoy the act of rolling up, lighting up, and getting fucked up. I certainly do try, though.
Christmas day is cold and grey. Mom and I are together in the house but very much apart. We exchange gifts by leaving them at each other’s bedroom door. She gives me the evil eye and cold shoulder. I give her tube socks and lunch meat.
I am busted and spiritually broken. I just don’t care anymore. Mom appears to feel the same. I come downstairs and try mustering up pleasant conversation with Mom but there is none to be had. My efforts to console her ring false and empty, forced and guilt inspired. I am ashamed and it keeps me away all the more.
It feels as if a tornado has rushed through my life and upended all that wasn’t already destroyed. Where do I begin? Or do I even have to? No, not now. I can just take a breather … relax … and smoke. In an ongoing pot-induced stupor, I smoke at all hours, taking brief respites to raid the fridge downstairs (while carefully avoiding Mom) and crashing when the lows are just too much.
Disillusioned by my poor joint rolling abilities, I secure one of Dad’s vintage pipes. I discover that I get more out of smoking pot through a pipe than from a joint. It’s much easier to stuff a heaping thumb and forefinger full of grass into a bowl than look for rolling papers. No more midnight’s sojourns to nearby and not so nearby convenience stores, bodegas, and gas stations looking for Big Bambu or E-Z Wider to ensure I’d get my nightly blast. I also entertain the idea that I appear distinguished with a tasteful pipe in my mouth, regardless of what burns within.