[Editor’s Note: We’d like to welcome our new guest writer: Ash Stars]
Mitchell and I had been looking for a pot dealer for about six years. Ever since we left the Big City With All the Weed for a small city with what seemed like a lot less weed we’d had a major crisis of drug procurement.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking – that what I’ve just said is both pathetic and sad. After all, we are two middle class, professionals in our thirties with graduate degrees. Why did we care so much about smoking a little weed?
And more to the point, why couldn’t we find a single fucking person to deal it to us?
Just as you’ve suspected: both pathetic and sad.
We – Mitchell and I – had been making our lack of weed into what we considered a problem of mythical proportions. It was almost ridiculous really because even when we were in the Big City With All the Weed we were very, very casual smokers at best. But we fixated on this idea that we couldn’t get weed. We fixated on it because we could – because it was fun. We liked to make it a joke. Make it a game. We wanted it to be our Green Light for lack of any more salient goals in our lives.
One week in December, a casual acquaintance with some kind of name like “Hampton” or something else ridiculous, intimated that he would trade us some hash for a handle of rum if we were interested.
“Yeah man.” He said. “I’m burnt out. I gotta get off all the drugs. Getting’ rid of my whole stash.”
“Yes!” Said Mitchell practically jumping to his feet. “We’ll do it! We will take your hash.” Hurrah!
They exchanged numbers, and Mitchell did some diligent follow up the next few days.
(Finally, that Duke MBA paid off!)
We’d already hatched a plan: We’d get high on Christmas and celebrate together, and it would be hilarious.
More specifically, we’d whip up some space cakes, eat a rack of ribs, and watch District 9 to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. That was the plan. We were practically high fiving. (Eh, let’s be real, we were definitely high-fiving.)
But, of course, tragedy befell us when our casual acquaintance failed to come through with his end of the bargain.
Clutching a handle of Captain Morgan in one hand and clutching his iPhone with the message of disappointment in the other, Mitchell said with a sad frown, “Hampton’s ruined Christmas.”
We still did the rest of the stuff – the ribs and District 9. Plus, we resentfully drank the Captain Morgan out of Snowman Mugs – and let me tell you, it was disgusting.
But we mourned the hash that could have been.
It would go down as a day of great sadness in the mythology of our relationship.
Anyway, a few nights ago, right before Mitchell’s birthday, while I was walking our Yorkshire terrier Sonya Blade around the neighborhood, something that I considered miraculous happened.
My neighbor, John, a forty-five year old married father of three, was sitting out on his porch drinking a glass of tea. We stopped to say hi and he patted Sonya Blade on the head.
When he began to complain about headaches he had been experiencing the last couple weeks I joked,
“You know what will fix that right up? A little bit of weed.”
Edgy, I know.
But John leaned in with a wink and a nod and whispered to me:
“Weed? Do you wanna little? I got tons.”
And just like that, after six years of high and dry living, I’d found our weed dealer.
As it turned out, our neighbor had been selling trees for years, getting his supply from a grower out West.
“The real good stuff.” He said. “Knock you right on your ass. Do you have a vaporizer? You gotta get one of those too.”
I nodded my head sincerely. We would indeed need to get one of those too.
After John rummaged around the garage, he came back with a small plastic bag. He pressed it into my hand.
“Don’t worry about it this time. It’s on me.”
Sonya Blade and I scurried back to our house in celebration. Mitchell would be home soon, plus, it was his birthday in just a few days.
Everything was coming up Millhouse.
I decided not to wait.
I took the small baggy and placed it on the kitchen table. I grabbed a post it note and stuck it on the bag with a satisfying swipe and a push.
“To Mitchell. Happy 34th. Touch that green light, baby. Love, Ashley”
To be continued…