by Darryl Hicks
about this afternoon. How did you know I just got a weed license? I mean like there’s lots of offices in that building, I could’ve gone anywhere in there.”
Lela took out her iPhone and showed me her list of recent emails. She selected the one that said, “This Guy’s Kinda Cute”.
Up popped a photo of me turning away from the counter, with the license in my hand.
I pointed at Chery and said, “You were the old lady standing behind me in the line.”
Chery laughed and said, “You were the first one who ever kissed his license.”
Lela scrolled to the next photo. There I was, puckering up to my weed license.
Lela said, “That license is getting more action than I’ve been getting lately.”
“I could help with that,” I said.
Lela and I kissed.
“Get a room,” said Chery.
@#@#@#@#@#
The room was in Lela’s house. The first coupling was momentarily awkward, but we soon lost our inhibitions.
@#@#@#@#@#
I was taking an bath in Lela’s antique claw foot bathtub. The water was up to my chin. Lela sat on the commode lid, watching to make sure I didn’t doze off and drown. That was what she said, anyway. Maybe she just liked watching guys bathe.
My recently Robo Chucky’d leg was feeling a bit raw. I lifted my right leg out of the water and rested the heel on the edge of the tub. We both looked at my shin cuts.
Lela said, “Your right leg looks nasty.”
“Ironically,” I replied, “it was pain in my left leg that got me approved to have a weed license.”
“What’s wrong with your left leg?”
“Sciatica.”
“Technically that’s phantom pain. Your left leg doesn’t actually hurt.”
“Tell it to my leg,” I said. “The pain is real and it fucking hurts.”
“I get it that you think your leg hurts, but the real problem is a pinched nerve in your back. Am I right?”
“Yes. You’re well informed about sciatica.”
“Lots of my customers talk about their pain. Sciatica is common.”
The conversation lagged a moment.
I said, “In case you’re wondering, Molly is an ex-girlfriend. She’s been falling into the bottle lately and I’ve been drifting away.”
“Did she fall into the bottle tonight?”
“Yes, she was totally smashed. I had to help her walk when we left the bar. I drove her home and then she just fell asleep on her couch, so I took off.”
“I was wondering why you had her scent on you. You’ll be so busted if I ever smell that perfume on you again.”
@#@#@#@#@#
I was still in the bathtub.
Lela said, “How are you voting?”
“Don’t know. Both of the candidates suck.”
“No, I mean how are you voting on treating weed like alcohol?”
“Aha. I suppose you think I should vote yes.”
“Do bears squat in foresty areas?”
“That would be pure conjecture on my part,” I said. “Besides, I don’t usually vote.”
“You’re voting this time or your name is Michael Eatme.”
“Romney says weed is a gateway drug.”
“Alcohol is the ultimate gateway drug. Everybody’s first high is always alcohol.”
“Forget about alcohol. Surely you agree weed is a gateway drug.”
“But, we can’t forget alcohol. If you want to make the gateway drug argument, you first have to classify alcohol as a gateway drug, you can’t just single out weed.”
“You can’t do this,” I said.
“Can’t do what?”
“You can’t refute the ‘gateway drug’ accusation.”
“I’ll refute anything I please in my own bathroom.”
“The vice guys told me I should always use the ‘gateway drug’ accusation, because you weed advocates have no response for it. It’s like irrefutable.”
“Suppose I said alcohol is a gateway drug,” replied Lela.
“Alcohol isn’t a gateway drug because lots of people who use alcohol never go on to using other intoxicants.”
“By that definition, weed isn’t a gateway drug either. Lots of people who use weed never go on to using other intoxicants.”
“Wait, no, you can’t deny the weed ‘gateway drug’ accusation,” I said. “It’s like the cornerstone of weed prohibition. All of the government experts can’t be wrong.”
“Then YOU need to stipulate that ALCOHOL is a gateway drug.”
“Ok, suppose I stipulate that alcohol is a gateway drug of sorts.”
“You’d need to stipulate that alcohol is gateway drug zero, the drug from which all other drug usage stems.”
“You’re twisting the gateway drug issue.”
“Hey, you opened the gateway drug door, dude.”
“Ok, I stipulate that alcohol is gateway drug zero. Now, it’s your turn.”
Lela sighed. “Do some weed users go on to using other drugs? Yes, but nothing in weed actually triggers the desire for other drugs. Peer pressure is the primary reason users try other drugs after weed. Does that make weed a gateway drug? I don’t think so. Also, there’s the criminal element. Once the user has dealt with the criminal who sells weed, then maybe the user also knows other criminals who sell crack or ecstasy or whatever. That’s actually a good reason to legalize weed. Legalization would remove the criminal element from weed. Then, weed users wouldn’t necessarily need to interact with criminals. But, in any case, weed is never the user’s first gateway drug. The first gateway drug is always alcohol.”
I thought about that awhile. If I said alcohol wasn’t a gateway drug, then she would say weed wasn’t a gateway drug either. If I said alcohol was always the first gateway drug for all drug users, then she would say weed could be a gateway drug for some people, but alcohol would still be the primary gateway drug for everybody.
Lela’s watch buzzed. She stood up, placed a towel on the commode lid, then left the bathroom.
I got out of the tub and dried off.
@#@#@#@#@#
I followed my nose to Lela’s kitchen.
“What smells so good?” I asked.
“Brownies,” said Lela. “Help yourself to the edges and crumbs.”
I quickly ate a long thin edge piece and reached for another.
@#@#@#@#@#
We were lying in Lela’s bed, watching tv. My eyes were watering. I wiped my left eye with my left wrist, then I wiped my right eye with my other wrist.
“Something wrong with your eyes?” asked Lela, innocently.
“They’re watering.”
“You’ve got the weed weepies.”
“Say what?”
“Your body is excreting THC thru the blood vessels in your eyeballs. You ate too many brownies, dude.”
I didn’t know if she was joshing about eyeball excretion of THC, but my eyeballs sure felt weird.
“Help me,” I said.
She laughed. “Don’t worry, the weepies aren’t fatal. Besides, I’ve got a cure for it.”
Lela turned off the tv. She groped for my unit and began a massage.
“The cure brings blood down from your eyes,” said Lela.
“Don’t stop,” I moaned.