I don’t smoke weed very often at all but if you’re looking for a number I’d say that I do it maybe once every three months–and usually with an activity in mind. 

A movie, a podcast, a date…

So my tolerance for marijuana isn’t that high even though, at 5’10” and 170 pounds, plus however many years of experience with the flower, I like to tell myself that, y’know, I can handle my weight in greenery.

Well the other night I was at Redbar and I got to talking with another regular whom I know rather well from a previous job and after we’d been talking for a little while he reached into his bag and pulled out some gummy bears. 

But it was a weird pack of gummy bears. There was no label, and he only had like six in there.

“That’s a weird thinga gummies.”

He said, “They’re edibles.”

“Oh.”

He said, “Have you ever had one?”

I haven’t.

“You want one?”

And this was fairly early in the evening, like 8:30, and I was like, Well, y’know, I plan to wake up early anyway. Lemme go ahead and take one, then head home, and knock out hard.

The rich blissful sleep of being intensely stoned.

So I said sure. 

Dude gives me a gummy. 

He says, “Do you smoke?”

I said, “Not really.”

And he laughs.

I pop the gummy into my mouth and reach for my wallet. “What do I owe you?”

His smile is tight and sinister and he’s shaking his head. “Nothing. I just wanna watch.”

Kind of a fuckin very menacing thing to tell someone after they’ve just eaten the piece of food you gave them. But I don’t pay it much mind.

I get into conversation with a bar tender and then, oh ho, I’m starting to feel it.

Feels nice. 

I’m just high.

Eventually I say, “I’m hungry.”

So I go outside, I walk down the block, I go to Burger King.

There’s a little old lady at the register and I walk up to her, hugging myself.

“Lemme get………………eight cheeseburgers………….and a small fry.”

She blinks. “Quieres EIGHT cheebourger…y un eh’fry?”

“Si.”

She gestures for another colleague to come over. A big guy. My age or thereabouts. He comes over and looks at the screen. Then at me. Then at the screen. “Sir, just to be clear: you want eight cheeseburgers and a small fry.”

“Immediately.” 

“Alright.” He hits a button, the order goes through, I pay and grab my receipt and, a few minutes later, they hand me a very heavy bag.

I go back to Redbar. 

I give a cheeseburger to the bouncer.

I give a cheeseburger to the barback.

I give a cheeseburger to the DJ.

I give cheeseburgers to the bartenders.

Then, walking home, I eat the remaining four. Plus the large fry.

I know the math doesn’t add up, but this is what happened.

When I get to the apartment, my roommate isn’t there, so I go and take a quick shower—feeling, as I do it, like a spaceman—and then I get into bed naked. It’s almost 10:30 and, even though the room is spinning, I’m proud of myself for being in bed so early.

Speaking to my Amazon Echo I ask Alexa if she’ll play some relaxing music and she complies but, whenever I hear a note, my view of the room begins to ripple in sync with the music and I think, 

“Oh no.”

I text the guy who gave me the gummy. 

I say, “Hey. I’m not asleep.”

He says, “Yea that would be weird.”

So I write, “???”

And he says, “It’s sativa. It’ss a stimulant.”

I set my phone down on the bedside table, roll onto my back, face the ceiling and say, “Oh no.”

So began, dear reader, the longest night of my life.