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.”
He said, “Have you ever had one?”
“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.
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?”
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.”
“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,
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.