Sticky Bunns, Pizza and a Bag of Weed

I began my two novels, On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg and Michael’s Secrets, with “None of this ever happened, but it could have …” Keep that in mind as you read this.

I may be fifty, and I can kick and stretch and kick, but there are things I still have not done. I don’t know if what I have is a bucket list; however, there are some things I want to try. There are also some things I will be happy to go to my newly purchased plot in a nice Jewish cemetery in Southeast Washington, DC, without trying.

I don’t want to try scat. Seriously, how screwed up was your potty training that you find sexual pleasure in the movement of your partner’s bowels? I don’t want to bungee jump. I weigh as much as three and half third graders, which means I would be the one to “bun” but never “gee” as my head splats all over the rocks. I bet you never thought you would see bungee jumping and scat in the same paragraph, but if I were to bungee jump, I guarantee there would be some scat involved.

I also have no desire to experiment with drugs. I am nutty enough without the aid of controlled substances. However, I do believe in the legalization of marijuana. You want to smoke it. Go for it.

Marijuana is the only drug I ever did and only when someone else had it, and if was offered. I am no expert, but I think I can tell the difference between good and bad weed. Is that the cool term? Bad weed gives me a headache and makes me feel sick as if I just smoked an entire pack of Pal Mals, which I have done when nervous. Good weed makes me feel silly, and I giggle uncontrollably. Not laugh, giggle. The kind of giggle where you cannot catch your breath and they offer you a talk show in the afternoon that turns out to be the worst train wreck you have ever witnessed as you parade one freak after another onto your stage while wearing checkered shirts. Isn’t that right, Anderson? Do you think he smokes weed?

As I said, I have never bought pot, and until recently, I would not have had a reason to or even a clue how.

Before I go on. A lot of names and relationships are being changed in what follows to protect the innocent. I might even change my own name. Maurice has a nice ring to it.

My experience with grass and those who enjoy it – and notice I keep changing the term due to my lack of knowledge of the vernacular of the modern-day pot head – goes back to my teenage years. I have a relative, a very close relative, who enjoyed the parlayer of THC on a regular basis. He was known to sit in his room listening to either heavy metal or Tony Bennett (I know, right?), doing bong hit after bong hit with a towel stuffed under his door, while his dysfunctional family argued over generic and brand name cranberry sauce in another part of the house. He had a brother who coped with the family’s dysfunction by doing laundry twenty-four hours a day. There is nothing like a harvest gold Whirlpool washer to drown out the noise. Isn’t that right, Maurice?

A friend of mine who frequents my neck of the woods was relaying how when he travels he does not partake of green vegetables because he doesn’t know where to shop in DC. I suggested Whole Foods.

I am such a square.

That got me to thinking. How does one buy weed? Do you go to a bad neighborhood and look for someone dressed like Cheech or Chong? By the way, if you watch their movies sober, they aren’t funny. The above mentioned relative and I watched one sober and realized you need to be buzzed beyond belief to see the humor in “smoking Labrador.”

Ironically, when I was in Houston last, a gallery owner informed us that Cheech Marin bought a painting from him.

Where was I? Oh God, I am writing this as if I were high. No drugs were consumed before penning this piece, but it might be suggested to do so after.

I did a little research and contacted a few friends who enjoy the natural high that comes with smoking hemp – not the kind you use to make rope. One was able to help me and asked how much I wanted. Not knowing the first thing about this, I asked for a nickel bag, which in my day cost $5. He giggled more than Anderson Cooper. You see my day was when Rosalynn Carter was frying catfish in the White House kitchen and airing out her laundry in the Rose Garden.

I then said, “I will take $100 worth.” He giggle some more because there is a minimum purchase. Who knew it was like ordering Chinese. For free delivery, there is a minimum purchase of $20. I asked what the minimum was. He said $325! I responded, “Do you know how many handjobs I would have to give to come up with that kind of cash?”

Apparently, I am good with my hands because three days later, I had the cash.

I was already planning on visiting my friend Charles in New Jersey, and the “pick-up,” or is it “drop-off,” location was on the way back. After leaving New Jersey with three dozen sticky bunns and a large Italian sausage, black olive and mushroom pizza from Legends Pizza Parlor in Burlington, which Charles owns, I programmed the location where I would make my first “purchase” into the GPS. 

I have to tell you I was a little excited. For the first time in my life, I felt cool.

I watch a lot of crime dramas, so I expected to end up in a warehouse district pulled up next to a 1973 rusted out Chevy van. Boy was I surprised. I was in an upscale neighborhood, and a very nice European sedan pulled up behind me.

Backtrack. My brother, upon hearing I was moving into a trailer park, was convinced I would be arrested while wearing a wife beater and a Peterbuilt hat and smoking a Marlboro red. His favorite show is Cops, and he kept singing the theme song, “Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do …” every time I mentioned my mobile home purchase.

There I was in my pick-up truck, and for a moment I thought about taking off my shirt before stepping up to the sedan. I figured if I was going to get arrested for the first time in my life, I might as well play the part correctly for the dash cam; I might even run through the hedges, so they would have to chase me while panting into the shoulder microphones. It was thirty degrees outside, so I left my shirt on.

The gentleman rolled down his window. He was rather handsome, and his daughter was in a child safety seat in the back. He handed me an outdated USPS Express Delivery envelope, and I handed him a box of Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco treat, which contained the proceeds from the aforementioned happy endings.

We conversed for a few seconds, and I went back to my truck and put the envelope under the driver’s seat. Why didn’t I buy a minivan with all those cubbies and storage bins? I should have asked the dealer, "Where do I hide contraband in this GMC Canyon?"

I then went on my merry way. It was that uneventful.

As I mentioned before, I have never been arrested, and while visiting my friends in New Jersey, I remarked about how many people I know who have been. I once worked in a restaurant where I was the only one without a criminal record. I have never been A-list material.

As I was driving home with three dozen stick bunns, a large Italian sausage, black olive and mushroom pizza and a vacuum bag of weed, a call came over my Blue Tooth.

“This is IC services in [county redacted] with a call from [name redacted], will you accept the call?”

A call from inmate communications? Don’t ask me how I know IC services is inmate communications. The story would be too long to tell on this blog. It turns out a friend of mine was arrested in another state, which explained why the last communication I had from him was that he was having a spinach salad at Denny’s. Is it a crime to order a spinach salad at Denny’s? I guess it is.

My heart skipped several beats. Here I was in a truck with three dozen sticky bunns, a large Italian sausage, black olive and mushroom pizza and a bag of weed, and I was having a conversation about bail money with someone over IC services, which was being recorded over my Blue Tooth by Homeland Security, the FBI and the CIA.

Apparently, just being in that close proximity to marijuana causes paranoia.

After making arrangement through Western Union, which has an app for wiring bail money … in case you ever need it, I stopped for gas and coffee.

When I returned to my truck, this man was standing next to it, and I asked him what he wanted. He told me he had a bed cover to sell for $100. Hastily, I replied I wasn’t interested, got into my vehicle, locked the doors and took off. For a second, I thought he could smell the pot through the vacuum bag.

I had an hour more of driving, and I was convinced that my brother’s trailer park prediction was going to come true, so I took off my shirt, waiting to be pulled over … hopefully by a hot cop.

Apparently, just being in that close proximity to marijuana causes the munchies. While driving shirtless down I-95, I ate the entire large Italian sausage, black olive and mushroom pizza as well as a dozen sticky bunns. 

Now, the office knows why I showed up with only two dozen.

The extra-large coffee took care of the cotton mouth.

Remember, none of this ever happened ….

If you’ve been arrested while wearing nothing but a bra, follow me, join me or buy my book.