My first joint was smoked in my VW Bug coming from Nantasket Beach. Tommie Jordan and John Gilmore were my passengers. The reefer belonged to Tommie, who was a hockey player from North Quincy High. His hair was long for 1969. At least for a hockey player, but then Derek Sanderson wore his long and the center got big money for playing with the Boston Bruins.
"Inhale slowly." Tommie counseled from the back seat.
I followed his advice and the mild weed struck my sense of hilarity like cobra venom.
Marijuana was illegal in the 60s. It is still illegal today. A great number of the US prison population are convicted pot smokers. President Obama has not spoken on possible decriminalization and kids are constantly lectured on the dangers of smoke. The weed is not free. Last weekend I was out in Montauk this weekend. The surfing beachtown at the eastern tip of Long Island is a relaxed community. I watched the moonrise on Saturday night with my friends. It had been bigger on Friday evening, but size wasn't important this far from Manhattan or Easthampton. We retreated back to a beach shack in Ditch Plains for a BBQe. One woman and I vowed to saved a 80s beauty trapped in Detroit. We could have reached Wendy in 9 hours, except none of us were driving after a few glasses of wine. The town police arrested any driver over the limit. Wendy would have to wait for another posse.
I was surprised that our host's son was in the house of a weekend night and asked, "What the problem?"
"I caught him with weed." "And you grounded him?" My host had been straight for a decade, but she had smoked as a young girl. "What could I say?"
"Not much." I turned to the teenager. He looked like a good kid. "What were you smoking? Weed or sinse." He ignored my queries. I was over three times his age.
"Hydro?" A shake of the head, although he wasn't defiant and didn't roll his eyes. This was a sign of maturity beyond his age. Adults might not know what they are talking about, but teenagers didn't win any points for lip.
"Hydro's not really weed." I had been at Agent Rockford's underground weed plantation last Spring. Every plant had been a twin to the other thanks to a successful cloning experiment. Rockford had handed me a mask.
"7% THC gets in the air. Too much exposure and you're high."
"Is that a bad thing?"
Rockford's reluctance to answer had said a lot and I have steered clear of sinse and hydro ever since that trip to the Midwest. I could have given a sermon to the grounded teenager in Montauk. Instead I asked, "How kids in your school smoke pot?"
"90%."
"That many." I didn't doubt his number. He attended a Manhattan private school.
"The other 10% are Jesus freaks praying for our salvation."
"I only pray for our victory," I explained about Mexico's liberal drug policy. "Anything under 4 joints is legal."
"Even big fatboys."
"Maybe only two of those. Victory is in sight."
The teenager high-fived me. Later in the evening my host took me to the side.
"Thanks for the free-pot speech. Maybe you should be doing a tour. Smoke a marijuana."
"That used to be a David Peel song." No one in this generation or even the last two had ever heard about the East Village hippie dedicated to the freedom of the weed. It was too long a story to tell without going to youtubes, so I poured myself another glass of wine and watched the stars drift toward the full moon. It was a good night for it.
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