The Marijuana Chronicles (2 page)

Hollywood has long reflected and embraced the change in attitude with such stoner star turns as Cheech and Chong’s
Up in Smoke
, Sean Penn’s hilarious Jeff Spicoli in
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
, Jane Fonda’s pot-smoking hooker in
Klute
, Bridget Fonda in Quentin Tarantino’s
Jackie Brown
, and the granddaddy of all counterculture stoner films,
Easy Rider
, wherein Peter Fonda (what is it with these Fondas?) introduces Jack Nicholson to his first smoke (and if you believe that was really Jack’s first toke, you will believe anything). Diane Keaton needed a hit to relax her in
Annie Hall
, and Jeff Bridges played the ultimate stoner dude in
The Big Lebowski
.

Like film, literature has been no stranger to the drug, going back to Charles Baudelaire’s 1860
Artificial Paradises
, in which the French poet not only describes the effects of hashish but postulates it could be an aid in creating an ideal world. The pleasures, pains, and complexities of marijuana are more than hinted at in works by William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Henry Miller, Hunter S. Thompson, and Thomas Pynchon, to name just a few, and I hope this anthology will add to that legacy and keep the flame of pot literature burning bright.

National Book Award winner Joyce Carol Oates creates an instant classic for the genre in her dark tale of suburban-meetsurban weed consumption gone wrong, and Linda Yablonsky turns your head inside out with a pot-smoking, cross-dressing, guntoting character as alluring as he is terrifying.

I never expected pothead zombies but that’s just what Maggie Estep delivers in her zany and hilarious story. Cultural critic Edward M. Gómez gives us an urban tale at once real and idyllic, while Josh Gilbert takes us on a stoned journey through Hollywood hell. Amanda Stern offers us a coming-of-age cautionary tale with heart, soul, pot,
and
coke! And multi–award winning crime fiction author Lee Child could not help but write a story that will keep you guessing till the last line.

Marijuana crosses the ocean in Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan’s story of pot-smoking friends in Singapore, and Abraham Rodriguez rocks us back to the future with his idiosyncratic blend of sci-fi and urban realism.

Bob Holman and Jan Heller Levi produce poems filled with poignancy and humor which remind us that poetry and pot have had a long acquaintance, while award-winning graphic artist Dean Haspiel creates a hallucinogenic world in pictures. As for me, I won’t say how much of my story is real or imagined, but I do have a faded photo of my flower-painted face, which can be had for a price.

This diverse group of writers, poets, and artists makes it clear that there is no one point of view here. Each of them approaches the idea of marijuana with the sharp eye of an observer, anthropologist, and artist, and expands upon it. Some writing projects are difficult; this one was smooth and mellow and a continual pleasure.

As a survivor of the sex-and-drug revolution, I could never have imagined the decriminalization of my generation’s forbidden fruit. Perhaps there is another Anslinger waiting in the wings, but practically every day a new article extols the virtues of medical marijuana and other states get ready to put the drug in the category of alcohol. Is it possible that in a few years it will be easier to buy a pack of joints than cigarettes? I don’t know the answer to that but in the meantime I hope you will sit back, relax, and enjoy these wide-ranging tales of the most debated and discussed drug of our time. Though, according to former California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, “That is not a drug, it’s a leaf.”

Jonathan Santlofer

New York City

April 2013

PaRT I

DANGEROUS

L
EE
C
HILD
has been a television director, union organizer, theater technician, and law student. He is the author of the Jack Reacher novels. He was born in England but now lives in New York City and leaves the island of Manhattan only when required to by forces beyond his control. Visit
www.leechild.com
for more information on his books, short stories, and the
Jack Reacher
movie starring Tom Cruise.

my first drug trial

by lee child

W
as it smart to smoke a bowl before heading to court? Probably not. The charge was possession of a major quantity, and first impressions count, and a courtroom is a theater with all eyes on just two main characters: the judge, obviously, but mostly the accused. So was it smart?

Probably not.

But what choice did I have? Obviously I had smoked a bowl the night before. A big bowl, to be honest. Because I was nervous. I wouldn’t have slept without it. Not that I have tried to sleep without it, even one night in twenty years. So that hit was routine. I slept the sleep of the deeply stoned and woke up feeling normal. And looking and acting normal, I’m sure. At breakfast my wife made no adverse comment, except, “Use some Visine, honey.” But it was said with no real concern. Like advice about which tie to choose. Which I was happy to have. It was a big day for me, obviously.

So I shaved and dripped the drops into my eyes, and then I showered, which on that day I found especially symbolic. Even transformational. I felt like I was hosing a waxy residue that only I could see out of my hair and off my skin. It sluiced away down the drain and left me feeling fresh and clean. A new man, again. An innocent man. I stood in the warm stream for an extra minute and for the millionth time half-decided to quit. Grass is not addictive. No physical component. All within my power. And I knew I should.

That feeling lasted until I had finished combing my hair. The light in my bathroom looked cold and dull. The plain old day bore down on me. Problem is, when you’ve stayed at the Ritz, you don’t want to go back to the Holiday Inn.

I had an hour to spare. Courts never start early. I had set the time aside to review some issues. You can’t expect lawyers to spot everything. A man has to take responsibility. So I went to my study. There was a pipe on the desk. It was mostly blackened, but there were some unburned crumbs.

I opened the first file. They had given me copies of everything, of course. All the discovery materials. All the pleadings and the depositions and the witnesses. I was familiar with the facts, naturally. And objectively, they didn’t look good. Any blow-dried TV analyst would sit there and say,
Things don’t look good here for the accused
. But there were possibilities. Somewhere. There had to be. How many things go exactly to plan?

The unburned crumbs were fat and round. There was a lighter in the drawer. I knew that. A yellow plastic thing from a gas station. I couldn’t concentrate. Not properly. Not in the way I needed to. I needed that special elevated state I knew so well. And it was within easy reach.

Irresponsible, to be high at my first drug trial.

Irresponsible, to prepare while I was feeling less than my best.

Right?

I held the crumbs in with my pinkie fingernail and knocked some ash out around it. I thumbed the lighter. The smoke tasted dry and stale. I held it in, and waited, and waited, and then the buzz was there. Just microscopically. I felt the tiny thrills, in my chest first, near my lungs. I felt each cell in my body flutter and swell. I felt the light brighten and I felt my head clear.

Unburned crumbs. Nothing should be wasted. That would be criminal.

The blow-dried analysts would say the weakness in the prosecution’s case was the lab report on the substances seized. But weakness was a relative word. They would be expecting a conviction.

They would say the weakness in the defense’s case was all of it.

No point in reading more.

It was a railroad, straight and true.

Nothing to do for the balance of the morning hour.

I put the pipe back on the desk. There were paperclips in a drawer. Behind me on a shelf was a china jar marked
Stash
. My brother had bought it for me. Irony, I suppose. In it was a baggie full of Long Island grass. Grown from seeds out of Amsterdam, in an abandoned potato field close enough to a bunch of Hamptons mansions to deter police helicopters. Rich guys don’t like noise, unless they’re making it.

I took a paperclip from the drawer and unbent it and used it to clean the bowl. Just housekeeping at that point. Like loading the dishwasher. You have to keep on top of the small tasks. I made a tiny conical heap of ash and carbon on a tissue, and then I balled up the tissue and dropped it in the trash basket. I blew through the pipe, hard, like a pygmy warrior in the jungle. Final powdered fragments came out, and floated, and settled.

Clean.

Ready to go.

For later, of course. Because right then those old unburned crumbs were doing their job. I was an inch off the ground, feeling pretty good. For the moment. In an hour I would be sliding back to earth. Good timing. I would be clear of eye and straight of back, ready for whatever the day threw at me.

But it was going to be a long day. No doubt about that. A long, hard, pressured, unaided, uncompensated day. And there was nothing I could do about it. Not even I was dumb enough to show up at a possession trial with a baggie in my pocket. Not that there was anywhere to smoke anymore. Not in a public facility. All part of the collapse of society. No goodwill, no convenience. No joy.

I swiveled my chair and scooted toward the shelf with the jar. Just for a look. Like a promise to myself that the Ritz would be waiting for me after the day in the Holiday Inn. I took off the lid and pulled out the baggie and shook it uncrumpled. Dull green, shading brown, dry and slightly crisp. Ready for instantaneous combustion. A harsher taste that way, in my experience, but faster delivery. And time was going to count.

I decided to load the pipe there and then. So it would be ready for later. No delay. In the door, spark the lighter, relief. Timing was everything. I crumbled the bud and packed the bowl and tamped it down. I put it on the desk and licked my fingers.

Timing was everything. Granted, I shouldn’t be high in court. Understood. Although how would people tell? I wasn’t going to have much of a role. Not on the first day, anyway. They would all look at me from time to time, but that was all. But it was better to play it safe, agreed. But it was the gap I was worried about. The unburned crumbs were going to give it up long before I arrived downtown. Which was inefficient. Who wants twenty more minutes of misery than strictly necessary?

I picked up the lighter. No one in the world knows more than I do about how a good bud burns. The flame licks over the top layer, and it browns and blackens, and you breathe right in and hold, hold, hold, and the bud goes out again, and you hold some more, and you breathe out, and the hit is there. And you’ve still got ninety percent left in the bowl, untouched, just lightly seasoned. Maybe ninety-five percent. Hardly like smoking at all. Just one pass with the lighter. Merely a gesture.

And without that gesture, twenty more minutes of misery than strictly necessary.

What’s a man supposed to do?

I sparked the lighter. I made the pass. I held the smoke deep inside, harsh and hot and comforting.

My wife came in.

“Jesus,” she said. “Today of all days?”

So it was her fault, really. I breathed out too soon. I didn’t get full value. I said, “No big deal.”

“You’re an addict.”

“It’s not addictive.”

“Emotionally,” she said. “Psychologically.”

Which was a woman thing, I supposed. A man has a stone in his shoe, he takes it out, right? Who walks around all day with a stone in his shoe? I said, “Nothing’s going to happen for an hour or so.”

She said, “You can’t afford to fall asleep. You can’t afford to look all spacey. You understand that, right? Please tell me you understand that.”

“It was nothing,” I said.

“There will be consequences,” she said. “We’re doing well right now. We can’t afford to lose it all.”