At first, I didn’t need one. My handyman had a connection, who sold me a batch of pot brownies. My mom ate two and got stoned out of her gourd. She called me the next day and exclaimed, “I think I had what they call a ‘trip.’ It wasn’t unpleasant. And I was filled with a sense of well-being.”
I asked my handyman for another batch, but he reported that his dealer had gone on vacation.
“Drug dealers go on vacation?” I asked. Who knew?
So, I approached a neighborhood teenager, thinking he’d set me up with whatever sleezeball sells drugs in the woods near the high school. But, instead, he responded, “Sure, my dad can take care of you.” His dad? Apparently, drug dealer has turned into an acceptable middle-class profession.
His dad owns a farm and marijuana is one of his more profitable crops. I called him and stumbled through a voicemail. “My mom has cancer and I understand you might have some…..ummm…medicine to help her. Oh, and I’m not a cop. I promise.”
While waiting for a return phone call, my girlfriend, Wendy, and I spotted a billboard for a head shop. “I bet we can find drugs there!” I exclaimed. What we found were a lowlife with suspicious stains on his t-shirt and his pregnant, slack-jawed girlfriend whining that she needed a snack. He tossed her a bag of cheese doodles and eagerly volunteered to deliver the weed to my house. I gave him my phone number to schedule a delivery time.
“Are you insane?” Wendy said as soon as we got into the car. “You just invited a drug dealer and his malnourished, bi-polar girlfriend to our house.” For the next several days, he called incessantly. We would stare at the phone in terror each time it rang, expecting the dealer to hop through the receiver and cut our throats. I never returned the calls.
Eventually, the kid’s drug-farming dad called back, and left the following cryptic message, “Does your mother have peanut allergies? If not, stop by tonight.”
Wendy and I looked at each other in alarm. “Do you think peanut allergies is code for something?” I asked. “If you don’t answer it correctly, he’ll think you’re a narc and he’ll cut your throat!” she warned.
So I showed up at his house fairly certain that I would be killed. Instead, he presented me with a gift bag packed with pot-filled peanut butter cookies. “I put M&Ms on some of them,” he said, proudly pointing at cookies that had been mangled by jamming M&Ms into the dough with his beefy fingers. I was stunned by his sweetness and even more surprised when he would not accept money. “No charge for cancer patients,” he said. “It’s my way of giving back to the community.”
This touched off a flood of emotion that had been building since my mother was diagnosed. I buried my face in my drug dealer’s chest and convulsed with sobs, while he stroked my hair. “She’ll be OK,” he whispered.
No, she won’t. But thanks to him, she will be stoned, and for a few hours a day, life won’t be unpleasant.