Perhaps I should begin to qualify myself a little here. I was 13 year’s old when I first smoked pot. The year was 1974 and I was a freshman in high school, which was 8th grade back then. I didn’t get stoned the first time I smoked, but that didn’t deter me. The next time I got very stoned and it didn’t take long before my best friend, W, and I decided we needed to have our very own stash of the stuff.
We bought a “nickel bag” for $5, which was probably a quarter of an ounce or more and hid it in my parent’s basement. Every day after school we would retrieve our stash and roll the worst joints you’ve ever seen and get absolutely ripped. The thing I remember the most is the munchies. We would often eat a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts at a sitting and we had a habit of getting in the kitchen and concocting all sorts of sweet treats out of whatever we could find. Chocolate syrup from Nestle’s Quik, butter and milk was one of our favorites – on top of pancakes. Cinnamon toast with a big glass of chocolate milk was another. God only knows how much Nestle’s Quik we consumed in those days.
W had four brothers and one day we were at her house conjuring one of our munchie madnesses when one of her brothers came home. I think he had graduated the year before we started high school and he was immediately onto us. “Are ya’ll stoned?”, he asked. I can only imagine the guilty faces and stunned expressions that answered his question undeniably in the affirmative. He had quite a talk with us of which I specifically remember nothing but the jist was that we were dumb kids who didn’t know what we were getting into and we’d better stop it.
That was enough for W. She said she was done and I figured I would be, too. Just as soon as the rest of that nickel bag was gone.
I rolled the last joint, a rather large one, on a Friday evening before the high school football game. My parents were going out to eat and I waited until they were gone and lit that baby up. I sat in my room and smoked the entire thing alone. I was fried out of my mind. I opened the shutters on my bedroom window to finish getting ready for the game and got the shock of my young life. My parent’s car was in the driveway.
The entire house was full of pot smoke, but I still tried to lie my way out of it. Needless to say there was no football game for me that night. After finally admitting what I’d been doing, my parents took me out to eat and to a movie. It was a sad movie about a young woman who became paralyzed and I cried through dinner, through the movie, and until I went to bed – just as I was beginning to come down. To this day I don’t know if I cried more from the guilt or the knowledge that my smoking days were over before they’d barely begun.
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