I smoked but didn't inhale.

So Dad And I were sitting at the kitchen table in the river house, the weapon lies between us, on a slightly overused plastic tablecloth, it always felt greasy and slick,  it had a morning glory design disrupted by a few cigarette burns and the thing probably should have been discarded a year ago. On the table sat some nearly empty bottles of Stroh’s, an ashtray with dead butts, a tin of Hormel’s deviled ham on a plastic plate surrounded by saltines. There was a half eat’n pot of clams cooked in beer and a loaf of dark bread from Findley Market, the room had sort of a sweet bar room aroma. There were a lot of windows in that room, two of the walls where all windows from the waste up. Generally they looked out onto the back yard, a beaten up green shed covered in tar paper and the house barn that our horses called home, currently they were fogged up dripping with condensation from all the body heat and cooking that was taking place in the room. It was winter but we must off just come off a warm spell because a moth repeatedly kept flying into the back window, struggling to get at a light source. I thought it odd that a moth was out there this time of year. It’s tapping against the glass pane kept getting slower as the temperature dropped and it tired, I had to fight the urge to open the door and let it in.

We sat there, just kind of looking across the table at one another; I’d look at him, the weapon, the moth, fidget a little and look back at my dad. He had lamb chop side burns, darkish hair and a small comb over where he was slightly balding. He was sweating a bit, it was hot in that room and the oven door was open warming it up even more. It was kind of like a western show down, one of us waiting for the other to break the silence that was only interrupted by the occasional tapping from the moth. My dad picked up a pack of smokes, soft pack Viceroy’s, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He looked over at the moth, picked up a newspaper, walked to the back door and opened it, with one quick sideways motion he smashed the moth into a greasy crumpled smear against the window of the back door. It stuck there, smashed body and crumpled legs; he threw the paper on the table, sat down and looked at me.

Gently he said “Son, you look like you have something on your mind¸ you have something you want to ask me.”

I squirmed a bit, and nodded.

“Well, what is it?”

“What’s it feel like when you smoke marijuana?”

I could see my Dad thinking about how he wanted to formulate his response. How could he make a nine year boy know what it felt like to smoke marijuana? It seemed like a lot of time passed before he decided to answer; I could hear voices, laughter and music coming from the other room. I started to wish I hadn’t asked that question and that I was sitting on the floor in front of the stereo, head phones on, forgetting things while listening to American Pie.

After what felt like an eternity he said “We’ll, you know when you eat a piece of cheese, and you love the way that cheese tastes, when you smoke,” he gestured at the weapon “that piece of cheese tastes that much better. Or… when you have a piece of steak, pot makes steak taste better, or if you’re listening to music, it makes that music sound better.” It just makes everything better! I got it. “It’s a gift from the earth, natural; it grows in the soil, what could be wrong with that?”

That didn’t sound so bad or dangerous to me. “So, it’s not dangerous? You’re not going to go crazy?” My dad smiled, laughed a little and gave me a reassuring hug. “It’s just something people use to help them relax.” I felt better, safe comforted. My dad wasn’t going to go insane or get arrested from smoking marijuana, he was just going to relax, all good news.

Eventually, everyone at the river house slowly filtered back into the kitchen and I got nods and pats on the backs, from the long haired, goatee sporting pirates that were pretending the counter culture movement was still in full swing and the halter top, Daisy Duke hippie girl hangeroners. Cans of beer where opened, cigarettes lit and a bottle of wine was passed around. We worked our way back into the living room, played records, talked and everything was good. My dad must have given someone a secret okay because the weapon was picked up, packed with some dried out, dusty, herbal debris. I was entrhawed, on full alert, here I was, about to witness some great ceremony or secret rite, after all, the weapon did sort of look like a peace pipe. One of the gypsy’s put the weapon to their mouth, struck an oversized fireplace match and put it to the bowl, a couple of small flames danced out of the bowl as the match was extinguished and the pot ignited. A grey blue cloud of smoke floated through the air. It was drifter and mesmerizing. If you’ve never smoked or smelled marijuana burning it’s a very hard aroma to describe, it’s like trying to describe the smell of baking chocolate chipped cookies to someone that’s never smelled them before. It had a sickly sweet, slightly tropical and grassy fragrance. It smelled exotic and reminded me of the incense that was constantly burning in little cones on window sills. And I wanted to do more than smell it

Marcus, the man smoking inhaled deeply, held his breath, coughed a little bit. I studied his technique More smoke filled the room as the pipe was passed to the next man. I couldn’t take my eyes off Marcus, I waited for his head to explode or blood to start coming out of his ears, and disappointingly he only coughed, gently whacked his chest with a sideways fist, exhaled and smiled as his eyes started to look more glassy and bloodshot than usual.

I watched as everyone took a hit from the weapon, eventually it worked its way around to me. It was in my hand, hot and lit, I got the nod that it was okay, I was panicked and didn’t want to look like a novice. I held the pipe to my face leaving a little gap between the weapon and my mouth and took a small breath, I tried not to get anything into my lungs, I just held what was in my mouth quietly, took a couple of gasps and exhaled hard. Nothing came out, I was relieved, I’d smoked my first toke, but not smoked, I wasn’t ready to cross that bridge yet but I’d thought I fooled these old pros into believing I had. I sat back feeling cooler than I’d ever felt, spinning back and forth in a rattan hanging chair, Converses dragging the floor, I’m the bomb, yes, yes I am.

As I looked around through the haze I realized everyone was smiling and laughing, I started to laugh too, the more we laughed the louder and longer we laughed, hooted and hollered. Our eyes where watering and my sides was hurting from so much laughter, I didn’t know what we were laughing at and didn’t care, I assumed no one else did either. A shared happy ecstatic moment in time. If this is what marijuana does to people I thought it was pretty cool. Everyone was looking at me and gesturing, I could see some of them mimicking me, mocking my fake attempt at smoking. I realized that it was me and my feeble first attempt at smoking pot was the butt of the joke.

I could feel myself turning red with shame and embarrassment as the laughter continued. I was dreadfully humiliated and disgraced. I slammed down the weapon and stomped into the kitchen sulking, I could hear the laughter in the next room seemingly getting louder. I opened the cabinet under the sink, grabbed some 409, a paper towel, opened up the back door and wiped the dead moth off the window. I didn’t bother with the other grime, that wasn’t my problem. I threw everything into the trash barrel and stomped off into the night.

The Weapon

The Weapon

Sometime in the early 70’s

The river house was never really my home; it was where my brother, sister and I went on weekends to see our Dad, Stepmom, several ill-kept horses and ponies and a vagabond-ish assortment of dogs and cats. There was nearly always some sort of coming and going, the wayward cousin that temporarily got thrown out of his mother’s house; Johnny-come-lately wanna be hippies, preaching the gospel of Ram Daas, Hinduism and the next ashram they’re going to crash; a Mexican migrant worker finding his way to Chicago, seeking out his wife before she gives birth to her child; homosexuals, tramps, and general fugitives. I loved that place. It was misfit haven.

I understand why most people might not think it was the proper environment for a ten, seven and five-year-old. The combination of horses, gypsies, loud music and the general lack of rules was the perfect weekend environment for a Catholic school boy, at least in my mind. I can’t remember having any rules while we were there. You wanted to climb on the roof of the house and shoot bottle rockets into the woods and maybe at a dog, no problem. Felt like getting on a horse and riding wildly bareback, shooting cousins and friends with pellet guns, no problem. There was always an adult nearby - well, at least a mile or so away - with a nearly steady hand, rubbing alcohol, and a knife, willing to dislodge and wiggle that pellet out from under your skin.  Every Monday back at Saint Cecilia’s while other kids where talking about the Big Red Machine, their sister’s confirmation and how much money she took in, or a trip to the zoo, I was trying to recreate the album cover of Fragile or impersonating Carlin’s famous Seven Words You Can Never Say on TV: Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker and Tits. Of course, I generally got ratted out by one of the girls and, of course, I generally got whacked several times and mercilessly by Sister Louise and, of course, by fifth grade my desk was in the closet for the entire year. Not an issue as far as I was concerned - it allowed me more time to come up with my future band’s name and the artwork for our premiere album cover.

Stress was rarely an issue on those weekends, at least when I was at the river house. Sunday mornings before pickup, on the other hand, were extremely stressful. It always started with Mass, back home, a quick change into our “grubbies”, breakfast and the wait. I learned patience those Sunday mornings, waiting for my dad to pull up in that shit green 68 Thunderbird. I’d sit in my step dad’s sterile living room or kneel on the back of the couch peering through the curtain, trying to distract myself from the possibility of a no show - the rationalization skills of a ten-year-old are uncanny. Generally he was always there, generally always late. Occasionally though, the phone would ring, I’d hear my mother’s voice, apathetic at first then growing into an angry whisper. She’d mutter something like “Typical” or whatever, hang up the phone, walk into the living room and tell us to go outside and play, we’re not going to dad’s, something came up.

If I was not outside at the river house, I could probably be found in the living room. The ceiling was so low it was repressive and stifling, I always felt like I had to walk sort of hunched over. There was nowhere else to go; the living room was fairly big with a step at the back leading down to the unheated kitchen. The house was decorated in what you might call “Pier One-Highway Department-Head Shop Chic.” On a cinderblock and wood shelf unit sat the hi-fi, reel-to-reel, a giant oversized chrome jack; the love is… couple book ends holding up the Lord of the Rings, Jonathan Livingston Seagull and the Little Prince.  (I don’t get the “the love is…couple book ends” line. Am I missing something?) Walls were covered with a few Bill Graham presents posters, traffic signs and a giant Jesus Christ Superstar Painting hanging over the couch, complete with a bird shit streak down the side. The other furniture included a rattan hanging chair, oversized bean bag, a giant cow skin pillow which could accommodate six heads for sleep overs, and an immense Mexican chess board.

The piece de resistance was something called the Big Jim. The Big Jim had no function, use or role. It was a box, covered in blue shag carpet that rose about eighteen inches off the ground or so. An electric cord came out of the side of the box which would plug into a wall socket and nothing would happen. Supposedly it was purchased somewhere in Hollywood out of a store front window for short money. It rested in the middle of the room to be sat on, walked around or over. At parties people would crowd onto it and dance wildly to Three Dog Night’s “The Show Must Go On.” or anything by Cat Stevens or Neil Diamond. It also served as a stage where every long hair with a guitar would sit around and have a jam session of “Take Me Home Country Road.”; “A Train They Call the City of New Orleans” or “Here Comes the Sun.” Most of them were likely pretty good musicians but they we’re either too stoned and spent too much time tuning up, forgetting and fighting over lyrics, keys, harmony and chords, or bickering about what song to play next. It almost always ended in feelings getting hurt and some burn-out sulking in the corner or stomping off into the woods, only to get lost until morning.

In that living room on one of the upper planks of the make shift cinder block and wood shelf, sat a pipe that I don’t think I was supposed to know about. I heard it quietly referred to as the weapon, it’d show up in different places of the house, just out of reach. I’d hear an older cousin or family friend say, “Should we use the weapon?” Initially my father would say it was much too dangerous and shouldn’t be handled by people with such limited experience; with a bit of what sounded like good hearted badgering, he eventually gave in, got the weapon and everyone would disappear for a spell. Obviously, no one knew I was within ear shot or eaves dropping; if they had they wouldn’t have been talking about the weapon in such a flippant manner. My imagination ran wild. What sort of weapon was the weapon? Was it a gun, a small cannon? I only had a few glimpses of it and it looked like the pipe from under a sink to me. Clearly it had some secret power. I envisioned some Viet Nam Vet buddy bringing it back to my dad for safe keeping, only to be used in a state of extreme national emergency. I thought maybe it had a trancelike capability that placed its victims into a coma only to awaken after they were preprogramed. The weapon confused and concerned me - if it was so powerful, why wasn’t it locked up? Why was it left on high shelves, behind cabinet doors, on top of window and door jams? My only hope was that at some point in my life I’d reach an age and level of maturity that would allow me entrance into the secret society of the weapon.

One early December day, I was the only one of my siblings that wanted to go to my Dad’s for the weekend, so my mother did a righteous thing and drove me the forty-five minutes out to the river house one dark Saturday night.  It was always a bumpy ride down that road, dark and a little bit spooky. My step dad wouldn’t drive down it, he’d make me get out and walk the mile down the road because it was so bad for his shocks. My mom always did the right thing though and took me to the door. I opened the door to the house and the only light being thrown was from several candles plugging up and dripping down empty bottles of Mateus. Pink Floyd’s “One of These Days” was playing, light and soft voices where coming from the kitchen, incense permeated the air and big Jim sat there quietly in the middle of the room. The air was a bit repressive with incense and smoke hanging in blue gray swirls. It was heady. Rather than announce myself, I decided to cop a squat on the couch. I sat there, eyes closed, breathing in the incense and the music, listening to the muffled voices of my father and his friends coming from the kitchen. I couldn’t distinguish anyone else’s voice; it was just nice, like the soft drone of a bee.

Slowly I opened my eyes to take in the rest of the room and reassure myself of my surroundings. After a slow scan of the room, I looked down on the coffee table, and amongst the collection of ashtrays, cigarette packs, carved Indian wooden boxes and the latest edition of Mother Earth’s News, there it sat, its shiny surface reflecting the flickering candle light. It sparkled at me, as if to say hi. The weapon.

I lost my breath for a second - what sort of infraction was this? Who was so careless as to leave the weapon in such a vulnerable location?! Someone certainly didn’t understand its value. I was sure when my dad found out he would be livid, out of his head with anger. I knew I should run into the kitchen and tell my dad the weapon was out of place, within reach… of anyone. Even me. I could pick it up… examine it, figure out its mysteries. I closely bent over it to get a better look. It certainly looked like a pipe -  I thought it was an elbow joint, but it was the piping apparatus found underneath a bathroom or kitchen sink. Later I learned that’s called a P-trap. Odd, it didn’t look like a “P.” It had smooth, heavy-looking, white tape around the long end and it was slightly discolored with a burnt copper-ish look around the short end. I slowly picked it up from the short end. Ouch, it was hot! I dropped it and it clattered on the glass topped coffee table for a second. I was sweating and panicked, waiting for the people in the other room to come in and catch me, literally red handed. I’d burned myself a little. I didn’t think it’d be hot.

I waited for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t know what I was waiting for, maybe waiting to get caught in the presence of the weapon, waiting to get my nerve to touch it again, waiting for the weapon to tell me what to do. I got tired of waiting so I gently touched the weapon, the long end this time. It was cool. Then the short end. It was cool too. I picked it up, felt its cool metal surface and turned it around in my hands. I lifted one end of the pipe to my eye and looked in, nothing but darkness. Turned it around, took the short end, lifted it to me eye, looked in and got an eyeball full of ashes. I stuck my finger in it; it was plugged up with ash, dust and residue. Strange, must be gun powder. It smelled pungent and grassy.

It would only be a matter of time before I’d be busted holding the weapon, so I decided to face the music on my own terms. I stood up, held the weapon in both hands, deliberately walked across the room to the kitchen door and stepped down. Standing in the shadows for a few minutes, I tried to discern how many people where actually in there to witness my possible embarrassment and humiliation at the hands of my father. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the light and down the step into the kitchen. I held the weapon out in front of me like a prize or trophy.

There were several people sitting around the kitchen table, long haired men and women, smoking butts and drinking canned beer. No one turned to look at me, they missed my entrance. Disappointed I coughed and held the weapon a little higher. Their conversation continued. I coughed a little louder, held the weapon a little higher and screamed, “Dad, one end of your weapon is stopped up!” Everyone turned and looked at me; again, I repeated myself and said in what I thought was a more grown up voice “Dad, your weapon, one end is stopped up.”

There were a couple of chuckles and everyone smiled. Someone said, “Cute kid. You need a minute to handle this Bob?” My dad said yes, took the weapon out of my hands, laid it on the table and told me to sit in the chair. He sat across from me, picked up the weapon and looked at it, set it back down and said, “Well, it seems to be okay.” Then he pointed to the pipe. “You know what this is?”

“It’s a weapon.” I replied.

“What sort of weapon?”

I shrugged and felt ignorant.

Very seriously, he said “I’m going to tell you something and you can’t tell a soul. Not your friends, not your brother or sister, no one. Can you handle that, can you handle this secret?”

I was sweating and nervous, my palms where itchy. I was finally going to find out the secret of the weapon. Finally included into the inner sanctum. Leaning close into my father, hanging on his every word I waited for its mystery.

“Have you ever heard of marijuana?”

I nodded, waiting for more of an explanation.

“This is a pipe I use to smoke marijuana.”

That’s it? A marijuana smoking pipe? Wow, the disappointment - it wasn’t a weapon, it was a pipe. I felt betrayed, crushed, relieved, but mostly I felt scared. Marijuana was bad. Really bad. It made people do bad, crazy things; it made you think hot dogs, talk and walk naked through parks at least that’s what we were told in health class. People who smoked marijuana got arrested and went to jail. I knew this because the nuns and priests had told me. I think I must have been more scared than I ever was in my life. I was afraid for my dad, for losing him to the marijuana. I sat there and cried a little bit and told my dad I didn’t want him to smoke it or go to jail. He held me, patted me and dried my tears. He guaranteed me it wasn’t so bad and that there was no way he was going to jail.

After a couple of minutes, I moved back over to my chair, picked up the weapon, smiled weakly, looked at my dad and said, “So, what’s it feel like?”