Hard Candy

September 26, 2011 at 4:20 am (Cosmic Encounters, On the road again...)

My work schedule has been a mish-mash of extra hours and hopping from store to store. It’s been fun, but I’ve had to turn off the auto-pilot. I can’t mindlessly float through the day. Add to that the fact that I am a night person, getting stuff done in the ‘real world’ provides challenges.

With Thursday being my one day off to daydream and get shit done, I decided to do both simultaneously.

I spent the week craving drunkenness. Not alcohol. (I’d have lost that battle.) I wanted numbness, brain erasure, to laugh stupidly for no reason.

But then I didn’t.

I wanted to feel good, to escape.

I’ve experimented with pain pills, but I am adverse to any activity that can be legally described as a ‘felony’. I would have either had to mooch off pill-head friends, or go black market. (I don’t do any drug-related stuff at work, and that’s where all the pill-heads I know pass through.) Besides, pills weren’t doing what I wanted. I don’t get a cerebral buzz, and can I get better pain control by eating a couple ibuprofen and smoking a bowl. Hmm.

I spoke with someone who knew someone, and they suggested edible weed. ??? Well, the news is all about using the em-jay for medicinal purposes, so why not? Can someone make me a brownie?

No.

But they have candy…

Through a series of cloak and dagger events, a margarine tub with a foreign label ended up in the crisper of my fridge, awaiting my day off. I’d quizzed lady-friends as to if they would like to join me? Meg would, but she was leaving town. (Pout.) Thursday would be stag day. I could get stuff done, and have a damn good time doing it.

I pried the lid off the margarine container. Under a wadded up paper towel were little chocolates, like something out of a Whitman Sampler. They looked like Ghirardelli Flicks on steroids, about the size of two nickels put together. The recommended dosage was two. I factored in body weight, and ate three.

My duties involved a trip to Providence hospital to pick up medical records. I knew I’d probably best get hurrying, as anything complicated gets ten times more so when stoned. I chatted with Meg along the way. Riding MAX was more fun than usual. I switched to the bus, and soon stood in front of the behemoth known as Providence.

The phone directions were easy. Enter at emergency, go down the long hallway. At the end of the hallway is a door marked medical records. Ta da!

I entered Emergency, and there was… Emergency. The only long hallway led to ‘triage’, which sounded nothing like a business office. To my right was a short hallway, leading to the elevator. Let us try the basement.

The elevator let me off next to a short hallway, which led to a long hallway. Okay! I wandered along, checking doors. Occasionally an orderly would walk by and give me the eye. I took a couple more corners, feeling like I was in a corn maze. Maybe I should have ate the candy halfway to the hospital?

At the end of that hallway, I saw a sign that said Food Court. WTF? Providence has a Food Court in their basement? I approached, then noticed the restroom sign. Might as well take advantage. Public restrooms are scarce on the eastside of town, too.

I pushed the door open, and as it closed BEEP BEEP BEEP “Attention! Emergency Sector G. Three nineteen!” The message repeated, and a strobe light was flashing above the mirror. Oh well, if I’m going to be thrown to the floor and cuffed, at least I won’t piss my pants. I took care of business.

I stepped out, and all the hallway doors had closed. Doctors and orderlies were moving single file toward the exit. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“Fire drill, probably. It’s in the other part of the building.” They were nice enough to point me to Medical Records. I was on the right path, and mere feet away.

After the fustercluck of paperwork was sorted out, it was time to find the exit. A perky nurse asked me what I was up to, then walked me to the back door, while teaching me a shortcut to the new ‘food court’. Ya never know when you might need a food court.

I caught the bus toward downtown, feeling fine at this point. I wasn’t dizzy or nauseous, one of the side effects of pain pills. I’d only eaten half the usual dose of ibuprofen, yet was walking like a champ. I can see how folks with chronic pain issues would prefer a brownie to a handful of compressed chalk.

I stopped by work long enough to reassure Dr T that my hospital visit was nothing more than paperwork. (“Don’t make me worry about you too, ya bastard ya!”) I confessed my amusements, since work was looking for a warm body. I wasn’t even fully high yet, and knew I had no business at work.

My phone went off, it was Meg. “Hi! Where are you? My ride isn’t here yet, wanna come over?”

Boy, did I. I bid adieu to Dr T and hit the pavement.

I walked along, grooving on the stuff I pass daily. I spotted a pickup truck dotted with window stickers: Flying Spaghetti Monster and More Hockey/Less War? Wish I had a rose to put under their windshield wiper, betting the person driving that truck is pretty cool. As I moseyed along, I heard a voice from behind. “Excuse me. Excuse me! Mister?”

She was a dirt urchin, about twenty years old. “Can I tell you a joke or sing you a song for some spare change?”

“No, sorry. I’m feeling pretty broke today.” Normally the phrase ‘Fuck off and die’ would get used here, but I was feeling extra-mellow. For some reason…

“Thank you anyway.”

As I walked ahead, her no-account boyfriend fell in with her. “I told ya you should have offered to show him your boobies. That works every time.”

He was right. I’d have given her $5 if I could have taken a picture. But I would have had to pull my wallet out, and that wasn’t happening. NEVER expose your wallet or cigarettes around the Garbage Pail Kids.

Meg was all questions regarding my medical condition. Despite my long history of smoking, psychedelics, etc… I have little experience with edible weed. I ate a brownie by accident back in the ’90s, and it was more intense. (I was drunk, and not expecting a spike with my sweets.) It wasn’t until I pulled a stem from my teeth: “Uh oh…”

“I’m sweating a lot. I don’t know if it’s me or the drugs.”

“It’s not the drugs. It’s 85 and humid as fuck,” she told me. I felt cooler just hearing that.

My trip ended at home, medical records secured. I filed them away, and curled up for a nap. Sleep of the gods.

I couldn’t wait until Saturday. There’s still one more serving of candy…

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