The High Road

October 2, 2011 at 5:49 am (Cosmic Encounters, On the road again...)

After Thursday’s adventure in cerebral amusement, I couldn’t wait to try it again. Actually, I could. I had to work Friday, and wanted to see if there were any after-effects. Other than getting a really good night’s sleep? I couldn’t find any.

I was amazed at how well the edibles dulled the pain, without nausea or discomfort. Prescription pain pills have always messed with my stomach. I’d eat a couple before a concert, looking for a buzz as well as relief from leg pain caused by standing still for long periods. After an experiment or two, I’d figured out the approximate opiate pill vs pot-candy ratio: One piece of candy equals one hydrocodone 7.5. (You hop-heads know what I’m talkin’ about.) Eating three 7.5s would leave me with heartburn and indigestion. Eating three pieces of Hard Candy left me with a severe craving for bento.

Saturday rolled around, my last day off for a week. I had four pieces of candy left. Two small doses or one big dose. It was the first full day of autumn. I ate them all. Let’s look at some trees…

I approached things sensibly. Got my grocery shopping out of the way. Started laundry. Knowing what to expect from the high made me a bit more adventurous. I had fruit and newspapers to drop off at work, which gave me an excuse to go downtown. As I approached the MAX platform, my phone rang.

It was Rain. “Hey baby, what you doing?”

“Heading into work for a couple minutes, then nothing. What are you doing??”

“Nothing…” she said in a provocative way. “I was wondering if you were coming over today? I’ve got stuff to do tonight, but I’m bored now. Wanna come over?”

What the hell. “I’d love to.”

I dropped off my work-junk, and caught the train to northwest. Rain met me at the building door, wearing a puffy jacket and house-slippers. We went upstairs and into her apartment. I was just about to tease her for wearing a puffy coat when it’s humid and 85 when she dropped it to the floor. She was wearing a teddy and boxers underneath. I zipped my mouth. Other things? Not so much.

We laid in front of the fan, watching Dreamgirls on big-screen TV. After a couple of hours, she had to meet her auntie, so I got dressed and bid adieu. The candy was kicking in, and I was feeling relaxed all over. What to do?

The Belmont bus was due in two minutes, so I caught it toward downtown. The #15 is always busy, and invariably when I leave Rain’s I end up sitting next to a woman who can smell the sex on me. Sometimes I get a wink, other times it’s slack-jawed horror at the fact that someone in her presence has SIN-ned! I enjoy both reactions, and I love the way Rain’s chemistry mixes with mine. Eau de Naughte’

The bus was so comfortable I rode to 39th and Belmont. I needed things at Walgreen’s, so I debarked. I took a Mercury from the box to check for movie times. I was on an adventure, and had no interest in going home.

The eastbound bus stop had a homeless person sorting his laundry, so I went to the northbound stop on 39th Cesar Chavez Blvd. Nothing was playing nearby that I wanted to see, and I was getting hungry. I had a plan. I’d walk over to Hawthorne and cruise the strip.

While walking, my phone rang. It was Rain. “Where you at? I got my stuff done, want to come back over?”

“I’m already on the eastside, about to go into Freddy’s.”

“Gonna go wash your winkie?”


“You are a crazy motherfucker. I wish I could bottle that scent for you.”

“I like to get it the old-fashioned way. I earrrrrn it…” I can still do a mean John Houseman impersonation.

I visited Fred Meyer to use the baffroom, then wandered the store to pre-shop. (Should I decide to pick up last-minute foodstuff, I plan an attack to save time.) I meandered, saw the ice cream, and had to check. I’ve been on a quest for Ben & Jerry’s Key Lime Pie ice cream, and this was one of the few stores that carried it.

No Key Lime Pie. I was tempted to ask the nice young man stocking the ice cream if he had Schweddy Balls, but that’d be like telling an elevator joke to a guy named Otis. I saw neither Key Lime Pie or Schweddy Balls, but it gave me a brainstorm.

I would go out for a drink! At the Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream Shoppe a few blocks down.

I was listening to Slayer’s Mandatory Suicide on the MP3 player. The Hawthorne Hillbilly Dirtbag Band were playing on the sidewalk in front of the Shoppe, and were unknowingly keeping perfect time. I had to enter the shop to keep from LOLing. Sorry guys, gotta go with Slayer.

I turned off the music and bellied up to the bar. “I’ll have a large Chocolate Therapy Milkshake.” I resisted the urge to tell her to ‘put it in a dirty glass’. I tipped her a buck-fifty and went back outside. The Hillbillies were taking a break, and the shoppe’s PA played the last notes of Love Me Do. Hawthorne was quiet for about two minutes, then the toothless wonders began plucking again. Out came my portable jukebox…

I moseyed to the bus stop, where two young girls sat chatting. One of the girls was oblivious to the fact that one of her nipples had sneaked out of its tiny containment vessel. I about got eye-strain peeking sideways. (Thank you, Blu-Blockers!) She eventually noticed. Fortunately I was looking the other way…

I rode back downtown, got off the bus and walked some more. It hadn’t changed since the last visit, so I got on another bus. I stopped back at Freddy’s, did my stealth-shopping, and headed for the bus stop home. I had a fourteen-minute wait, so I walked to the stop which had the most likely odds of me getting a seat with groceries. I was there for about two minutes when an inebriated fellow stumbled unto my spot.

“Goddam motherfuckin’… sonofabitch.” He resembled the perfect butt-baby of David Crosby and Willie Nelson, raised by biker-mamas. He plunked his backpack into the corner of the bus shelter. “I need a beer.”


“You look like you run with a rough crowd,” he slurred at me.

I checked Transit Tracker. STILL fourteen minutes? That can be a long fucking time when stuck with a drunk at the bus stop. All I wanted was quiet reflection at this point.

“Ya wanna drink?” He was digging around in his duffel bag.

“Nah, I quit.”

“Good for you! I quit too, then I got pissed off, and well, now…” He pulled out a brown bag with a pint of rum, half gone. It was three-quarters gone when it leveled back out. “I won’t offer ya any then, bro.” He stuck his hand out. I shook with him, which led to him wanting to punctuate every sentence with a handshake or a fist-bump. Am I going to have to walk to another bus stop?

“Well, this ain’t getting me a beer…” he said, and he gathered his stuff. “Good talking to ya, man.” He made it as far as Fred’s Sound of Music, (or whatever replaced it) and crumpled in the doorway. He wasn’t suffering from anything a nap and a liter of water wouldn’t cure. Rest easy, bro.

It was well past dark by the time I got home. I stashed groceries and spent a few minutes with the dog. The brother-in-law had set up a lawn chair in the front yard. A gap in the branches gave a view of the night sky. I sat in the quiet corner and listened to the night, kept company by Django, the only one of our cats with a taste for outdoor life.

“I smell sex and…candy.”

In all, a four-star Saturday…

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