Arabian Cookies

by Geoff Mahley

“Adam…Adam! Wake up! You’re gona be late for summer school.”

“Alfsydoifyokeoty” was all that I could reply.

“Get up.”

“Leave mama. I’ll get up,” I said before laying my head back on my pillow and closing my eyes. She began to make her way towards the exit, but something caught her eye.

“This cookie looks delicious. May I have a portion?”

“Yeah, sure.” What have I done???

“Thanks,” she said before stuffing the whole thing in her mouth. Dear lord. “This tastes a little strange, Adam.”

“Yeah…it’s one of those…weird Arabian cookies,” I made up on the spot.

“Oh well. I’ll make some breakfast.”

Shit. What am I going to do? This is completely absurd. How could I allow my mouth to tell her that it was fine? Well, it probably will not affect her at all. I mean, she has never before experienced marijuana. And nobody ever gets high their first time.

I threw on an ensemble of mixed clothes and headed into the kitchen. “Whatchu makin’?” I asked carefully.

“Just some pancakes.” Good. See? She’s not affected at all.

“I’m not that hungry.”

“Okay then, let’s go.”

We were off. Down MLK way. The trip was silent, apart from DLo blasting out of the speakers and the occasion gasp from my mother at the lyrical genius and fresh style. We arrived at Berkeley high and after a goodbye, I hopped out and made my way to class.

Now only god knows what happened to my mother when she arrived home, but my imagination tells me it went something along the lines of...

The drive home was alright. She started to feel a little odd, but nothing to severe. It was only until she reached to safety of home when it finally hit her. She would have begun her work around the house, vacuuming and such, until she stopped her duties and said aloud “Wow, I must be sick,” leaving all of her supplies strewn about the house. The couch would seem very inviting so she would plop down and turn on the television. Shows such as Flight of the Concords and Chapelle Show became alive and super hilarious. Not knowing why these shows were suddenly so funny, she turned off the T.V. and closed her eyes. The backs of her eyelids were painted with brilliant colors moving around and around. Frightened, she opened her eyes once again, only to see the room spinning.

Meanwhile, at school, my portion of the cookie had just started to kick in and I was chillin’. I had forgotten all about mother and if the cookie had worked on her. Everything was fine until I received a call from my brother. “Adam! Go outside to MLK and Allston now.”

“Why?” I answered.

“I am taking Mom to the hospital and I need your help.”

“Ok.” Oh shit. I just came back to me. What should I do? Should I tell my brother that I fed mother a weed cookie? He wouldn’t be that mad, would he?

I waited on the corner high as fuck. If I am this high, I wonder what mother is like. I was soon about to find out.

The car pulled up and I saw my bro driving and mother in the backseat sprawled about. “Shotgun,” I called as I stepped into the front passenger’s seat. It seemed mother was too caught up in the sights play a role in me and my bro’s conversation. “Dude, what happened to mother?” Samuel asked.

“Ummmm. Well…”

“Well what?”

“Well…I kind of…fed mother a weed cookie.”

“Dear lord.”

“I know, I thought it wouldn’t work because she has never experimented with the hanj.”

“How am I running so fast?” mother cut in from the backseat.

“Apparently not.”

“Ok. What do we do now?” I inquired.

“Let’s just take her to the hospital and pretend like we have no idea what is going on. Maybe they will just treat her like a patient.”

“Fasho, let’s do it.”

We escorted mother into the waiting room and up to the window where the nurse was. “Hello, what seems to be the problem?”

“Oh, our mother is really under the weather.”

“Ok, take a seat and the doctor will call you in shortly.”

“Thank you”

Three hours later…

“Is there a…mother here?” the doctor bellowed.

“Yeah, right here.” We hoisted mother up and walked her up to the room the doctor had set up.

“Alright, what seem to be your symptoms?”

“I…am a little paranoid. I kind of feel as though I am in a dream. I am having trouble remembering things that have just happened. I am a little bit hungry. And I have the giggles.” My brother and I looked at each other.

The doctor seemed puzzled at first but then quickly snapped out of it. “Hmmmmmmmm. I have seen this before.”

“Ummmm, what ever do you think it is…doctor?” I asked.

“I must consult with my acquaintances.”

“Is that really necessary doctor?” my brother questioned.

“Yes…yes. Of course!” he replied and then left, leaving us again with our high mother.

“This is boring!” Mother belted out. She had been counting tiles on the ceiling for almost thirty minutes. “Something good better be on” she declared as she snatched the T.V. remote. She turned it on and began laughing hysterically at a program called BONZAI! It consisted of many betting games on ridiculous situations. Tired of trying to snap mother out of it I told my brother that I was off to find the doctor.

I kept trying to tell myself I was not high anymore but each time I thought it, it hit me again…like a punch to the groin…the high that is. I lumbered on in search of the doctor opening random doors and such. I made some friends, and many enemies. Each room either an old person begging for a conversation or a woman in the process of giving birth. Not a very pretty sight. I met one old man who was quite intriguing. An old man by the name of Sanderson Billows. He began to tell me a story about how when he was about my age, so he says, his mother, who was a Dutch prostitute, introduced him to Mickey Mantle. He then proceeded to pull out a baseball bat out and showed me his signature. Sanderson, good luck in life!

At that point I decided I was way too high to proceed searching for the doctor by popping into every room so I played eeny Meany my née mo. As I opened the door that I had chosen an instant aroma of natty lite and brawn infested my nostrils. The doctor appeared to have only a lab coat and fuzzy pink slippers on and was participating in a game of beer pong against what appeared to be a Dutch prostitute (Sanderson’s mother?).

“DOCTOR! THIS IS HIGHLY UNPROFESSIONAL!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. The doctor then slowly buttoned up his lab coat and began escorting me back to the room with Mother.

“Don’t worry,” he told me.

“About what?”

“Your mother. She’s only high.”