Goddamn Weed

            by Theo Wilson

 

            I woke up to the sound of Tupac blasting out of two humongous speakers wired to a portable generator.  I thought about jumping out of my tent, pulling the plug on the speakers, and delivering a long-winded tirade to our neighbors about how respectful people don’t play music in a crowded area at six thirty in the morning, and about how I need some goddamn sleep because I only got to bed an hour ago, and about how they should lay off the meth and get some sleep—but for the moment I decided to remain in bed.   Our neighbors were drug dealers- or gangsters- or fratboys- and did not strike me as the type who would take kindly to dissent.  Besides, I doubted that I had the energy to complete the effort.

            It was Sunday.  My second night at “Reggae on the River” left me half naked in a tent with ten other people.  Sandra was curled up in a sleeping bag with Matt.  Her pillow was sodden with congealed drool.  At some point after I had fallen asleep I had rolled off the mattress and spent the rest of the night wedged between the two beds.  My back ached and my head swam.  On the other side of the tent, two guys I didn’t recognize were curled up under another sleeping bag.  Crazy night…            

I was drifting off to sleep again when Tupac started to skip.  A few people close by tried to tell our neighbors to “Turn off the fucking music,” but every shout elicited a foghorn from the fratboys.  I should steal that thing, I thought. On the fourth foghorn, I forced myself to get up.  For the moment, I decided to forgo my pants.  I stood up in my boxers and tried to make my way to the front flap of the tent.  Despite the obnoxious hip-hop and foghorns, my friends in the tent appeared comatose.  I tried to tread steadily, but every step I took sent the air mattress in motion.  Matt rolled over and Sandra pulled the rest of the sleeping bag over her, but they stayed asleep.

I was the first person in our camp awake.  Our campsite was a collection of five tents and a cooking cabaña.  Aside from the one I had slept in, there was the slightly smaller girls tent, the two-person “love tent,” the Kee-Tov tent, and the’06 boys’ two-room tent.  Daniel had brought up another tent but had brought up the wrong set of poles, a complication that, if anything else, led to very cramped and unconventional sleeping conditions.  My throat was parched so I headed over to the cooking area.  It was a mess.  Fiona had taken the initiative the first day to keep a clean environment, but the movement had, for the most part, failed.  We had converted an inflatable beer cooler into a temporary trashcan, but no one wanted to walk to the dumpster to empty it. 

This trip had proved an excellent lesson in foresight.  For example, the guys in charge of shopping for the trip bought lots of top ramen, dry rice, and raw meat.  These are all great things to eat when you’ve got the munchies, but they’re also foods that require preparation and patience, neither of which a stoned adolescent is likely to have.  As a result, our eight packs of Oreos were consumed, and I was hungry.  I was also thirsty, but the case of Redbull we had bought for our trip was gone before the car ride ended.  However, we had not completely failed to plan ahead; the one thing we had brought in excess, and were unlikely to run out of, was beer—sixty cans.  We kept the beer in a separate cooler, constantly under ice.  I reached into the cooler and pulled out a cold one. 

I had spent the entire previous day in a haze.  Our campsite was a hard twenty minutes’ walk from the concert site, and the decision had ultimately come down to: walk a mile or smoke a bowl?  And so, we ended up smoking after breakfast, before, during, and after lunch, on the river and off the river; we didn’t leave the campsite for the concert until close to seven pm.  Frustrated by this lack of activity, I had made a pact with myself not to smoke on Sunday.  Confident that I had made the right, moral choice, I finished my beer, grabbed one for the road, and set off to the concert bowl to find some breakfast.

*          *          *

Four days earlier I was celebrating my last day of work at CAL Blue Camp.  Teaching lacrosse at the camp has been a traditional summer job since after freshman year.  Since then I had gradually worked my way up from Counselor-in-Training, to Junior Counselor, and finally to Lacrosse Instructor.  I had made this last promotion during the summer between my sophomore and junior years, a full two years before schedule.  Although this preferment was facilitated by an opening in the position, I felt that it was also largely due to my dedication to my job.  And indeed I was dedicated; I taught six classes of lacrosse a day, five days a week.  For eight weeks straight, I yelled, and screamed, and cheered, and laughed, and taught my campers the sport that I loved.  But it was still work.  Gradually it became tiresome, then loathsome.  I loved working with kids, but there were always one or two kids who were just torture. 

My main complaint was that I never had a chance to experience summer.  I got two and a half days of vacation before work started up in full gear. Reggae on the River was meant to make up for a whole year of hard work and self-discipline; it ended up being a defining experience that I would never forget.

*          *          *

When I returned to camp, our group was still in various states of semi-consciousness; some people were still sleeping in tents, some people were sitting the lawn chairs under the cabana, and some people were sleeping in the lawn chairs under the cabana.  The night before, a small group of people decided to sleep in the vans.  This group was somewhat less perturbed by the activity of the festival and was still asleep.  Among them was Daniel, the self-nominated chef of our camp.  No one else in our company seemed willing to take on his position at the moment and, as a consequence, our frozen breakfast meats remained frozen.

On my walk earlier, I had stopped by the information booth to look at the concert schedule—SOJA was playing at twelve.  It was now eleven forty.  After a fair amount of pleading and nagging, I found that no one had sufficient motivation to walk to the bowl and see SOJA.    Finally abandoning my efforts to coerce the mob, I decided to walk up by myself.  Although I would have preferred to be with friends, I had grown frustrated by the pervasive lethargy that seemed to have taken hold of the camp.  Strengthened by this resolve, I set off on my second solo walk of the day.

  I had just made it to the main path when a large Hispanic man in an apron shouted to me from his tent.

“Aye!  You hungry?” he asked.

It had been a few hours since breakfast.  I was starving.  “Always,” I said.

“Here, you want this?”  He held out a large paper plate covered with food.

Never take food from strangers. “What’s in it?”  The food looked a little questionable, but I was really hungry and it smelled delicious.

“Eggs, meat, spice, some peppers.”

I’ve always been a very trusting person, so know that when I accepted his offer it wasn’t because of any drug-induced inhibitions.  Besides, I reasoned, anything that smelled that good couldn’t be that bad. I thanked the man and walked back to camp. 

I realized immediately the hypocrisy of my actions; I had left the camp in order to make a defiant statement against the “stoner mentality” and to see some world-class reggae; now I was walking right back to camp.  Well, I thought, at least I got food.

I returned to, what I took to be, an empty camp, although upon further inspection I found that the group had simply moved, lawnchairs, coolers, and hookah, to the river, about twenty yards away.  That’s probably the most exercise they’ve had all day.  Sad. Several people glanced up when I arrived, a plate full of food in my hands, but they lost their interest when I told them where I had gotten it.

“Dude, that’s so sketch,” Ethan said.

“Yeah, it is,” I conceded, “but it’s good.  You sure you don’t want a bite?”

            Those who had slept in the vans had returned to join the larger group in the river.  The day before (Saturday), we had discovered the flotational properties of our air mattresses—a creative response, I suppose, to forgetting innertubes—and presently Wes, Sam, and James were laying out on it in the middle of the river.  It looked comfortable, but I had already decided that the river was far too disgusting to swim in.  I had come to this decision after my first night when I realized how much further away the porto-potties were compared to the river (to be sure, I never used the river for such an obscene purpose, but we were down river from almost every other campsite).  I unfolded my chair ankle-deep in the water and settled down to eat.

            I found my brunch to be surprisingly better than its appearance would have suggested.  Sitting in my comfortable chair, eating my delicious breakfast, surrounded by friends whom I love was… perfect.  My brief moment of euphoria was interrupted by shouts from downstream.  A man was in the process of scaling the side of a cliff, adjacent to the river.  Some people were yelling for him to climb down; others wanted him to jump.  He climbed higher.  I hadn’t tested the depth of the water thoroughly, but I was sure that it couldn’t have been more than eight feet deep; when the man stopped climbing and turned around, he was more than forty feet above the water. 

            I alerted my friends to the jumper and they turned around.  A crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle and cheer him on.  “You’re gunna kill yourself!”  I yelled, but the man didn’t hear me because, at that precise moment, our asshole neighbors drowned out my voice with their foghorn and started yelling for the guy to jump.  He jumped and the whole camp held its breath.  A moment later I was relieved when he came back to the surface of the water, apparently unharmed.  When he started to climb back up the cliff, I decided it was time to walk back to the tents.  He had gotten lucky that time, but I wasn’t about to stick around and watch him test his fortune a second time. 

            Several people had the same idea as I did and walked back with me.  The inflatable trashcan was overflowing, but I balanced my plate on top of the precarious heap nonetheless.  I sat down on a cooler and watched Brandon try to work the camper stove. 

            “I think the tank’s empty…  Hold this will you?” he said as he passed me his lit cigarette. 

            As soon as he started to unscrew the butanol canister, there was a loud hiss as the gas started rushing out of the tank. 

            “Screw it back in!”  Wes shouted.

            “I can’t!  It’s stuck!” 

            “Well then unscrew it!  It might stop on its own.” 

Wrong.  As soon as Brandon unscrewed the tank from the burner, the gas shot out and the tank rocketed out of Brandon’s hands.  He fumbled for it and picked it up.

“Take it Theo!”  Brandon said, thrusting it in my direction.

“I don’t want it!”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?!” he asked frantically.

“Just get it the hell out of here!”  Ethan suggested.

Brandon, holding the tank in front of him like a live grenade, took off running away from the tents.  He returned five minutes later looking disturbed and sweaty, but considerably less frightened than when I had last seen him. 

“What’d you do with it?”

“Oh I just tossed it in someone’s trashcan.”

“What if someone throw’s a blunt in there?  The trashcan’ll blow up!  Dude you gotta go get that shit!” 

“Wait a minute…” I said seriously, “you tried to give that thing to me!”

“Yeah… So?”  Brandon asked.

I held up the lit cigarette.  “I was holding your fucking cigarette!” 

As the realization dawned, Brandon started cracking up.

“What the hell are you laughing at you insensitive asshole!  I almost fucking died!”  Despite my harsh words, I couldn’t contain my laughter. Pretty soon everyone was shaking uncontrollably.

*          *          *

“Anybody want to go to the bowl?” Jason offered.

Nobody spoke.

“I’ll go,” I said.  Finally.

“I’m glad somebody finally wants to get off their ass and go listen to some music,” I said as we started to walk away from the campsite.

“Huh?  Oh, yeah.  I guess.  I’m just trying to get some food.”

“Serious?  David’s making stir fry right now?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know about that meat.  I mean, its been a while since anyone’s gotten ice for that cooler.  I’d rather not mess with it.”

“Goddamn. I can’t believe no one wants to listen to the music.  I mean, what the fuck?”

“Nah, man.  I want to listen to music.  I’m just reeeally hungry too.”

“Really?  I wonder why?”

“Ha!” Jason laughed.  “Dude, you need to chill out.  When was the last time you got high?”

“I’m trying not to mess with that stuff anymore.  Don’t you realize that we haven’t done shit since we got here?  No.  I’m sticking with my beer, thank you very much.”

“Well that’s your problem bro!  Everyone else is having a chill ass time.  You’ve been running around since six in the morning, stressing about everything!  Just chill out.”

“Whatever.”  Was he right?

*          *          *

The best analogy for Reggae on the River that I have been able to come up with is “two square miles of Telegraph.”  Unfortunately, it hardly does the scene justice.  We passed a booth, advertising “Boob Painting” (women only, please).  We passed a colorful sign, proclaiming a particular tent as “The FUN ZONE”; the man sitting outside of the tent looked like a particularly mean gremlin (an image we found hilariously ironic).  We passed two men selling yellow watermelons out of the back of a truck.  We passed colorful Rastafarians walking around with trays of mushrooms—“Shrooms, got your shrooms!”—and others with pills and powders—“Got your X, got your M, got your Coke!”  There was even one man with a pound of marijuana in a plastic bag—“Come see my big ass bag of weed!”  I feel like I’m at a ball game, I thought— Or a cokehead’s candy shop.

Jason finally stopped at a stand selling colorful pipes of assorted sizes out of a steel briefcase.

“How much for this one?”  Jason asked, pointing to a red and white pipe.  Looks like a candy cane, I thought.

“Thirty,” the man replied.

I started to wander off.  Right next to the man with the pipes was a young couple with a basket of baked goods. Hansel and Gretel with a basket of treats, I quipped to myself.  The man seemed unnaturally alert.  The woman, whose figure and dress hinted at beauty and desire, wore a cracked face that was far older than she was.

Dude, you need to chill out…

“How much for this one?” I asked, pointing to a rice crispy the size of my fist.

“Five for that one,” Hansel said.  “But I’ll give you this one for seven!” 

I looked at the brick-sized rice crispy treat.  I’m sure Jason will want some.  Besides, I can bring home the extra as a memento.  I handed the man a crumpled ten dollar bill.  “Keep the change.”

I looked for Jason.  He was still bargaining with the pipe man. 

“But fifty is still too much!”

“No!  These are very special pipes!  Look here!”  The man began to slam one of the pipes repeatedly on the top of his briefcase.  “See?”  He showed Jason the pipe, unscratched and unbroken.

“Damn.  Tell you what.  I’ll give you forty five for both.”

“Deal,” the pipe man said with a smile.  What a salesman.

“You bought two pipes?” I asked him.

“Yeah.  Only one’s for me though.  I promised my dad I’d pick him up one if I saw something nice.  What do you think of this one?” he asked me, holding up a pipe shaped like a dragon.

“I think he’ll be very proud of you.”

“Yeah…  I was going to get him that one shaped like a penis, but I don’t know if he’d appreciate it. 

“Like anyone would want to be seen with that in their mouth.”

*          *          *

I opened my rice crispy treat (which was, in fact, a fruity pebbles treat) and took a bite.  Not bad, I thought.  At least I’m not going wreck my lungs with this one.  Throughout the walk to the bowl, I would take one bite, and then Jason would take one bite. I would take two bites, then Jason would take a bite.  I would take three bites, and then Jason would take one bite.  When we finally got to the bowl, my rice crispy treat had diminished considerably in size.  Jason wandered off to find food, and I wandered off to find music.

Dezarie was on stage, and a number of dedicated fans had gathered to listen.  I selected a spot of grass and sat down.  The sun was still high in the sky.  The sun feels so good.   I lay down on the grass.  I could just melt into the grass and sleep.  This is what my friends are missing out on!  The music began to pick up tone and beat.  The music sounds amazing!  How come I never realized how good Dezarie was?  I closed my eyes.  I would’ve gone to sleep, but my stomach hurt.  Am I hungry?  I unwrapped the rest of the rice crispy treat and began to eat it. I’m eliminating the middle-man!  HA!  Bite by bite, I single-handedly consumed the rest of the rice crispy treat.  Fruity pebble treat, I corrected myself.

“Theo!  Is that you?” 

Who are you?  I should get up.  I got up and looked at Lisa.

“Holy shit!  Ha!  I can’t believe it’s you!”  Lisa embraced me in a hug and planted a wet kiss on my cheek.  THAT was a good hug.

“Lisa!  I didn’t know you were here!”

“Oh my god,” Lisa laughed, “you’re high out of your mind!” 

Oh my god you’re coked out of your skull!

“You look great!” I said.

 “So do you cutie!”

I smiled.

“Where are you staying?”  I asked.

My eyes feel heavy.  I think I’ll close them.  Lisa’s talking, but she’s speaking too fast.  Slow down!  My eyes open.  I blink.  I wonder if she’s trying to say something important?

“So I’ll see you there tonight then?”

What?  “Okay,” I nodded, “Yeah, sounds great.” 

“Alright.  I’m excited.  Tonight’s going to be fun!  Don’t worry about bringing anything, I’ve got it all.  Don’t forget.” Another hug.  Another kiss.  Then she was off.

I wonder where Jason went?  My hands were sticky from the treat’s empty wrapper.  I threw it on the ground.  Don’t litter!  I picked the wrapper off the ground and stuffed it into my pocket.  Sticky pocket!  I took the wrapper out of my pocket, and started walking toward garbage can.  The trip took far more effort than I had anticipated.  The people laying on the ground whom I had so easily navigated around earlier now appeared as landmines.  I hope I don’t step on anybody!  Boy would I be mad If some one stepped on my—I looked down at my foot.  I was standing on a man’s bare foot.  He regarded me with a blank stare, and then looked away.  Sorry! 

I need to concentrate on where I step!  Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot… left foot, right foot.  Now where’s that damn garbage can? 

I stepped on two more people and nearly fell a dozen times before I made it to the garbage can.  I looked down at my empty hands.  Shit!  I lost the wrapper!  I should go look for it!  Luckily, I spied an empty beer bottle a couple feet away on the ground.  This is close enough.  I picked it up and threw it in the trash.   

            I stood and watched the concert go by me.   I am an observer.  Notice the Rastafarians and the Hippies.  Then notice the Fratboys and the Party Girls.  Two different worlds at reggae.  And then there is me.  Who am I?  Surely I’m not a hippie.  And nor am I a fratboy.  I am… myself.  Who is this man?  The fat bald one with the fishnet shirt?  He doesn’t look like a fratboy.  He’s by himself listening to the music.  Listening isn’t the proper word.  He is observing the music.  He is just standing, LOOKing at the music.  What a weird person.  Perhaps there are not simply two distinct groups of people here.  Everyone is themselves.  Does that make sense?  I think so.  To my right is an old woman dancing intimately with a young man.  Who is more drugged out, I wonder?  In front of me is a father playing with his kids.  Kinda cute.  Kinda troubling.  To my left is a pregnant woman.  Not cute.  Very troubling.

            I’m done observing for now.  I need to get back home.  Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot…  My feet feel really heavy.  I wonder why?  I hope I don’t step on someone.  Boy would I be mad if someone stepped on me!  Did that happen?  I’m confused.  Did I step on someone?  Did someone step on me?  Am I stepping on someone right now?!  No?  Good. 

            Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.  The sun is still shining.  The music is still playing, but its softer.  Am I loosing my hearing?  Oh, I’ve just left the concert bowl.  Ha! 

Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.  I wonder where Jason is? 

             Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot.  These rocks hurt my feet.  My legs are starting to feel numb. 

            Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot.  Is this the way to Lisa’s tent?  Damn, I don’t know!  I should’ve paid better attention. 

            Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. I am no longer in charge of my walking.  I pick the direction, and my feet follow.  I am delegating all the walking to them, letting my thoughts wander… 

            Where am I?  I’m not at the bowl.  I’m not at my campsite.  Therefore, I must be somewhere in between.  But how am I to know where!?  I’m not even on the road!  I am…  I am…  I am in the river.  What an unexpected turn of events!  I should head back to the tents. 

            Right foot, left foot, right foot.  No more delegation.  Last time I gave my feet free rein, they tried to drown me.  Back to the road.  But how?  I am trapped by tents at every turn.  Turn right, there’s a tent.  Turn left, there’s a tent. Turn around, there’s a river!  I had better go straight.  Left.  Straight. Straight.  Right.  Left.  Straight.  Ah!  Another tent blocking the way!  What asshole put their tent in the middle of my path!  Oh.  It’s my tent!  Pat yourself on the back, Theo.  You made it all on your own.

            I should reward myself.  With what?  A nap of course.  Step into the tent. 

            Left foot, right foot, left foot—  “Ugh”

            Something under my foot just groaned.  It’s Jason.  Glad you made it back alright buddy.

            Sleep.  Sleep. Sleep.  I wish I could go to sleep.  Taylor’s coming.  I wonder what she wants? 

            “Theo?  What the hell happened to you?  You just disappeared for like three hours.  It’s good to see you back!”  She laughed.  “Something smells kinda groady-- is that Jason?”

“Hehhe,” Jason started to giggle.  “HAhaha!  GROADY!  HahahHA” Jason started to laugh hysterically. 

Man is HE out of it.  Damn.  Groady… hehe, that is kinda funny…

When I opened my eyes again, a small crowd had gathered around the tent.  James jumped into the air, and landed on the air mattress, right next to Jason.  Jason flew up and bounced back down, still asleep.  James did it again.  And again, and again.  Jason was still asleep.  I smiled.  Back to sleep…

*          *          *

“Hey Theo”…sleep.  “Theo, bro, wake up.” I want to go back to sleep.  I want to go back to sleep.  I…  I opened my eyes.  Tyko was staring down at me.  Outside of the tent it was night. 

“Oh shit.  How long was I asleep for?”

“A while bro.  That guy’s still out cold,” Tyko said, pointing to Jason. 

I sat up.  “Where’s everyone else?”

“They left to go listen to the music.” 

Goddamn weed.