Back at my apartment, I railed about the patient who'd been ahead of me in line at Purlife. I yanked at my tie and cussed God—cussed everybody. He'd been a little too jovial. My chakras were thoroughly irritated. “They're humming,” I told my wife, “buzzing like saws.” I don't really know what a chakra is and she damn well knows it.
“So I'd just finished paying for my order when this guy yells from across the room: 'You like chocolate?' It was like the start of a bad joke.”
“Yeah man, of course I like chocolate,” I'd answered and walked over. They had a bowl filled with Halloween candy, as people will. He was waving toward it and reached in with two hands I cupped mine and he dumped more than a dozen little candy bars into my paws. “Dude. What? No,” I said. “Just one. Just one.” I dropped all but a Milky Way back in.
He laughed and the room rattled. “I heard smart people always grab a handful.” He stomped to the cash register still laughing and asked the budtender about some strain or the other. I meandered to a corner out of his line of vision and stared raptly at the color-changing light display on the wall. I was applying what he'd said to a number of inappropriate situations in my head. More bad jokes were tuning up.
“He sounds funny,” my wife said. “I'd have taken all that candy.” My jacket was on a doorknob. The dog sniffed at my discarded shirt as it slouched in a corner of the living room floor, trying not to look rejected. I said something unprintable and fumbled into the bathroom.
I was sitting on the toilet when I realized I was still clutching the paper bag from Purlife. I'd driven for ages down Montgomery, which had been Montaño, which was going to be something else, probably. I specifically picked it out because I wanted some Clementine. Not only is it one of those strains that knows how to weasel into the folds of my brain and make me smile, it was also coming from a dispensary famous—in my mind—for its mesmerizing colored LED display behind the counter. I'm basically about two IQ points shy of a bonobo, and cheap attempt to grab my attention with loud rainbows is bound to work.
Get this: In my immortal wisdom, I decided to drive down one of the stupidest roads in Albuquerque at 4pm because I was feeling like a raw wire—misanthropic and in the need of a pick-me-up. Yes.
Somewhere around Montgomery and San Mateo, I realized my error. A person looked right at me and stepped out in front of the car. I stomped the brake pedal, thought about honking the horn. We made eye contact. He pinched his face and mouthed “Sorry.”
I told my wife about it as I dumped two plump and glittering buds of the aforementioned Clementine #8 (THC: 23%, CBD: 0.08%—$12/gram) onto my tray. “So you were in a bad mood already,” she said. I felt like she was missing the point. It had been an angry shit.
“Whatever. He was a beautiful person. I should've grabbed his number.” I took a big whiff of broken up flower. It was sticky, covered in trichomes and smelled like fresh citrus. I thanked Xenu and stuffed it into the pipe. “I should've grabbed a handful of his number.” I hit it and blew out immediately like a cigarette, not thinking to taste anything. She watched me over an open newspaper.
I stabbed the remote and turned on a cartoon (cheap eye candy again) and took a bigger hit. “I don't know. Maybe he was just high, or something. This tastes alright,” I said. I settled into the couch and she kept watching from a chair. I could already feel the smoke working its magic. My heart slowed and my chakras spun like plates. Two more quick hits and I was glad I hadn't said anything rude back at the dispensary. My wife had gone back to the paper and the first act of a garish cartoon was well on its way. I paid more attention to what I was smoking. It was smooth but peppery. Each hit made me feel a little sillier about myself. The cartoon made a Brando reference to an audience of clueless children (and me, I suppose). I let my tongue slide to the back of my throat. “I could have been a contender,” I said. Even the dog ignored me.
I broke up some Girl Scout Yeti (THC: 30%, CBD: <1%—$14/gram). It stuck to my fingers and the powerful fragrance reminded me of the forest, and chocolate. “I could have had class,” I said a little louder. I took a deep drag. It tasted of lawn clippings and summertime. As I held the smoke in I realized I was yelling louder than the guy at the store.