Some shake
Sometimes the universe develops this nasty sense of humor and does everything possible to keep you from getting high.
The other night some friends and I were craving a little privacy so we decided to head out to the middle of nowhere for a smoke. After driving around for about 15 minutes, we finally settled into a secluded little spot in the corner of some almond fields.
It was dark and eerily quiet, and the whole situation reminded me of those immature high school days before any of us had our own place and had to wander around town to keep from getting caught.
We were parked in the dark and while one of my friends was rolling up a blunt, the rest of us continued an argument we’d been having all day about whether there was any major, noticeable difference between sativas and indicas. We were all surprisingly passionate and political about the subject, but in the end we reached a typical stoner compromise and decided that weed in general, regardless of the type, was delicious.
At that point, my friend finished rolling. He turned and asked us one of the most annoying questions possible, “Did anybody bring a lighter?”
The weather was perfect and there was a fat blunt in front of us, but we couldn’t do anything about it because we had all been too busy arguing about pointless shit to remember to pack the essentials.
We all just sat there for a while, feeling lost and heartbroken. We tried to make fire, but eventually quit after a couple failed experiments with the car’s broken cigarette lighter. Defeated, we decided we should drive back into town to buy a lighter from the closest gas station.
A couple of miles later, I got off and walked into a Shell station with a pocket full of coins that we had found scattered throughout the car. I picked the ugliest lighter in the rack, handed it to the cashier and dropped all my change on the countertop.
But right as he was about to scan it, some cops walked in and got in line behind me. I could tell the cashier immediately got a little nervous, and in an effort to seem professional and law-abiding he asked me another one of the most annoying questions possible, “Do you have your ID?”
I didn’t even know you have to be 18 to legally to buy a lighter, and it was silly because the cashier was obviously younger than me.
I had neither my ID nor the balls to start an argument in front of a bunch of cops, so I lied and told him I had left it in the car and that I would be right back.
I knew he knew I was lying, and I knew the cops had heard the whole thing. I could feel them all staring at me as I slowly picked up all my nickels and dimes. In my rush I dropped a bunch of noisy coins, and as suspicious as it probably made me look, I didn’t bother to pick them up. I pretty much ran out without looking back.
I was pissed off and tired and I was sure no one else would want to go back inside the store, which meant we would have to drive back home or to some other gas station. This whole thing was taking too damn long.
But as I was reflecting on everything that had gone wrong that night, I noticed a little book of matches hanging out on top of a rusty pay phone.
There were three matches left, and they were a little moist, but they were literally our only chance so I took them anyway.
Back inside the car everyone else was as frustrated as I was. We all agreed that enough had been enough, and that we should spark up and hotbox then and there.
I tore out a match and struck it against the matchbook, but nothing happened. It was too wet.
I tore out another match, but it was just as wet as the first and it ended up falling apart.
I tore out the last match, and unbelievably, this one actually turned on.
But no one had expected it to work so we weren’t prepared. While we were shuffling around trying to remember where we had stashed the blunt, the match burnt my thumb and the flame went out and we were all left in the dark.
Please teach LEO OCAMPO how to start a fire at gocampo@ucdavis.edu.
