I don't consider myself a big drinker, and I'm certainly not a drugs person. But I have had my share of experiences, some of which put the wacky into wacky tabaccy.
I was introduced to pot smoking by my friend Bill when I was 14 and he was 16. A few years later, he joined the army where he switched to a legal drug and became an alcoholic.
Something I never liked about marijuana was that smoking it always had to be an outdoor activity. Unlike booze, pot smoke made your parents' living room stink. The incense never really worked, raising suspicions of its own instead, despite protestations and declarations of love for the exotic scents of sandalwood and essence of jasmine. We always had to hike it outside, risking discovery and in winter, frostbite. Before a camping trip with Bill's family, we'd managed to score two joints from another friend's older sister. At our remote campsite, the two of us crowded into an outhouse to smoke. His parents probably thought we were gay. It didn't help that we came back giggling like schoolgirls, and wouldn't stop for the next three hours.
On one occasion, I stayed with him when his parents were away, and we partied like it was 1999. My mom came by to check on us, and later told me she'd found funny cigarettes in the ashtray and wondered if I thought Bill was smoking dope. "No way," I told her. What I didn't say was that we were both smoking it.
The novelty wore off soon enough. For someone like me that hated cigarettes, even filtered ones, smoking the harsh weed that is cannabis was always unpleasant. Besides, I knew that this was "illegal," even for grownups.
One of the last straws was at the Prism concert at the Ontario Place Forum. It was the summer of 1979 and they were riding on the success of their hit song, "Armageddon." It was almost literally the end of the world for me.
Barely half an hour into the music, Bill nudged me and gestured with his chin over his shoulder, tapping the breast pocket of his jean jacket. We scurried off through the crowd. Surrounding the seating area at the Forum was a paved path, edged by a landscaped area that sloped down. There were several staircases that cut through the bushes, and we found one where we were secluded enough to light up. I had my back to the top of the stairs, and when I saw Bill's eyes bug out, I thought it must be very good stuff indeed. But suddenly, he was gone. He'd bolted down the stairs before I had time to ask for the joint back. And then it came. The clap on the shoulder. The HARD clap on the shoulder. I wish I could remember what was running through my head at that moment, but the truth is that there was no time. It didn't help that my synapses were now firing about as fast as the spark plugs in an old jalopy. I wheeled around as fast as I could, and there she was. Yes, she. A huge lady cop. "Where's the dope?" I was wondering where he'd buggered off to myself. "Who's got the weed?" It was a bit like your mom trying to act cool. I was waiting for her to use the words "doobie" and "reefer" but instead she just marched me down the stairs where her male partner was waiting. She sent him off to search for my accomplice but she still didn't have any proof that we were doing anything illegal, except for my incredibly bloodshot blue eyes. She didn't say much that I remember, and when her partner returned empty handed, she shrugged. "Get out of here," she said, and I did, mumbling the politest "thank you" that I could muster under the circumstances. I can't remember if I stayed for the rest of the concert or just went home. I only know that I didn't see Bill until the next day.
Bad as that was, I've had much worse experiences with alcohol. Some classics from those days include watching my favourite band perform at my high school after downing a mickey of rye, becoming separated from my friends, and peeing my pants. Or the time I drank myself into a stupor within half an hour of arriving at my friend's 16th birthday party, then puked on the girl of my dreams while she tried to tie my shoes so I could be sent home to bed at 8:30 pm.
I'm older now, more careful. My occasional drunks usually just end up with me loudly telling stories to strangers. Stories like this one.