It is only fitting that a column devoted to the sophisticated Canna-phile have a beginning of sorts, and the tale of the author’s transformation into a Hemp-Cat is a good a place to start. This was not a slam-bam event such as losing one’s virginity; for the author, getting stoned was a series of long, drawn out tedious events. (Actually, so was losing his virginity) As a result, that experience – his getting buzzed, not losing his virginity – will be offered up in melodic sections, like the movements of a symphony.
First Movement:
It was Friday night and the Shore Club parking lot was jammed. Esposito’s candy apple, red chevy was parked diagonally at the far side of the lot. Groups of twos, threes and fours ambled toward the entrance where two men with hairy forearms checked ID’s. Girl’s pawed through their handbags while guys pulled out their nearly barren wallets for proof of age. The legal drinking age was eighteen, but that didn’t seem to matter as long as one could produce some form of ID; it helped if one were sexy or friends with one of the bouncers.
Vince kept track of the ladies as they entered. “How about that one in blue? Or the one with the orange halter top?” He said in one breath.
“They are all with guys,” I said in a bit of a monotone, “They are always with guys on Fridays; it’s date night.”
“You never know,” he persisted, still staring at crowd forming at the entrance. “They might be with a brother, or a friend from high school or . . . “
“Well you go find a brother and sister team; I’m going out on the deck.”
The bar was getting crowded and, without air conditioning, the room would soon be sweltering. Vince hesitated a moment, but deciding any kind of hook up was unlikely, grabbed his drink and followed me outside.
The deck was a recent add-on that faced a medium sized marina and a small beach that was usually frequented by mothers with young children. A cluster of round tables, each with beach ball colored umbrellas, were situated at the marina side of the deck. A soft breeze blew from the Great South Bay carrying with it the fragrance of salt and seaweed.
“Yo “ followed by a harsh whistle came from one of the tables. There, waving their hands, were Dominick and Gamboni. We had a table.
I drank vodka sours because I didn’t particularly care for the taste of alcohol. Vince and Dominick were having Heinekens, and Gamboni was drinking a Presbyterian, probably because no one knew what it was.
Dom picked his teeth with a matchbook cover as Gamboni continued his animated narrative of his time in New York City. Gamboni was admitted to NYU and had just returned from a two-week orientation.
We listened while he went on about the lurid times he had in Manhattan. He rhapsodized about the endless nightlife in Greenwich Village and the cool hangouts with names like Chumley’s, Café Wha and the Electric Circus. We were all mesmerized by his descriptions but pretended not to care.
In one tale, Gamboni and some other freshman chums of his were at a party on Carmine Street in the West Village. According to his detailed description, the apartment was packed shoulder to shoulder; the ceiling fan caused the rising cigarette smoke to morph into galaxy-like swirls. I need somebody, by ? and the Mysterians, served as a backdrop.
He recounted how a young woman he befriended at orientation walked up to him, gently pulled his head towards hers and planted her lips firmly on his. And then, with a dramatic pause, Gamboni leaned forward for emphasis, “and then,” he almost whispered, “she parted her lips and filled my lungs with smoke.”
I was slightly aroused by the thought of a young woman randomly greeting me with a moistened kiss, but what was with the smoke. Gamboni didn’t smoke. Maybe it was just a new hip take on intimacy.
“You don’t even like cigarettes,” I replied, “They make you gag.”
He gazed back at me. “It was pot, dickhead, not cigs.”
I was stunned; in the course of two weeks, my friend had become a drug addict. As I sucked down my vodka sour, I reamed him out like I was his dad. No matter how strongly I implored him, Gamboni just laughed and repeated the phrase “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” To which I was just as emphatic with “No way Jose; not me brother, not me.”
Second Movement:
It was a crowded Saturday night at Sebastian’s, a trendy club located in Forest Hills, N.Y. I was huddled with a group of brothers from the Pi Alpha Sigma (PAS) fraternity. They had asked me to pledge, and I accepted. This particular evening was to celebrate the occasion. It was also the prelude to a week of Hell that was to follow. PAS had a good reputation scholastically—second among all fraternities, a few talented jocks, the editor of the college paper and a few misfits: true diversity.
The sixties jean thing hadn’t hit my campus yet. One wasn’t allowed into class without a tie and jacket. We mostly wore corduroy blazers and tweed sport coats. I wore a new gray herringbone jacket with leather buttons; my aftershave for the evening was Pub. We all self consciously inhaled the intoxicating ether of being an adult: sophisticated, educated and full of ourselves.
Sebastian’s was slammed with college undergrads and a few locals. The room hummed like a beehive on Meth; infinite conversations shouted from one person to another competed with music pumped out of speakers the size of porta-potties. Can’t Explain, by the Who, was playing.
I was still nursing my second drink when I felt a nudge on my left shoulder; it was Desi, president of PAS. In his hand was a beautifully aged meerschaum pipe that was dark cream in color like caramel. The head of a medieval monk was intricately carved into the bowl, and the shank, through to the stem, had a severe curve that gave it an Holmesian air. The pipe was making it’s way around a small ring of brothers: another tradition I thought: low on hygiene, high on bonding.
“Take it, ”said Desi in a suppressed, husky voice; “Take it pledge!”
I took the pipe from Desi; the bowl was hot, the smoke pungent. As I didn’t smoke, I inhaled gently to avoid coughing.
“You call that a hit pledge,” Desi shouted. “It isn’t a cup of tea!”
Embarrassed, I took a long exhale and sucked in with a vengeance. My lungs started to scream, and I would have coughed it all out If Silky hadn’t come up from behind me and covered my mouth with his right hand. The other brothers chanted, “Hold it! Hold it!” Smoke began to shoot from my nostrils when I experienced a shocking epiphany. This wasn’t pipe tobacco; this was marijuana. Forgive me, Gamboni, for I have sinned.
