Up in Smoke

The concept of wake n’ bake is so far gone to me that it defies consideration. I don’t like waking, much less baking immediately afterwards.

The gentleman driving in front of me last week, though. He DEFINED wake n’ bake. I was happily cruising into work one day last week, heading on some back roads to the rockin’ town of Peabody (and you pronounce that PEE-budee, for those of you outside the Massachusetts dialect. Don’t ask.) and I smelled it.

Weed. Pot. Grass. Marijuana. Like it was in my car. Could it be? SERIOUSLY? It was 8:15 in the morning.

Uh, judging from the sight in front of me, it most certainly could be. The dude in front of me was lit up like a candle, smoke pouring from his windows like it was on fire. Wifebeater. Caaaa-RANKING bass booming from the sunroof. Rasta hat. Fatty firmly in hand. If I breathed deeply enough, a contact high was headed my way.

I was tempted.

I loved it. I loved the balls this dude had to light up like that in the morning. I loved the smell (I’ve always loved the smell of weed) and most of all, I loved his happy-go-lucky demeanor and attitude. It was 8:15 a.m., and this dude was lighting it UP. Okay, I did not love that he was driving, but that DID NOT OCCUR TO ME, okay? I was daydreaming of carefree days gone by and mushroom trips. Leave me alone in my drug-addled fantasy.

I think I saw the cops first. At least, I’m pretty sure I did, for his behavior was no indication that he saw the throngs of them gathered around the construction equipment on the side of the road. Smoke continued to pour from the windows. They had to smell him coming.

They did. But not before he saw them. In a last-ditch effort to secure his innocence, our fine Rasta friend threw his fatty out of the sunroof.

Guess where it landed. Go on. Guess. You know you want to.

My windshield wipers. I had a freaking roach trapped in my windshield wipers. I hope they were enjoying it, for they were smoking one hell of a fat joint of what was probably high-quality weed.

I was able to break my gaze from the flaming wipers in time to see a pedestrian cop frantically waving my fine Rastafarian friend down.

And then me.

ME. ME WITH MY FLAMING WIPERS.

I can’t pretend I handled it well. When the cop came to the window, I blurted out,

“OhmygodthismanthrewhisroachoutthewindowandIAMNOTHIGHIPROMISEYOU
IUSEDTOSMOKEWEEDWHENIWASYOUNGERBUTTHATWASAVERYLONGTIMEAGO.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Er, I wasn’t smoking. He was. I mean, WHY DID YOU PULL ME OVER?” Tears were close. I had visions of jail time for possession with intent to distribute because THAT’S HOW BIG THIS JOINT WAS.

“Ma’am, I know. But you guys were close together and we weren’t immediately sure where it was coming from. And, um, your wipers are smoking.”

“I know.”

I had to admire them for not immediately profiling us. I mean, you see a dude with a smoking Lexus, crankin’ bass and a rasta hat juxtaposed with a chick in a sweater set and a french twist listening to Erasure.

I’m going to miss the Northeast.

10 comments May 19th, 2005