“That’s not the issue.”
“I’m just asking.”
“Yes. I know some people who don’t drink.”
“But not many,” I said.
“We also know some alcoholics,” my mother said, “for that matter we know several people—”
“Peter,” my father said, interrupting firmly, “there’s a difference. Alcohol is legal. Marijuana is not. You can go to jail, Peter. Now, you’ve lived a sheltered life, all your life. We’ve tried to see that you were protected against such things. But let me tell you now, Peter. Jail is not pleasant. You wouldn’t like it one bit, not one bit.”
I sighed. What could I say?
“Now look, Peter. There’s nothing we can do about you. There’s no way we can stop you or alter your course of action. Looking back, I don’t think that there’s ever been anything that we could do, as parents. You were always different from the others in the family, always… different. But as your parents, we have to tell you when we think you’re making a mistake. Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“We only want what’s best for you,” my mother said. When she dies, I’m going to have that one engraved on her headstone. The Final Solution to the upper-middle-class children problem.
“Your mother is exactly right,” my father said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to say.”
I looked down at the coffee table. There was an old issue of Life, about the Grandeur That Was Egypt. There was an issue of the Ladies’ Home Terror on top of it, about Drugs in Our High Schools: A Growing Menace.
“Let’s be practical,” my father said, shifting around in his chair. “Now I know a little something about marijuana, and I’ve heard enough to convince me that it isn’t the dangerous and addicting drug that everybody says it is. So let’s accept that, and go on from there. The fact is, it’s still illegal. And it’s not a little illegal, it’s very illegal. Anyone who sells it runs a grave risk—a risk more serious than any potential benefits that might be gained from the drug itself. Do you follow me?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes, what?”
That really ripped me. If I hadn’t been stoned, I probably would have slugged him in the mouth.
“Yes, sir.”
Up until then, up until that fucking sir, I had been planning to have a talk with him. I had planned to try, at least to try, to reason with them.
But that sir was the end, because it just made me remember what I had known all along in the back of my mind, that all this bullshit about parents and kids reasoning together and overcoming the generation gap is just that—bullshit. My parents wanted to make sure that I understood that their trip was the one that mattered. And at that point I just quit.
All I said was “Yeah, well, look, I don’t know who told you all that, but I quit dealing six months ago. I haven’t had anything to do with it for six months.” This was true.
“Is that true?” my father said. He seemed newly worried about something.
“Yes,” I said.
My mother said, “Are you hungry? Did you have lunch yet?” And she wiped victorious eyes.
27
SANDRA, SITTING NEXT TO JOHN on the couch, was wiping the smoke out of her eyes when she noticed her watch. “Oh,” she said, jumping up. “It’s time. We’re gonna miss it.” She went over to the television set and turned it on. I was so stoned that I sat there passively and watched her and then the screen, as it glowed to life with the visage of Sally Scott, Eyewitness News, with the Eyewitness News Team investigating a paramount concern to the parents of Boston: teen-age drug abuse.
“Lieutenant Murphy,” Sally Scott asked, as she walked along a table laid out, like a feast, with exhibits. “What is this here?”
“This here is a kilogram of marijuana, which is two point two pounds of the drug. It is dried and pressed into a block for purposes of transportation, as you can see.”
“I see,” Sally Scott said.
“If you bring the camera closer, you might get a better shot,” Lieutenant Murphy said helpfully. The camera came closer. “As you can see, this block of the drug is commonly referred to by traffickers and illicit users as a key or a brick.”
“And this?” Sally Scott asked, moving on.
“Now, this is what the kids buy from the dope peddlers. This is how the drug is sold, in a one-ounce Baggie. An ounce may cost as much as fifty dollars.”
“Fifty dollars!” John said. “Jesus, maybe in Wellesley or someplace.”
“I see,” Sally Scott said. “And how much of this, uh, drug is necessary to make a person, uh…”
“High?” Lieutenant Murphy asked. “Not very much. The drug is smoked in cigarettes, called reefers or joints. Just one of these small cigarettes is enough to make a person suffer all the effects of the marijuana plant.”
“Suffer?” Sandra asked, genuinely puzzled.
John grinned.
Sally Scott said, “And what exactly are these effects?”
“Mostly unpleasant,” Lieutenant Murphy said. “The mouth feels dry and the voice may be painful. The eyes hurt and one may suffer hallucinations. All inhibitions are released and the person under the drug may act in peculiar and bizarre ways.”
“In what ways?” Sally Scott had unusually large eyes.
“Someone on this drug, under its effects, stoned, as the psychologically addicted users say, such a person is capable of almost anything.”
“I certainly am,” Sandra said, and got up and switched the television off.
“Hey,” John said, turning it back on. “Roll a joint, Sandy.” The sound returned just in time to hear Sally Scott ask “… the magnitude of the drug problem in Boston?”
“Very serious,” Murphy said seriously. “There’s no question of that. All reports indicate that the center of drug abuse in the country is shifting from San Francisco to New York and Boston. Boston is now the center.”
“Why is that?” Sally Scott asked.
“The climate,” said John.
“Primarily because of the influx of college students to the Greater Boston area. We have two hundred thousand college students, most of them from out of state. Unfortunately, some of these students deal in drugs.” Murphy paused to get his breath, then went on. “You see, the atmosphere on the college campuses today tends to encourage bizarre behavior, and often the responsible adult on the scene, the administrator, and so forth, will pooh-pooh even illicit activities if they happen to be fashionable. The campuses also provide a gathering place for all types of weirdos, outcasts, and hangers-on who wouldn’t be able to exist in a normal American environment. These types are often among the offenders. Simply by their presence, they assist the growing drug traffic.”
“Oh, Christ,” John said, “are you listening to this bullshit?”
Murphy was gone, and Sally Scott was saying: “… University’s psychopharmacology unit for answers to these and other questions. Doctor, what is the medical evidence on marijuana?”
The doctor was pale and thin and thoughtful-looking. He wore glasses and blinked his eyes a lot, and spoke in little shotgun-bursts. “Well the first thing to say—is that there is very little in the way of—hard medical data on the drug. On the contrary we know remarkably little—about the effects—or the hazards—of this particular compound; however—we can say—that earlier ideas were wrong—and the drug is not addicting—by this we mean—there is no tolerance—phenomenon—and no psychological dependence or physical—uh, dependence—craving—no craving—and we can say the drug does not lead—to heroin or other narcotics.”