The Saddest Joint Ever
When the pot is great and the world is lousy | Non-Fiction | Fresh Soup
Every pothead has his favorite weed story. They’re usually funny, weird or stressful, but, at least in my experience, never sad. And it’s not that there’s a shortage of sad weed tales to be told, just like there are sad lottery-win tales and sad milkshake tales. Any pothead with a bit of grey matter left has a sad weed story, but they aren’t often told. So this week, in honor of my temporarily not-so-great mood, I’d like to share with you the saddest pot-smoking experience I’ve ever had, and some (me, for example) might say—the saddest pot-smoking experience in all of human history.
I have a friend in Montreal. Or rather, not exactly a friend, but someone I really like and appreciate, with whom I once worked on a radio show and we stayed in touch. When I found out I’d be in town for a literary festival, I immediately wrote to J (let’s call him J) and suggested we get together. I could tell by his response that J was just as eager to meet, and he said he’d pick me up at my hotel the evening I arrived.
It was very cold that evening. I’m aware that a lot of Montreal evenings are very cold, but that one was exceptionally unpleasant, with driving rain and a frigid wind that penetrates your bones and your soul. J and I, both wet, sat down in the nearest bar we could find and tried to catch up on all the years since we’d last met. I’d just published a new book and I was on a high. J had just broken up with the woman he’d been with for fifteen years and he was low. Our conversation proceeded cautiously, with J trying not to be too gloomy despite his heartache, and me trying not to be too cheerful despite my excitement about the book, which was showing early signs of success.
When the lively waitress appeared, J ordered a beer and I asked for a Coke. J encouraged me to get a proper drink in honor of the occasion, so we could either celebrate my book together or mourn J’s lost love together. “This night,” he said, “is too cold and wet to get through in a lucid state.” I explained that alcohol makes me hiccup uncontrollably and that the only way for me to stop being lucid was to smoke a bit of weed. I then heard myself, regrettably, asking if he could hook me up with a joint. J nodded and gave me a sad look. “I have a little pot at home,” he said, and quickly corrected himself: “I mean, at my ex’s home. She lives just near here. I can call her and we’ll stop by to pick it up.”
“Forget it, man,” I said, “you just broke up. Maybe it would best to give each other some space.”
“We are giving each other space,” J said, while he dialed a number on his phone. “I haven’t talked to her since we broke up. But you’re finally in town and you want to smoke… and her apartment is a couple of blocks away…” Then he talked into the phone: “Hey, Gail, how’s it going? Yeah… I’m sorry. It’s just that I need to come by for the…” He got up and walked away from the table, looking for somewhere private to have the conversation. The bar was packed and I watched him elbow his way outside, into the cold night. Through the window, I could see him standing in the pouring rain, talking, without even bothering to pull his hood up. After a few minutes, he came back inside, drenched, and told me with a wet grin and chattering teeth that Gail had found his pot but she had a guy over right now, so she was going to leave it in the mailbox for us. This news about the guy was clearly a blow J hadn’t been expecting. “It’s good,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I mean, we’re not together anymore. It’s good that she’s moving on, you know?”
J paid for the drinks and suggested we walk over to his ex-girlfriend’s apartment and pick up the pot from her mailbox. I told him I was sorry I’d even asked him for a joint and that it really wasn’t important. “Forget the weed,” I said, “let’s sit here a while longer and talk about life, and then I’ll go to bed. I’m wiped out from the jetlag anyway.” But J shook his head: “She’s already put it in the mailbox, we have to go and get it now. Otherwise she’ll think I didn’t go just because she has a guy over and that it bothers me. It wouldn’t be good for her to think that—not for her, not for me.” When he saw me still hesitating, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “You don’t get it: there’s no choice. We have to go.”
Outside, there was a squall. It was as if all the forces of nature had conspired to prevent us from getting to Gail’s apartment. I kept trying to shelter my face from the biting-cold rain, while J acted as if nothing was happening. The rain was lashing at him just as violently as it was at me, but he didn’t care. “It’s over there,” he said, pointing to a building on the other side of the road. There was a red light at the pedestrian crossing, and even though there wasn’t a single car in sight, J and I stood waiting for what felt like an eternity, until the light turned green. Crossing the street, we must have looked like a pair of mimes pretending to be walking straight into a gale-force wind: hunched over, we’d take a few steps forward only to be driven a step or two back.
In the mailbox, we found a tiny plastic baggy containing a single bud. “Great,” J said, attempting a smile, “now you have something to smoke.” He told me he’d moved into an Airbnb after the breakup, and we could go there to light up. By this point, I was wet, freezing cold, and exhausted, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep, but I knew J and I had already passed the point of no return. Like it or not, I was going to have to smoke this joint.
J’s place was less than half a mile away. It was a tiny apartment on the fourth floor with no elevator, and it was full of African tribal art. Masks and wooden figurines looked at us while J rolled the saddest joint in the world for me. As he worked, he told me he wasn’t allowed to smoke in the apartment and, since there was no balcony, we’d have to go downstairs. I said I wasn’t sure I’d have the energy to go all the way back down for a joint, and J nodded and said he was also wiped out but he had an idea.
J’s idea was for me to smoke outside the kitchen window, which was pretty high up. I wasn’t sure how this was going to work, but J explained: he would hold me by my legs while I dangled my upper body out the window. Everything about that night was already so sad that I didn’t even consider saying no. I picked up the joint and a lighter. “Ready?” J asked, and before he grasped my legs, he sighed and said, “We do love each other, Gail and I. We always will, but somehow it just wasn’t working, you know?” I nodded, and J swung my legs up in the air.
The moment when you’re suspended outside a fourth-floor kitchen window with a strong wind freezing your face off and walnut-sized hail hitting the back of your neck and your head, is not the optimal time for contemplation. Mostly, I just tried to get the lighter to work without letting the joint fall out of my mouth, which was almost impossible: my upper body gave shelter from the rain and hail, but the wind was a challenge and we had to make several attempts before I could light the joint. I took a drag and looked down. My sinuses ached, my eyes were tearing—perhaps from the wind. “Good stuff?” I heard J yell while he got a better grip on my legs. “Awesome!” I croaked back, trying to sound like I meant it.
(quote)
"could be worse"
"how?"
"could be raining".
And, man, it was even raining!
You've covered all the bases in this tragic comedy! Terrific.