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Growin' Our Own (page 4)

Triumph from Tragedy

By: Nina Cole

Ahhh ... college! What wonderful days. Days of extreme poverty, extreme partying, extreme politics, extreme just about everything.

It wasn't any different for my roommate and me. We were severely under financed. Boiled alphabet pasta for breakfast. Meat was a rare treat. But the pot was always there. The music was always there.

Both of us were mass communications majors - TV and radio. We were going to be famous! We were at least going to be the next Wolfman Jack! We were delusional.

Jonathan Peabody Pukenasty, my roommate, had visions of being a huge radio personality. He grew up in Brooklyn. He had always used the mass transit systems there, so had never learned to drive. (I tried to teach him, but that's a story more to be written by Stephen King.) This was not without benefit. All the money he might have used for purchase and maintenance of a car he poured into record albums. Yep, vinyl. I'm talking a wad of years ago, folks. He had about 3000 albums of various sorts. Everything from hard rock to jug bands. He could talk knowledgeably about all different kinds of music - classical, jazz, fusion, country - you name it, he knew it.

Unfortunately, that was about all he knew. He wasn't a complete slob, mind you, he just wasn't very good at keeping things real clean. Our place didn't look like it had been bombed, but things tended to get 'forgotten'.

That was the case with the infamous shoebox. Times had been particularly tough as far as cash flow. I mean more than the normal broke. We couldn't afford toilet paper - had to steal it from the local McDonalds. Needless to say, the pot dried up along with the funds. We had good friends, but they were broke too. No money, no smokee. Bummer!

One afternoon JPP (the roomie) was digging in the back of his dresser drawers trying to find something. He found a treasure instead! I heard him scream "Jesus' Penis" from the back of the house. I ran back, fearing to see him without a finger or something. Instead he was sitting on the floor grinning from ear to ear. "Do you know what this is?" I said no, but I was sure he would enlighten me. I get a little bitchy without something to calm my nerves, y'know?

He went on to explain that when he had been flush with funds (more than a dollar 3.98 in his pocket) several months previously he had bought some ditch weed from a friend who needed money badly. He just did it as a favor to the guy. He figured since we had some fairly righteous stuff at the time, we didn't need to tear up our throats with that garbage. Well, since we didn't need it, he put it in an old shoebox and stashed it in the back of his bottom dresser drawer. We began to celebrate immediately!! Time to sing and dance!!

Then he opened the box. Bleeeccchhh! It had molded over completely! Not-so-Mr. Clean had evidently spilled something in close proximity to the box. The moisture and cool temperatures where we lived did their mean work. The entire top of the weed was covered in grey fuzzy mold. Talk about bringing you down. We had to look up to see a snake's ass.

He scrabbled through the box in hopes that the bottom wasn't ruined as well ... no such luck. Almost an entire box full of weed, molded and wrecked. Life is so cruel.

Jon is half Italian, half Jewish and very thrifty. He decided to try an experiment. The ruination came from moisture, maybe if we dried it out??? We dug out all the cookie sheets we could find in the kitchen (one), and borrowed a couple more from a neighbor. After spreading the ugly glop out as best we could we put it in the oven on the lowest temperature setting. He checked it after about two hours - no joy yet. By now it was three in the morning and we both had class the following day. He turned off the oven and we turned in. Electric ovens tend to keep on baking for quite a while after you turn them off. We didn't think about that, just left the stuff where it was.

When we got back from classes that next day, Jon took a look at our mess in the oven. "Hey! Its starting to look dry!" So back on goes the oven and we sat, quite literally, staring at it hungrily. About three hours later it looked dry enough to twist one up. I was really scared. What if the mold was poisonous? What if he died? (I wasn't about to smoke it.) After many admonitions and questions as to what hospital to take him to and how to contact his family, I finally gave in and let him play hero. Big of me, yes?

He put on his favorite comedy album, Firesign Theater. We figured you may as well go laughing. Then he sat down and rolled a pinner. Damned good thing, as it turns out. He took a hesitant hit. "Doesn't taste too bad. Doesn't taste too good, but it won't gag you." Oh yay! I don't care about the gag part - is it going to kill you?

Presently Jon began to conduct music that wasn't playing. He started to describe to me the various colors and patterns on our scarred, bare hardwood floor. He was trippin' majorly! The high lasted him about four hours - not bad for a couple of hits off a pinner. After I saw he didn't die, I tried it. (Okay, so I'm a wuss - sue me.) I had the audio and visual hallucinations too, as well as some very pleasant olfactory ones.

We had almost a shoebox full of pure gold. We sold a little (damned little) to friends, kept the rest for ourselves and used it very sparingly. The problem was that we were now everyone's best friend, living or dead. After telling people for the thousandth time that we had no idea what kind of mold it was, or even what kind of weed it really was, I think we finally got through to them. The only thing that turned them off, though, was when we told them it was all gone.

We could have gotten lonely after that ... if we hadn't had that half a shoebox in the bottom of the dresser to keep us company.

Happy trails to you!

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