The only marijuana magazine bringing you the stories of other pot smokers and smugglers.

Growin' Our Own (page 5)

Loose Nuts

By: Roger Bessler

I was sitting, motionless and sweaty, under the shade of an oak tree. My shovelhead was five feet away beside a paint blistered and peeling garage wall. The odors of oil grease and gas from the bike permeated the hot air.

The rumble of a set of pipes was growing louder. As the bike came closer I heard the chain rattling. The bike needed work and I knew that it wasn't going to get it. Crazy came coasting around the corner of the garage on his old glide. He's fortunate that his bike is a sturdy, durable machine. It amazes me that he can even get it to start, let alone ride it. It does not have two tight nuts or bolts on it. He has twisted and perverted the old, "If it ain't broke don't fuck with it" theory. The bike has been stripped to the essentials, leaving the tank shift and foot clutch. The foot clutch has a cam lock that disengages the clutch with the transmission in gear enabling the rider to keep both feet on the ground while at a stop.

Crazy shut down under the shade of the tree. He didn't appear to believe in preventive maintenance on his personage either. Six foot and one hundred and eighty pounds of macho man, with black greasy hair and no teeth; always bitching about not being able to eat peanuts or pickles. The peanut thing pisses him off the most. They are free at a few of the local honky tonks; as long as you keep shelling out for brewskies, more beer, more salt, a vicious cycle of some kind. His clothes give an altogether new meaning to the words sad rags and glad rags, they are just plain rags.

I met him in junior high school when he stabbed me in the palm with a pencil while at the sharpener next to the window during 8th grade geography class. He threatened to throw me out that second story window if I didn't get the fuck out of his way. What I've learned from him in the fifteen years since are things guys like us need to know if we are to survive in our environment of machines, factories, and treacherous people, all trying to squeeze something out of nothing. Whenever I look at the palm of my hand I see the lead is still in there, embedded in one of those life lines in my palm. I looked up at him, What the hell, the lessons have always served me well.

Crazy stated the obvious. "Damn it's hot today."

The look in his eyes told me that he had something on his mind. "So what are you up to today, Crazy?"

"I was talking to Blade this morning, he scored a couple of kilos yesterday, says it's really good stuff that came from some place called Oaxacan."

That explained the look in Crazy's eyes. He may be crazy but dumb he ain't. Yesterday was mill pay day, Crazy is unemployed, I have money, and Blade has good weed.

He went on. "I thought maybe we could ride over and check it out." -Translation- Blade won't let me anywhere near the pot unless I am with someone that has money.

"Yeah, let's do it. I'm down to seeds and stems."

We rode toward Blade and his old lady's place. She is known as Red to her friends and some of his customers. They live in a twelve by sixty trailer over on the north side. The traffic was light and we timed the lights fairly well. The trailer court came into view from about a mile away, with the trailers resembling huge sardine cans cooking under a merciless sun.

We turned onto the street to Blade's. I glanced up at a street sign proclaiming it to be Los Angeles Blvd. and silently wondered, Here we are in the midwest factory district pulling onto Los Angeles Blvd. Are we supposed to have thoughts of the beaches, California girls, palm trees and all or what? The office trailer on the corner was the first to come into clear view. A large sign by the door read. "Mobile homes for sale or rent/INSTANT QUALITY LIVING!!"

Blade's trailer was about halfway down the blvd., the sixth one on the right. We dodged the speed bumps, pulled in front and parked. I slid a flattened Rolling Rock can under the kickstand and walked to the door with Crazy.

Blade had been watching from the kitchen window. He unlocked and opened the door.

"Come on in, it's hot as hell out there." I looked toward the kitchen table where he'd been sitting breaking down the weed. He had a nice triple beam Ohaus scale, a guarantee of fair weight. I'd bought from a guy named Jimmy Slick once, the weed wasn't too bad but it seemed damp rather than resiny. I found out later that Slick would lay the weed out on a table then spray it with water from a hand mister. He got an extra ounce to sell from every pound. What an asshole.

A window air conditioner was humming along some where in the back of the trailer, making more noise than cool air. Red was in the living room looking at porno films. The images flickered surreally along the wall as the 8mm clicked away. They were her training films , she used them to practice for her strip dance over at the honky tonks in the factory district. I'd caught the act a few times. She was getting pretty good at making the moves and giving out the wanton lascivious looks that brought the green backs into her G string.

Blade looked at me. "Are you interested in buying some weed?"

"Yeah, as I am sure you know, yesterday was mill payday."

"Sit down and I'll roll you a sample." I took a chair across the table from Blade. Crazy took a chair at the table where he could keep an eye on Red, watch the movie, and stay close to the weed. Red didn't pay any attention to Crazy. She just kept watching the screen and mimicking the actresses, if that's what they are.

The new issue of High Times was laying on the counter. "Blade, mind if I look through this?"

"Naw, help yourself."

I picked up the magazine, it was fresh from the presses, 1st anniversary issue Aug/Sep. The cover had an Eskimo gal wearing fur with a big doobie in her right hand and a wide smile that revealed a sliver front tooth. The lead in was in big white letters over a blue sky, ALASKA GOES LEGAL.

Blade was tumbling a couple of buds in a little plastic device called a Mary Gin. Crazy was transfixed in a state of contact high between the movie and the weed. Red was doing her thing oblivious to the rest of us.

I was thumbing through the magazine. I found the Dope Rider cartoon on page fifty nine and was into the Hell's Angels saying - "Live Fast Die Young and Leave A Good Looking Corpse." when a blue Volkswagen bug with red and white paint on the wheels pulled up.

Blade and I exchanged glances, while waiting for a look at the occupants. Two girls got out. The driver was short and petite with jet black hair, a head band, blue jean bell bottoms, a white half blouse that let her stomach show, and brown sandals. The second girl had on blue and white matching shorts and halter top, with little white tennis shoes. It all looked a little too neat. "Do you know them, Blade?"

"No, but that's Hammerhead getting out now."

I knew Hammerhead's story and didn't care for the guy. He never made a real contribution to anything and didn't ride or work. There was no doubt the girls would be doing the buying.

Blade got up, unlocked the door and let them in. I thought, word of good weed always travels fast. The two girls were pretty hot looking, but then everything looked hot on a day like this.

Blade was talking to everyone at once. "Well it looks as if we have a party going." He opened the little Mary Gin, gently tapped the contents onto the table, picked up a couple of Zig Zag free burns - we would be smoking weed not paper - and rolled a couple of nice looking numbers.

Blade, Crazy and I were passing one joint around the table, while Hammy, his two female companions and Red were working on the other number in the living room. I was huffing on my third hit and starting to catch a buzz when a loud scream came from the living room.

The blonde was alternately screaming and sobbing, "What have I done, what have I done?" Her big tits were straining under the halter top, nipples sticking out against the fabric with her sweaty shorts tight into her crotch. Her body was shivering and shaking while the sweat and tears ran down her face. The aura of vulnerability was a turn on. She no longer looked neat as when she first stepped out of the bug.

I looked at Crazy, he shook his head and echoed my thoughts. "A first timer and that damn Hammy brings her over here."

Blade was looking out the window and turning pale. I followed his gaze up the blvd. He turned to Red. "There's a cop coming down the street." Red, who until then appeared oblivious to all of it, grabbed the blonde, put her hand over the sobbing face and led her down the narrow hall to a small bedroom. The blonde whimpered but did not protest.

The black haired gal heard the cops are coming, freaked out and started for the projector. "Hide the movies, hide the movies!" Either dad was a preacher or sex was some kind of no - no at her house. There we were, seven of us on top of two kilos of pot, in a tin can and that chick was freakin' over the porno movies. Blade shot a glare at Hammy, who intercepted her before she could damage Red's training films.

Crazy found yesterdays newspaper and covered the dope. I thought, that newspaper is not going to be an adequate hiding place. For the next few minutes everything in that trailer was completely still other than the window air conditioner, which was sounding very loud. No one was making a sound; no sobbing, no screaming, no shrieking, nothing but the steady hum of the air conditioner.

Blade spoke in a hushed voice. "The cop has pulled in three trailers down on the other side. Aw fuck!"

I somehow sensed a note of relief in his tone. "What's going on?"

"That guy moved in last week, I didn't know he was a cop."

"looks like you're going to be moving soon."

"Yeah, no shit." We watched for a little while. The cop must have come home to piss and check the mail, cause he left after about 15 minutes.

I went to the little room Red had taken the blonde into. She was now looking as devastated as if she had just joined the Cosa Nostra or tapped a main line. Oh well, once you are in you are in. I suspect it must have been like losing her virginity. One more thing in her life that she would probably feel the need to conceal or lie about to a certain number of people. From the looks of that room it was a good thing Hammy hadn't taken the black haired one in there. Blade, Red or both had papered the walls into a collage, using nude pictures from various sexually explicit magazines.

I walked back into the kitchen. Hammy was sitting on the couch with the dark haired chick. Blade was inventorying the weed and glaring at Hammy. "Blade the weed is pretty good. How about weighing me out an ounce and Crazy and I will putt on down the road." He weighed us out a heavy ounce. I laid two twenties on the table, rolled a couple of joints, stuck them in my t-shirt pocket and put the rest of the bag in my boot.

Crazy and I walked out to our bikes. "What did you make of all that shit Crazy?"

"Hammy is an idiot and those girls aren't cut out for any kind of social deviance. You and I were born to it. With some it has to be a learned experience."

"Well said, but did you really think the cop wouldn't find two kilos of weed under a couple of pages of newspaper?"

"You don't get it."

"What do you mean, I don't get it?"

"It has something to do with probable cause and search warrants. If a cop hears some commotion and comes to the door and sees an illegal substance then he can come in. If he doesn't see anything, only suspects it then he needs a warrant."

"I see. Let's head up to the lake, find a nice shade tree and smoke some of this weed."

We pulled up to the stop sign at Los Angeles Blvd. I looked over at the sign on the office. "INSTANT QUALITY LIVING" That was Blade's place all right.

We were waiting to pull into the flow of traffic when a white mustang came rushing past. The driver's long blonde hair was blowing in the wind. She had the top down and the radio up. Born To Be Wild was blaring from the radio.

It must have been the day for big titted blondes in halter tops. There was a difference between this blond and the one we had just left whimpering back at Blade's. This babe was one of us, born to social deviance and flaunting it. It was in the air as she breezed past, it surrounded her like a perfume without scent or a lipstick without color; yet it was there to see, to smell, to feel.

I glanced at Crazy. Drool was forming in the corners of his mouth and he had a wild look in his eyes that left me with serious doubts as to whether or not he had any pussy since it had him. He pulled out and I followed. It didn't take much to catch her. A little weaving in and out and we were stopped beside her at the Forty Eighth St. light. She was behind a pickup truck and we were looking at the ass end of a big green Griswald style Chevy station wagon. Crazy was next to her. He dropped his bike into first gear, engaged the cam lock clutch and planted both feet on the ground while looking over at her, real macho like, with his biggest and best toothless grin. He started revving his bike.

On about the third rev his foot clutch decided to demand a little maintenance. The cam lever flipped loose and engaged it. The Harley peeled out catching Crazy by surprise, he rocked back holding the grips and giving the bike full throttle. He hit the back of the wagon in first gear, at full throttle, with a fifteen foot start. He flew over the handle bars and half way onto the back of the wagon.

He was hanging from the luggage rack with one of his steel toed engineer's boots embedded in the wagon's tail light, while holding the bike up with his shins on the handle bars. The old Harley was still running, hopping on the back tire and barking, "cheep, cheep, cheep," on the hot pavement. I stretched over, shut the bike down and looked up at Crazy. He appeared dazed but all right. The wagon driver had frozen.

I became acutely aware of the weed in my pocket and in my boot. This was going to throw a wrinkle into our plan of party time at the lake. The last thing I needed was a shake down if the cops came. I appreciated the legal lesson on probable cause search and seizure that Crazy had just given me, but! He looked over and motioned for me to leave. I would have stayed as long as he wanted, yet from the bottom of my soul I silently thanked him for that one. There is also a saying or two about the law of averages and getting what justice one can afford. I pulled around the whole affair and headed north.

About two miles out, at the last light I saw the blonde in the mustang waiting for the green. I chanced a look in her direction, our eyes met and we broke into uncontrollable laughter. I was laughing so hard I had to pull into a Seven - Eleven to get a grip on myself.

She followed me into the lot, "How's your friend?"

"He'll be all right. He isn't carrying and there aren't any outstanding warrants on him."

She went into the store and bought a twelve pack of cold tall boys. I followed her to a secluded spot by the lake. She picked a spot under a large shade tree where she spread a blanket and her legs. The sweat ran off of us as we partied. We would make eye contact every once in a while and almost laugh, which added a nice quality to the sex. One slowly inhaled Camel later she folded up the blanket, put her white shades on and drove away; she looked as I had first seen her, hair blowing in the wind the top down and the radio up.

Social deviance has it's rewards but I was left to wonder. Can it be learned? Can the sobbing blonde or the raven haired freaker ever achieve that freedom or like Crazy, the mustang blonde and I, do they need to be born to it? Are they destined to lead lives of recrimination, deceit and anxiety?

I kicked my shovel to life and headed for the garage. I pulled in and shut down. Crazy was in there tightening every nut and bolt on his old hydra glide. The front forks appeared to be all right. "Did the cops come?"

"No, I squared it up with the guy. I promised I'd send him a new tail light."

"He believed you?"

"Yeah"

"More proof that a sucker is born every minute."

He looked hard at me, "Where did you go?"

I didn't have the heart to tell him that I had jumped the gal's bones. I decided to split some of the bag with him and tell him about that at another time, "I rode around for awhile."

Crazy muttered something about that "damn suicide shift" and went back to tightening nuts and bolts. I noticed he was using lock washers as well.