An Evidentiary Testament

This past Sunday I went over to Rick’s house and witnessed a fantastic piece of addict imagery. We were slated for an average day: a couple of meals, a hike, a drive down to the beach, possibly a movie and of course a little marijuana smoking. With both our jobs getting busier lately as well as the inevitabilities of our personal lives, not to mention the hour and a half drive that separates us, it had been a while since we old friends had gotten together, especially just the two of us. It takes a genuine effort to maintain the old friendships, which is a subject and a conversation he and I have shared on a number of occasions.

We returned to his place after a really beautiful journey to the crest of a bay area coastal range, a little stoned but felling healthy and alert after the exercise and the inspiration of the sun bathed view. We had decided to hit up the batting cages for the evening, and he was gathering his gear for the trip. I sat down on his couch and noticed a covered cooking pot placed on the ground.

Now in our post-graduate days Rick and I had been roommates for a couple of years, and he was pretty famous for leaving a dirty cooking pot or two next to the couch, often containing the sticky remains of his macaroni and cheese dinner. Reminded of this, I exclaimed, “ahh, what did you eat last night?” and opened the cookware. But instead of food the pot was filled with plastic bags: dozens of them. I began to remove them one by one – they were packed quite densely – and observed the contents. Each contained the final remnants of a once full satchel of weed. Some bags had only a shard or two of dope left in the bottom, others contained enough to get high a few times, one even had a couple of grams that didn’t look to be of high quality: obviously stuff not up to Rick’s standard, but held in reserve for an emergency.

“As you can see, there’s never a rainy day in this household,” he said.
“It’s an incredible sight,” I exclaimed, truly blown away by the display of preparedness and foresight. His supply was extremely well protected, I mused. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
“I never once told you I’m not a marijuana addict,” he said directly.
That was true. “I’m so…impressed,” was all I could muster.
“It’s embarrassing,” he said, changing his tone. “Can you imagine if someone other than you found that thing?”
“Oh yeah, it’d be way worse than if someone just found a straight up full bag.”
“Right. This is direct evidence of all the eighths and quarter ounces I’ve blown through in the last year. Impressive, huh?”
“Listen man,” I said, excited. “It’s beautiful…a testament. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.”

And it’s not as if this event told me anything about him I didn’t already know. But it stirred in me new feelings of kinship and warmth for a person who shares the affliction, and does it so well.