Chapter 8
On the Road Stoned
Back in rainy Seattle, Steve, our lawyer, had finagled his way onto his friend’s couch a second night, had said his good-byes to her, and was meeting us at the neighborhood Starbucks, alone. His friend had absolutely no interest in being observed in the presence of such a motley crew as she perceived us to be, despite Steve’s assertions that we were upstanding citizens consisting of one lawyer, one doctor, one politician, a musician, a movie maker, and a rich investment counselor (not mentioning our gambler).
Our next stop was supposed to be Sacramento, California, where Max had told us his ex-brother-in-law was looking forward to our visit. Just minutes out of Seattle, Susie popped out of her seat in back, winked at Huck, and said, “Okay, time to get stoned. Who’s good at rolling joints?” Huck, our musician, was quick with his hand up. Susie gave him the rolling papers and the bag of marijuana she’d gotten at the farm. Huck rolled a fat one. Not everyone took a hit. Not Steve who was driving. Not Sally, our businesswoman. Patty, our movie producer, pouted her lips around the lit end of the joint and showed us how she used to give Huck “shotgun kisses” with Huck taking the unlit end in his mouth and Patty blowing softly. “Your turn next,” Huck says to Susie.
Rocky, our card-playing, what-is-fun guy, said the first time he got stoned he was listening to the Chambers Brothers singing “Time,” and asked Huck to get out his guitar, “I bet you don’t even know the first chord.” Huck said he remembered the song but not the lyrics, this time breaking into Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone.” This started a sing-a-long.
Skip, our baseball playing politician, sang part of his all-time favorite song “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” a Meatloaf song: “Stop right now, I’ve got to know right now. Will you love me? Will you love me forever? Will you make me your wife? I’ve got to know right now! . . . and now I’m praying for the end of time so I can eeennnddd my time with youuu,” explaining that his favorite part was Yankee’s announcer Phil Rizzuto describing how the guy got around the bases, the steal of second, sliding into third, and the play at home.
Steve seemed to be getting a contact high: “Did you see that sign back there? ‘Welcome to Oregon – Where Everybody Is High’?” And then, tugging at his moustache, “Check out that car next to us. Is that a lion in the back seat?” [It was just a fat old guy snoozing with almost foot-wide whiskers.]
Rocky said, “That’s it. You’re done driving.”
After crossing into Oregon, on Interstate 5 with the rain abating, Skip suggested a stop in Portland. “Even though we don’t know anyone in particular to visit, let’s look up some local political types. I’ve heard the Yang Gang has started a chapter of the Forward Party here.” Susie seconded the notion. Sally offered to pop for a room at the Sheraton, if anyone else (meaning just the females) wanted to take a breather from the bus, take an actually-hot shower, and get a good night’s rest.
The shower in the camper worked just fine, but you had to be quick before the hot water ran out. And although the camper was advertised as sleeping seven comfortably, that was a stretch and privacy was out of the question. But, amazingly, nobody, not even Sally, had grown irritable – and already we’d been twelve days on the road. In fact, smoking that pot together going down Interstate 5 had gotten everybody so laughing, so smiling, so joyous singing songs and telling stories. So carefree. We were enjoying the trip, feeling like we were all hygge in a wonderful, mixed-up world.