My friend had an idea, after losing his job. Let’s buy a used camper, he said. The kind you drive. We’ll head to a legal state like Michigan or Colorado, and load up on marijuana-infused edibles. Then drive home and sell our stock, doubling the price. What could go wrong?
A lot of things, I told Scottie. For one thing, it’s illegal.
He laughed. “When has that ever stopped you?”
Quite a few times, actually.
“Besides,” Scottie said. “They’ll never catch us.”
I wasn’t so sure. Two middle-aged guys with beards and flip flops stopping all day at weed dispensaries seemed pretty suspicious.
“If that’s bothering you,” he said. “We’ll wear suits.”
Yeah, that will throw them off.
Scottie had his iPad out. He scrolled through a variety of used, Class C RVs. These are campers mounted on a heavy van frame, the budget version of the driveable coach. Van RVs tend to be used long and hard and then, when the wheel wells rust through and the air conditioning goes, sold off at deep discount to a handyman, or abandoned in the back yard, to be consumed by shrubbery.
“Isn’t she a beauty?” Scottie said, holding up the screen. Indeed, the picture had been taken in someone’s back yard. “All the seats lift up,” he continued. “With storage underneath. That’s where we put our stash.”
A true child of the ‘eighties, my pal used words like “stash”, “pusher”, and “johnnie law”. It didn’t build confidence.
“Maybe we should leave it to the experts,” I told him.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, the people already dealing.”
Scottie was indignant. “Don’t you want to cut those guys out? You’ve been screwed your whole life.”
Not since 1997, the last time I smoked marijuana. I have what might be termed an Excitable Nature. Intoxicants don’t help. I’m allowed a single glass of wine, carefully measured. Even coffee is frowned upon. I am told by my spouse that, after a cup or two, I’m “Hard to take”.
Scottie continued, assuming the businessman’s angle. There’s a huge need in states that haven’t legalized weed, he said. Demand for marijuana is up. Way up, especially among Baby Boomers. It’s the pandemic. And the police. And the general sense we’re all doomed. “Marijuana helps,” he said. “You’re still doomed, but you don’t care.”
It was true. My mind drifted like bong smoke back to the old days. And I knew, if the two of us bought a bus and made a run to Denver, there was a good chance a fair amount of the “stash” wouldn’t make it back. Heck, I might not make it back.
“I’m going to have to pass,” I told Scottie.
He wasn’t disappointed. He remained engrossed in his iPad. “They even have microwaves,” he said.
A week later I found out his real interest in RV’s. “If things don’t improve, I’ll have to move out of my apartment. I’m still looking at campers, but you know they’ll need maintenance. I’m hopeless with tools. I can’t fix crap.” He didn’t use the word crap.
“Don’t worry, pal. You can move in with us.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
It didn’t come to that. Scottie found another job. He’s an accountant, and a good one. The rich are still making money, he said.
I was a little disappointed, I’ll admit. Scottie has long ago given up bad habits, but still pops an edible now and then. If he moved in, he was bound to bring some over. I saw the two of us on the porch with our feet on the rail, the sun hanging low, a grand ocean liner slowly approaching.
The ship would never arrive, but that wasn’t the point.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com