By @-CM Black.
I was heading west on Interstate 80 towards San Francisco. Thank you Dwight Eisenhower. This particular trip to the Bay was in search of nirvana. And what better place to discover nirvana than a place the Beats called home. Ginsberg, Kerouac, Cassidy, Ferlinghetti, the list goes on. All seemed to have found a higher purpose while in the Bay Area. My search for nirvana would be momentarily delayed though.
The dash read ninety miles per hour. There was a state trooper trailing close behind me. We made eye contact through my rearview mirror. He knows better than to disrupt my rhythm, at least I hope he does. I am like a pitcher in the ninth inning of a no hitter, laser focused, tunnel vision fully engaged.
My adrenaline was flowing from weaving in and out of traffic. It was especially flowing with the sudden appearance of law enforcement in my rearview mirror.
There is almost next to nothing in life that compares to the high you get from an adrenaline rush. I have found that, only the high from a dab taken at one-hundred sixty degrees Fahrenheit and the feeling of being in love, rival the high of an adrenaline rush. Thompson did say a good, ole adrenaline rush is good for removing the cholesterol from your arteries. And god knows I need all the help I can get with the history of heart disease on my father’s side of the family.
It turned out Mr. Trooper did not know better than to disrupt my rhythm, as his lights were now flashing. My first instinct was to hide the weed.
Then I remembered, “We’re in California baby.”
It is a liberating feeling to know a cop cannot punish you for weed. Something I wish my friends back in Ohio could experience.
Mr. Trooper spawned from thin air as he was now standing outside my passenger door. The passenger door window does not always cooperate, but she came through in this time of need.
Mr. Trooper was a stubby, middle aged, white man that even I could beat in a foot race. A fat cop is rather ironic, if you ask me.
I had a sudden urge to yell out the window and scream, “DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY!” Just to see if he could do it.
Though, I refrained and waited for him to inquire about the stench of marijuana coming from my car. Sure, the pot might be legal here but the stench was undeniable. It is an immediate, conversation starter for anyone introduced to my Honda Civic for the first time.
“Jesus Christ! Did you just hotbox in here?” Mr. Trooper asked. There it was.
“No sir. I smoked every day in here, for six years straight.” I replied. It was true.
“You should probably do something about this smell,” said Mr. Trooper.
“Probably,” I responded.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” Mr. Trooper asked me.
“No. Tell me,” I said. I acted curious.
“I clocked you doing ninety in a sixty-five,” Mr. Trooper informed me.
“Ninety? Are you sure about that?” I asked, attempting to sound innocent.
“Are you high, kid?” Mr. Trooper asked me. He was starting to get annoyed.
“I am twenty-four, thank you very much, and no. I just didn’t realize I was going that fast,” I told him. Neither were true.
“Where are you headed, driving this fast? You in some kind of rush?” Mr. Trooper inquired. He just needed to know.
“San Francisco, and no. I just like to go fast,” I admitted.
“HA! That’s going to get you in trouble, young man,” Mr. Trooper bellowed, he seemed amused.
I cracked a grin and agreed with him, “It already has.”
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