It was late '94 and I was speeding through the mountains between New Mexico and Arizona. It was raining, dark, and the road was twisted like a rattlesnake with rabies. It was me, some chick, some dude, and another chick. You know how that goes. We were fresh from a trip to Juarez and my passengers were passed the fuck out.
There was about a half ounce of weed in my pocket and I was just thinking about loading it into a rolling paper when I seen the red and blue lights shining at me through the storm in the rearview mirror. I wasn't sure which state I was in, but it didn't matter; the penalty for weed in either place is some pretty damn fucked up prison time. I was doing about 90 so it was a ticket for sure, but if I played it cool I could still get out of ass rape in the joint.
It was the airduct that would save me. In some Chryslers they are snap-on, snap-off parts. With a little bit of pressure you could pull one right off and put it back on just as easy. That's where my sack of weed went. Along with my papers, lighter, and strangely enough, I put my cigarettes in there too.
I found a safe spot somewhere down the highway and pulled over. I had my license and insurance and all that ready as the New Mexico State Trooper came to my window. He was a small older guy with a mustache... kind of reminded me of my shop teacher.
He asked me to get out of the car and stand in the rain with him. I told him I just got back from Mexico and he had me open my trunk to prove I wasn't trying to push mad weight back to the states for a healthy profit. I explained to him we were just down there to drink. He laughed and wrote me a ticket. "You can go now... as soon as I take a little look through your car just to set my mind at ease..."
Dammit. I had always used my airduct but never put it to the test.
Everyone was moved out of the car and made to stand on the side of the road with me in the rain. Ten minutes later, after we were all drenched and I had heard my share of bitching from the women-folk, the Trooper came back with nothing. "Keep it under the speed limit," he said and bid us on our way.
Twenty minutes later his ticket was laying somewhere along the side of a wet mountain highway and the weed was out of the airduct and safely in my lungs.
The Electrical Outlet
It was mid 1995 and I was taking the drive through the desert and mountains from Phoenix to Denver. Instead of gas money, the brilliant young teenager that I was, I brought some meth with me. The idea was to sell it halfway and get my ass out of Arizona. My welcome was worn out and the time to ride off into the sunset had long since came.
I met up with a biker at a truck stop in the middle of nowhere. He had what I needed: money and a want of drugs. We exchanged products and I followed him to a local drug-dive motel. I parked my car, got a room, rolled up a fat joint, and turned on the television.
For the next 4 hours the old man knocked on my door at least 8 times. I made enough money off this one guy to make it to the end of my journey safely. He was so hooked on my stuff, the last time he came over he brought all his quarters. I happily took everything he had to offer, except his wife which he did offer me but I kindly turned down, and shut off my lights for a short rest before driving the half-day it would take me to reach the Mile High City.
About ten minutes later I started to hear a commotion outside. The drugs must have been too much for the guy; he was on the sidewalk screaming something about the CIA and black paratroopers waiting outside his back window. It was only a matter of minutes before some small town cop would show up to arrest him and search the whole place. This didn't bode well for the old pirate ninja, as he had been in and out of my room all night and a simple check of the security cameras would provide evidence to that.
I still had half an ounce of meth. I went to work quickly.
There was an old flathead screwdriver in the bottom of my backpack. I have no idea why it was there, no doubt for unlawful purposes, but it was about to come in handy. What I was about to do, no one reading should try.
I turned off the lights and unscrewed the casing on the switch. There was just enough room to stash the meth and small amount of weed I had left. As I was getting the screws back in, I seen the red and blue lights pull into the parking lot. I placed the screwdriver back in my bag, sprayed some cologne so the place didn't smell like pot, got back in my bed, and waited.
Sure enough, less than twenty minutes later I got a knock on my door. Sure enough, it was the cops. Sure enough, they wanted to ask me questions. Sure enough... they had to search my room.
Apparently, the manager hadn't told the full story. The cops knew I had come to the motel with the crazy guy and wanted to question me about it, but had no idea he had been in and out of my room all night. They didn't seem suspicious that I was the one who gave the guy the dope, but more that I was on it myself.
After telling the officer that I had only met the dude earlier that day and only then to ask him where I could find a cheap motel, explaining that I was on my way to my mother's house in Denver, and allowing them to check my pupils and search the room to satisfy their curiosity, they left.
I got 3 hours of sleep and was outside of the city limits by dawn, as instructed by the police because it would be my best course of action, or 'what I would do if I was in your shoes..."
Everyone just be REAL Quiet!
Great acid parties aren't planned... they usually happen when too many people take too much acid to safely leave a place. During the late nineties, college for me, one night that place ended up being my grandparents house, which they had left to me while I went to school.
It started out when three of us bought a shitload of acid and decided to make our money back, while tripping for free, and called some friends to sell it to. At first some chicks came over and wanted to try it out before they bought more. "Fine," I said, "Buy a couple of hits, drop, and if you like it, buy some more and take them to your friends."
It seemed like a good plan at the time. The problem with my logic is that everyone who came over afterwards saw a group of hot chicks on my couch and just never left. If you ask me now I would say there were at least 30 people, however in reality it might have been more like 15-20... everyone tripping balls.
I remember a few things before I seen the cop pull up. I know there was a group of people in the den tripping out on the old seventies carpet. A couple of people were in my room drawing on the wall. Someone had found a mouse trapped on a stickpad under the washer and that was making for quite the spectacle as well. Other than a light in the bedroom to the back of the house, everything was dark or badly lit, music was low, and folks were mostly just wandering around.
I was lost in the window sill and it took me a few seconds to realize I just witnessed a cop pull up to the drive. If you have ever suddenly had something really important to do while you were tripping on acid, you will understand the panic that set in at that exact moment. The first thing that came to mind was "EVERYONE DOWN!"
However, it didn't quite come out like Arnold yelling for a chopper. I did my best impression of a ninja and crawled to each room, explaining that we all had to be quiet and still, as the cops were at the door. Everyone in the house was strangely receptive to the idea. It took a minute or two for the officer to get out of his car, and by the time he was walking up to the door he was facing a dark, cold, quiet house.
Despite everything in the world not on my side, no one made a sound. I sat on the linoleum with my back to the door. Every time he knocked, hard like the police do, I felt earthquakes going through my body. He hit the door twice, then everything went quiet...
It was at least ten minutes before I realized the cop had just left. Or maybe ten seconds. Who knows? And I'm not even really sure if there were still drugs left in the house. Time and more drugs have killed any other memory I have of that night, save one. I remember sitting on a chair on top of my bed at an early hour of the morning. I don't know why, but it made sense at the time.
When you are 22 years old, Fridays still mean something. To me, this one particular Friday meant I was throwing a keg party. Those days I had a liquor bar set up where any normal person would have a kitchen table. And it was full. Of liquor.
These things start out innocently enough. Only five or six people were there when I brought the keg home. We mixed some drinks and had a few beers. Then some weed came and we fired it up. By the time the sun went down I was halfway to toasted.
I made a mistake people frequently make when they are throwing a party; I told everyone. to be sure I told too many people. As soon as darkness hit people were showing up in droves.
My apartment was only a one bedroom. It wasn't very big at all. I had both the bedroom and living room full of people before 9 o'clock. Someone brought another keg. As far as specifics, it was all too hazy to remember.
All I can discern is that I was standing in the corner of my kitchen getting ready to roll a huge blunt. I had about 2 ounces of weed all broken out in front of me. That is about an ounce over the state of Colorado's limit for walking away with a ticket. Someone yelled 'COPS!"
You may be asking the same thing I was asked for weeks afterwards by my friends; "Why the oven?" Honestly, there was just nothing else around. I had 150 people in my place, at least half underaged drunks, a pile of weed in front of me, I was shitfaced, and in just a few seconds I would have to talk to the cops. The oven was literally all I had.
So I shoved it all in and answered my door.
I knew I was fucked, and I spent the next half hour paying for my sins. I was looking at some tickets for sure, possibly jail... depending on what they found. Everyone who was underage was sent home. This left about ten of us after everyone else left too. I was written a ticket for violation of a noise ordinance and drinking underage, even though I was 22 at the time.
The police agreed to let me keep the keg but they took the tap. The search for drugs had come up fruitless except for some painkillers I had left over from an injury that they made me flush down the toilet. They also didn't write me a ticket for the bong they found with the condition that I break it in front of them.
They left me with nothing. Or so they thought. By the time they left there was only about five of us there. I went to my oven and one of the other guys went out to his truck. He brought with him a brand new tap still in plastic and I dumped 2 ounces of weed on the coffee table.
The stupid fucking cops never looked in the oven. They also never checked the bar fridge. It was still stocked with liquor.