Content piece

“You got five bucks?” J used to ask me almost every day. 

I usually saved my money for Spicy Doritos or fries and a lunch pop. J was after something different though:

He was trying to get high.

Every time J asked if I had “5 bucks” it made me think of that song by Luniz. J was the kind of kid who always asked if I had experienced something on weed. 

If I told him I had watched a new movie, he’d ask:

“But have you seen it on weed?”

If you’ve ever watched Half Baked, then you might remember Jon Stewart’s character asking Dave Chappelle the same thing.

Grade 9 in high school was a weird time. I was one of the first kids to go through puberty the year before, and I towered over the rest of the guys in the school photo. This year, I was easily average at best. My buddies had come back as literal monsters after the summer break, with extra facial hair, and new baritone voices to match.The only thing I had to show for my development was a great tan and longer hair. My now non-existent height advantage would no longer be useful during pickup b-ball. I had gotten my braces off that summer break as well, so a decent smile was about the only other thing I had going for myself for the start of my high school career. 

Grade 9 was also the year I’d lose my shit smoking weed for the first time.

My teachers always said I’d be a great student if I could just focus in class and do the work. The issue was that I never found anything interesting to hold my attention - unless they were girls of course. The only classes I found interesting (which showed in my grades) were English and Music. During a lesson on Emily Bronte and why writing about furniture having its wooden legs exposed symbolized the allure of the bare ankles of a woman, the new kid Lazlo turned around and asked me if I knew J.

The weird thing about him asking me if I knew J was that Lazlo had only been in our class for about a week. His family was from Nicaragua. His accent told me he hadn’t been in the country all that long either. I knew this because my family had similar accents having emigrated from Chile decades before. I said I did know J and smirked at him because I had a feeling I knew where this was going. 

What I didn’t know was that Lazlo would provide the setting for my first encounter with the Devil’s Lettuce.

Like we did on typical Fridays, we students were mostly talking about what we’d all get up to for the weekend. I was still figuring out where I fit in among the student tribes that were forming when J excitedly asked me if I had any plans for the weekend. Since I was thirteen with no job, once I conquered my chores, I was free to do what I wanted.  I asked him if he had anything in mind. He smirked and said that we were going to go to Lazlo’s house on Saturday and to make sure I brought 5 dollars with me.

I spent my formative years growing up in a suburban area east of Toronto. The houses there were very much cookie-cutter and aside from the colour options, it would be hard to tell one apart from the other. Lazlo’s house was the typical red-brown brick that was often the default option, so it didn’t stand out from the rest of the houses for any particular reason. I met J at his parent’s house and his mom dropped us off in the early afternoon at Lazlo’s.

Entering the house, we descended into the basement where vibrant disco lights danced to the rhythm of blaring hip-hop from portable speakers. It felt reminiscent of street corners, where preachers shout: 'THE END IS NEAR!'

One of Lazlo’s older brothers was gearing up for a party, dressed in what he deemed his best attire. The room resonated with Cypress Hill's 'Boom Biddy Bye Bye' as I settled onto a lavish, black leather couch, trying to absorb the vibe. 

The basement lights were a dim yellow that forgave changing disco lights that kept moving around the room. So many things were happening around me, the music making it hard to hear what others were saying,  that by the time I accepted the joint from J who was already sitting next to me, I didn’t even have time to ask what it was. 

I mean, I knew. How couldn’t I? I was nervous and excited. I had heard other high school kids talk about how cool it was and how crazy their experiences were but I hadn’t felt that for myself yet.

Back then, weed wasn’t legal in Canada. Buying it was like playing Russian Roulette—you never knew if it would be White Rhino, Northern Lights, or if you were lucky Sess. The surprise came only after someone bought the weed.

It was already lit, wrapped in Zig Zag rolling papers. Unsure of the proper grip, I lightly held it between my index finger and thumb, bringing it to my lips. Following J's advice, I took a deep, long pull, attempting to hold the smoke in my lungs as he suggested.

Almost as if on cue:

It felt like I would never breathe again when J tapped me on the shoulder and said I could let it out. One of Lazlo’s brothers had picked up a mic and started doing his own karaoke over B-Real’s lyrics almost in sync.

It hit me immediately. I didn’t have to ask what would happen next or how long it would take.

The disco lights seemed to melt together, spinning faster, and the bass from the music kept pounding my chest. Every time I tried to breathe in, another bass note would punch my chest and I’d get less air than I wanted to. I felt the cushion next to me sink in and when I looked over, an older dude that looked a little like Lazlo would if he was in his 50s, sat down next to me and asked in Spanish, “How is it mijo?”. 

I stared back at him and then at the joint in my hand, the smoke snaking up to the ceiling. I turned and looked at J who found my expression hysterical, when Lazlo came up to me and told me to relax.His dad was cool with it.

I was being swallowed into the couch and felt like I couldn’t control my breathing when J said we should head upstairs to eat some snacks. When we got upstairs there was a massive TV in the living room in front of where dining room table, next to the kitchen. 

Elmer Fudd was singing opera while Bugs Bunny, adorned with pigtails, flirted back by batting his eyelashes coquettishly. I got stuck watching Elmer chasing Bugs around when J passed me some chips to munch on. 

As I crunched the fried potato slices, it echoed like the sound of waves crashing against winter rocks. These crispy treats quickly became the most delicious thing I'd ever eaten. I couldn’t stop. I don’t remember how many there were in the bag before I got them handed to me but there wasn’t any left by the time I realized I was still licking my fingers trying to get more flavours off of them. 

Lazlo had joined J upstairs and was already sitting on the couch in front of the TV when his laughing caught my attention. He kept saying that Elmer was crazy and couldn’t get why Elmer didn’t recognize Bugs in drag.

J said to me that it was time to go. So followed up to the front door to get our shoes on.

I was on autopilot when I thanked Lazlo for having us over, and the next time I blinked we were already on the edge of the street, standing on the curb waiting for a gap in the 4 lanes to run across to the other side. With my weed goggles on, I couldn’t figure out the right distance of things. So when J said it wast time to go, I ran across the street with him screaming bloody murder, thinking I was barely avoiding traffic. J was cracking up laughing at me when we made it to the other side because it was a weekend, early in the afternoon, with little to no cars on the road.

We walked together to his house when he started coaching me on how to survive meeting his dad. He had already asked me to come over for dinner so being this blazed out of my mind was going to be trick. His instructions were to just pause every time someone asked me something, to answer something simple without going on too long.And above all, he said not to laugh. “Be serious”, he said.

When we got inside his house, I shook his dad’s hand and kissed his mom on the cheek. I think I managed to say something charming because both parents laughed at something I had said and welcomed me into their home. I found my place at the kitchen table where all the plates and glasses had been set. It was announced that we would be having pasta for dinner. I was happy with the choice because it was favourite dish of mine and I was a pick eater. Still am. What I was surprised to hear though was that it was tri-colour pasta. The kind that had green and orange noodles next to the standard white.

I smiled and accepted the plate graciously. It looked wild and smelled amazing.

I started stirring the pasta around to mix the sauce in after adding more parmesan cheese than needed on top.

The pasta seemed to squirm on the plate, its tomato sauce making the colours blend as they moved when J’s dad asked me if I was ok. I started to smile and laugh out loud when I realized he was asking me something. 

All I managed to reply with a goofy smile was: “Huh?”