STONER DUDE

I went to the Post Office yesterday; I do that. I collect incoming mail at the box on my porch but when I send something, I drop it in the slot at the Post Office. It’s not about security or prying eyes, I just do it. I was sending tax stuff to my accountant. The envelope was heavy enough it needed to be weighed so I took my place in line. There were several people ahead of me and both of the attendants were busy, one with a group of four and the other with a couple. Shortly I realized that everyone was waiting, processing, jumping through the hoops for their pass ports. I was in no hurry so it never occurred to me that I could come back later. I stood there and it didn’t take very long for my mind to wander.  I don’t remember where it went but I do remember the reality of rejoining the present again. 

The odor was overpowering. When someone has been inhaling their cigarette smoke deeply, then they walk into a crowded room, unaware that their breath is a fog of exploding pestilence; it is just that, overpowering. The man was directly behind me. Tobacco is bad enough but this guy was so fresh off the toke I was convinced that his joint was still smoldering somewhere, waiting for him to return. My first impulse was to leave but I’d been in line for a while and I was there first. The Post Office lady appeared from behind a closed door and asked for everyone who was waiting for their pass ports to surrender their completed, official forms which they did. “I wonder how long this is gonna’ take?” The Stoner was male and his voice was as ragged as the smell would suggest. His comment was obviously intended for me but I didn’t turn. When I didn’t acknowledge his comment he continued, “Maybe I’d aught to come back later.” I ignored him again.  We weren’t going anywhere. The people at the counter were hung up on something, waiting for a computer to reboot or for providence to direct them, I don't know. The line wasn't moving. 

The lady came back and took two women from the front of the line, through the door and off to some secret place for interrogation or to have their picture taken, or tortured or something. My imagination can get away from me and it’s really easy for a short, mundane distraction to evolve into a full blown adventure. Shortly, “Oh, pass ports; I remember when I got my first pass port. It was back in ’65.” There was a short pause and then he chuckled as if remembering something funny or clever. Then he started humming and do-de-do-de-doing, all of which were accompanied by a new plume of bad breath. I sensed him turning away and moving toward the rack where express envelopes and priority labels were displayed. I turned, glanced enough to see the man’s profile. He must have been near my age, medium build, short gray hair and a weathered face. He was happy. I suppose I would be too. I was in college in 1965, just out of the service. ‘Weed’ was big then and even though it was illegal, it was available. But the smoking thing has never, ever appealed to me. I tried it for a few days with a friend and some stolen smokes when we were 11. I remember clear as can be, sitting in a big culvert under the road, looking at my smoking cigarette thinking, ‘Why am I doing this?’  It wasn’t fun and I didn’t like the smoke in my nose. Smoking ‘Weed’ was just another insult that my body didn’t need. Though I’ve encountered my share of second hand pot at concerts and parties, I’ve never nursed from the nipple. At this time of my life it’s almost embarrassing to admit, I made it through the 60’s without my curiosity taking me there.

We made eye contact. He looked me straight on and smirked a little smirk. He was really feeling good. I nodded and turned back to the front. The people ahead of me were getting anxious. Their conversation was muted enough that I couldn’t eaves drop but it was preferable to the dude behind me. Then I noticed the smell was gone. I turned and so was he. It would have been easy to condescend, to render good riddance but I didn’t. I wondered how many times I’ve scratched indiscreetly or picked my nose, offending someone with more refined sensibilities than myself. Once upon a time, I was reminded that when you point a finger at someone else, three of your fingers are pointing back at you. I think marijuana should be legalized and taxed appropriately. I’m glad the ‘Dude’ was pleased with himself. I was just inconvenienced for a few minutes and that kind of displeasure is a low price to pay. I’m well and relatively happy even though somebody else smoked all of my dope these past fifty years.