Mad with Reefer

Summary

In 1977 State College, the narrator struggles with living conditions due to his pothead roommates, Les and Ray, leading to a search for a quieter living space.

Abstract

The narrator, sharing an apartment with Les and Ray, faces constant disturbances from their excessive marijuana use. Despite initial agreements to keep noise down, the roommates' all-night smoking sessions, loud music, and guests disrupt the narrator's sleep and studies. The situation becomes untenable, prompting the narrator to seek new lodgings with a 90-year-old landlady who provides a much more peaceful environment.

Opinions

The narrator is not entirely against marijuana but prioritizes health and education over its use.
The roommates, Les and Ray, are depicted as inconsiderate and unable to moderate their behavior despite promises to do so.
The narrator views the roommates' behavior as a consequence of their excessive cannabis use, labeling them as "mad with reefer."
The narrator's decision to move out implies a strong preference for a quiet and studious living environment.
There is a hint of nostalgia and humor in the narrator's recounting of the events, despite the inconvenience caused by the roommates.

A roommate story

State College, 1977, was the setting. I shared a two-bedroom apartment with Les and Ray, two guys from Pittsburgh. Both had their flaws. Les had body odor, and Ray used to clip his toenails in the living room while we watched TV.

The problem. My roommates were potheads.

I knew they smoked pot before I agreed to share the apartment, but I didn’t realize how much. They smoked around the clock. Getting high was a priority; going to classes was something they did when bored or by accident.

I was not against marijuana. I smoked pot throughout high school, listening to bands like Deep Purple and Blue Oyster Cult. But when it worsened my asthma, I stopped. College and my health had become a priority, not passing around a joint.

“Guys,” I said one day. “Can you please keep it down at night when I’m sleeping? I have an early Chem class tomorrow.”

“Sure, we’re cool,” said Les.

“No, problem, dude. We’ll tune it down,” Ray assured me.

That night I crashed at ten. They were in the living room. I soon woke up to nonstop laughing. Pot smoke floating under my door. Different voices, other than my roommates, reminiscing about a Dylan concert. A female voice periodically let out a loud orgasmic shrill. I heard bags of chips opening and smelled Doritos and guacamole. The music gradually grew louder as the marijuana smoke got thicker. The bass from a Jimi Hendrix record pounded the floorboards.

I had enough.

“Guys,” I said. “I thought you agreed to keep it down so I could sleep?”

Les, with eyes blurry and bloodshot, said. “Dude, I thought we were keeping things cool?”

“Yeah,” said Ray. “We made sure to turn down the stereo.”

I realized at that smoky moment that I couldn’t reason with stoners. They may have good intentions, and they may be good people, but they were mad with reefer and couldn’t help themselves.

I lived with Les and Ray for a semester, which felt like an eternity. I found a quiet room in a Victorian house on College Avenue. A 90-year-old woman was the landlady who went to bed at 8 p.m. The loudest she ever got was when she watched the Maude TV show and soaked her feet in Epsom salt.

Mad with Reefer

A roommate story

Words Like Kudzu

They grow on us