Reefer Madness

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Abstract

an accurate appraisal from someone who might know something. And I gave him my best estimate, which was that the drum was some thirty years old and in very good condition — and that it was probably worth a minimum of $300.The next day while I was gabbing with the owner of a taxi newspaper for which I wrote, I told him about this diamond that had turned up in the rough. And wouldn’t you know it, two days later, a dismayed passenger called the office bemoaning the fact that he’d left guess what in the trunk of a cab — and was offering a$ 300 reward for its return!Michael, having at least a thread of morality, took the guy’s particulars and called me. Even though he didn’t reveal to the man that he’d heard about his bass drum and had some idea of its whereabouts, I could tell he was having a problem with his conscience.“Achmed” (my cabby name at the office)… Guess what!” And then he told me about the caller and gave me his number to do what I saw fit with the situation. He didn’t want to join in the hustle. I myself was ambivalent — but in a moment of greed, decided I’d turn a buck in the deal.First, I went to the garage and asked the dispatcher whether he’d sold the bass drum — and if he hadn’t — how much he wanted for it. The answer was that the booty was still in the office — and it could be mine for $100, which I did not have at the time but would at the end of the shift.I pondered my options. How would I meet the owner and explain how I’d come by his property? Should we rendezvous on a corner? And how much would I charge him? The wh

Options

ole 300 bucks? For hours I contemplated the scenario to the point where I actually overshot a couple of destinations I was so preoccupied!At about midnight, a fare jumped in and asked if it was ok to smoke a joint. “Only if you pass it forward,” was my habitual and customary response. We smoked the pot and after dropping the passenger, I had my moment of conscience.“You thief!” I said to myself. “Are you really going to sell a guy his own drum? What kind of low life are you?” And with that, I’d made my final decision. At the end of the shift, I came clean to the dispatcher, telling him to call the office and get the owner’s number whereupon he could do what he saw fit.Personally — once I was high — I wanted nothing to do with profiting from this guy’s misfortune.Whatever the final outcome is not important. What matters is that smoking pot made me pause for a moment to get a grip on the right and wrong of the matter. The THC high hadn’t turned me sour. Quite the contrary. It transformed me into an honest man!So the next time a driver tells me I’d better not smoke pot with my passengers because it might impair my judgment, I’ll tell him he’s absolutely right! “Smoking that joint cost me two hundred bucks! After all…I’m out here to make money — not do the right thing!”Ok! Let me end this on a serious note. It shouldn’t have taken a marijuana high to bring me to my senses. But at least it did in the end. With the aid of a few puffs, I eventually did the right thing.</article></body>

Smoking pot turned me into an honest man

Cerquiera — Unsplash

This was written at least 20 years ago during my taxi-driving days. I know that because I opened the story revealing that I’m forty-something and I’m now 70.

As a forty-something dude who demonstrated against the Vietnam War in college, went to the Fillmore East the second night it opened, and CBGB the very first night of its existence, it should come as no surprise that I know a little about marijuana.

Now we all know from the movie “Reefer Madness,” that years ago the prevailing attitude viewed the ‘30’s pothead as a psycho — and even in this day and age, a few people still hold that opinion.

But mostly at this point, the majority realizes that not only is reefer a milder and less deleterious substance than alcohol (I use this example because it’s legal), but marijuana is also useful in the treatment of glaucoma, chronic pain, and nausea induced by chemotherapy.

What nobody has claimed is that weed can turn a crooked/scheming cabby into an honest man!

The story begins when I returned to the garage at 5 AM early one morning to discover that the dispatcher had purchased a pristine, vintage Gretsch bass drum from a cabby whose passenger had left the item in his trunk. The guy in receivership showed me the merchandise in search of an accurate appraisal from someone who might know something. And I gave him my best estimate, which was that the drum was some thirty years old and in very good condition — and that it was probably worth a minimum of $300.

The next day while I was gabbing with the owner of a taxi newspaper for which I wrote, I told him about this diamond that had turned up in the rough. And wouldn’t you know it, two days later, a dismayed passenger called the office bemoaning the fact that he’d left guess what in the trunk of a cab — and was offering a $300 reward for its return!

Michael, having at least a thread of morality, took the guy’s particulars and called me. Even though he didn’t reveal to the man that he’d heard about his bass drum and had some idea of its whereabouts, I could tell he was having a problem with his conscience.

“Achmed” (my cabby name at the office)… Guess what!” And then he told me about the caller and gave me his number to do what I saw fit with the situation. He didn’t want to join in the hustle. I myself was ambivalent — but in a moment of greed, decided I’d turn a buck in the deal.

First, I went to the garage and asked the dispatcher whether he’d sold the bass drum — and if he hadn’t — how much he wanted for it. The answer was that the booty was still in the office — and it could be mine for $100, which I did not have at the time but would at the end of the shift.

I pondered my options. How would I meet the owner and explain how I’d come by his property? Should we rendezvous on a corner? And how much would I charge him? The whole 300 bucks? For hours I contemplated the scenario to the point where I actually overshot a couple of destinations I was so preoccupied!

At about midnight, a fare jumped in and asked if it was ok to smoke a joint. “Only if you pass it forward,” was my habitual and customary response. We smoked the pot and after dropping the passenger, I had my moment of conscience.

“You thief!” I said to myself. “Are you really going to sell a guy his own drum? What kind of low life are you?” And with that, I’d made my final decision. At the end of the shift, I came clean to the dispatcher, telling him to call the office and get the owner’s number whereupon he could do what he saw fit.

Personally — once I was high — I wanted nothing to do with profiting from this guy’s misfortune.

Whatever the final outcome is not important. What matters is that smoking pot made me pause for a moment to get a grip on the right and wrong of the matter. The THC high hadn’t turned me sour. Quite the contrary. It transformed me into an honest man!

So the next time a driver tells me I’d better not smoke pot with my passengers because it might impair my judgment, I’ll tell him he’s absolutely right! “Smoking that joint cost me two hundred bucks! After all…I’m out here to make money — not do the right thing!”

Ok! Let me end this on a serious note. It shouldn’t have taken a marijuana high to bring me to my senses. But at least it did in the end. With the aid of a few puffs, I eventually did the right thing.