I had been tossed out of my house by my parents a few weeks earlier, but was still in that phase were it was fun. I was couch surfing with friends, not going to school, partying hard and sleeping around. Things would get tougher, but they hadn't yet.
I was in a public park sitting at an old rickety picnic table. It was a midweek morning and the park was nearly deserted, but I was in a spot with a lot of bushes around just in case. I had decided to light up and leisurely rolled myself one, then sparked up, sat and watched nothing while the weed did its deed.
It was a relaxing moment. Pure freedom. I didn't have to be anywhere. I sat and daydreamed and smoked my joint with not a care in the world. At some point I saw the small movement out of the corner of my eye which brought me to quick attention. I was shocked when I turned my head and saw the young woman watching me.
The woman was perhaps late-20's and blonde with a bun-backed hairstyle that might have been at home on a woman twice her age. Her cheeks and nose were bright red from the cold and she was wearing a long wool overcoat against the freezing winds. She wore sensible flat shoes over exposed white calves- no socks or stockings. Behind her she pulled a small cart of the kind my grandmother had used when she was alive more than a decade ago. It was filled with bagged groceries. Celery and carrot stalks attempting to escape from the bag like the cover shot from a grocery store flyer.
She looked like a church lady come to save my soul. The whole town was filled with boring, nosey and vanilla people like this and always had been. I expected nothing more than the cold look of disapproval that these people majored in. Here I was with my "slept in her clothes again" look and carrying a bundle with bedding, doing drugs on a park bench at a time when I should have been doing something productive.
Remarkably though, she had a smile on her face- shy but warm as if she was reliving an old pleasant memory. When she realized I had seen her, she was embarrassed and apologized for intruding. Abandoning her cart, she took a few tentative steps toward me. I hurriedly worked to roll up my small baggy of weed and hide it. Internally I debated whether to toss the joint or try to save it - but either way I intended to flee.
She sensed this and said simply "Please don't leave.' in a sweet voice.
The woman took few more steps toward me. The smile was still there and she was no threat - I could have dropped her with one punch - so I resigned myself to a few minutes of the "God has a plan for you" sales pitch while I gathered up my things in a less hectic manner.
I was surprised when instead she said "I was wondering - can I have a few hits of that?" and then with a bigger smile added "Please? I can pay you."
Well, that was a surprise.
A small part of me sensed entrapment. The idea of getting paid for pot was a prison term then. I was intrigued though, so I waved her over and used my lighter to re-fire the spliff, taking a slow deep hit as I examined my new doobie mate. I passed it to her and she hit it like and old pro, not choking as I expected as it was winter weed and really harsh. Instead she blew it out easy and went for two, as natural as if she did it all the time.
It looked so totally outside of what I expected that I just had to ask "You aren't from around here are you?"
The question caught her off guard and she laughed, and the laughter did cause her to cough, my little quip making her choke in a way that the pungent smoke had failed to do. She giggled a no and explained she had grown up in Southern California and has recently moved her with her husband.
That was crazy. No one moved *to* this piece of nowhere - especially not from Southern California. To us Iowans California was a fantasy place we would never see outside of television. I thought that was so cool and said so.
"I hear they have the best weed there."
"I wouldn't know" she retorted. "I'm a good little Mormon girl and I never was around such things."
She said it in a teasing manner like I was supposed to understand the humor in it. I really didn't. We had a few Mormons out in the rural areas and some in the rich part of town but I'd never actually met one. I was stoned and never much on admitting my ignorance. I let the joke slide and we just smoked for another minute.
We had only started with a half a joint anyway and it was quickly cashed out. She asked me if I had any more and re-iterated that she could pay me.
I looked over at her unattended groceries and asked if she didn't need to get them home so everything would stay cold. It was a joke really and we both knew it. It was so cold outside that the groceries would likely freeze solid if left much longer. She laughed and I sensed she was cool, so I took a shot.
"I don't really need your money... Well, I mean I need it - but I need a shower more. Do you live somewhere close where I could take one? I'll trade you. Would that be cool?"
(I had spent the night in a friends parents Winnebago, but wasn't allowed to use the facilities.)
I looked up at her. Usually when I ask this question I either see distrust and revulsion (when I asked women) or lust (when I asked men.) With her I saw confusion, so I pressed her, promising I would just take just a few minutes and then go. Then I promised not to touch or steal anything.
Her look went from confusion to amusement - I could tell she wasn't even thinking I might steal something - and then to resolve. As an answer she got up from the table and motioned me to follow her. She grabbed her cart and we headed down the street.
Her home was a small single-story clapboard house indistinguishable from others on the street other than the telltale coat of paint that said this was a house either up for sale or recently sold. No one bought paint otherwise.
Inside the décor was a work in progress. You could tell they were recent move ins. The living room was small and cheaply furnished. The small kitchen table practically blocked the view of the tv from the sofa in the living room.
I sat down at the kitchen table and went to work on the ritual of rolling another joint. Her housewife tendencies kicked in and she efficiently put away the groceries. We made a real study in contrasts - me removing stems and seeds while she checked a sell-by date then unceremoniously dumped last weeks' bad milk down the drain. She finished her tasks a bit after me and took a minute to turn on the exhaust fan above the cook top before sitting down to smoke with me.
We made small talk, and I was first with the "what the hell" question. "What the hell is someone from California doing living in Iowa?"
She explained that her husband was fresh from college and that the shipping company put him in Charles for experience. It was a good opportunity that would help his career and he wouldn't be there more than a few years. She said she would make the best of it or at least cope. Charles "wasn't that bad.
Her question back was "What the hell are you doing living like a hobo?"
My answer back was that my parents tossed me out of the house as my 18th birthday present, and my only regret was that my sister was probably getting all the unwanted attention from Dad that I had been getting for years.
