Leaving Isn't the Hardest Thing(64)

I’m lucky this is my problem with buying drugs. There’s little chance I’ll get pulled over on the way home. If I do, it’s unlikely a cop will search me. If he finds drugs, I probably won’t get worse than probation. Seems a little cavalier considering I’ve actually been to jail. But it’s been a while.



* * *



—

   After jail, I was as paranoid about cops and drugs as a QAnon believer is about the deep state. I treated that paranoia the same way I dealt with my fear of snakes. I learned everything there was to know, which wasn’t all that hard since I’d accidentally made friends with a cop. (I mean, he wasn’t a cop when I met him.) But being friends with a cop meant hanging out with cops because cops are like the kids in high school who lived at the mall. They cannot be alone.

Cops watch COPS and talk about cop stuff and ogle pictures on the Internet of cop cars and trade cop patches and unironically argue donut brands. (Do not, if you ever find yourself surrounded by cops debating Krispy Kreme vs. Dunkin’, ask if they hold strong opinions on bacon. It’s like making a zombie-Jesus joke around Branch Davidians. Your chances of being shot for it are about the same.)

As a friend of a cop, I went on ride-alongs to watch cops be cops—mostly run the plates on any car they deemed suspect. A suspect car, according to cops, is any car that looks different, driven by anyone who looks nervous or Black. And any car with a Cowboys bumper sticker if the Redskins lost last night. (I’m not kidding. Imagine the most rabid sports fan you know. Now give him a hangover and a gun. Might be wise to remove your bumper stickers.)

This is what I learned from my research: Cops are dumb as shit. They’re insular and thin-skinned and get off on making people cry. They’re misogynists. They’re racists. And they don’t generally give a shit about pot. But pot has a strong smell and they’ll use the excuse if they need to make quota, or if they don’t like you.

   Mostly I learned that I cannot be friends with cops.

I can, however, drive a boring vehicle and keep it reasonably clean. I can live in cities where weed busts aren’t a priority, because even in a state like Texas, a local liberal electorate has a little bit of sway over cop priorities. And I can make sure I’m never carrying enough for a felony. Felony busts are worth a lot of points on a cop’s monthly quota.

What I’m saying is I live in Austin, and the only time I carry anything close to an ounce is driving directly home from a dealer’s shitty studio apartment. And having driven a work van for ten years with a complaint number on the back of it, I long ago lost the inclination to speed. I fucking use a turn signal pulling into a parking space. That’s not to negate the main reason I feel safe: I’m white. And I can scrape together enough for a lawyer.

That doesn’t mean it’s not a pain in the ass to have to sit on a waterbed in a cloud of patchouli listening to Ryan tell me I’ve never really heard Fleetwood Mac. I mean, really heard them, you know?

It’s always some guy named Ryan or Greg or Brad. Waterbed guy’s a Ryan. As far as Ryans go, he’s not the worst. Last Ryan I had was back in Virginia, right after I’d quit my bar job to move to the suburbs. That Ryan had a pet lizard and a lot of questions about my sex life.

After pet-lizard Ryan, my next guy was a Brad who owned a pet snake. And I hadn’t yet gotten over my fear of snakes. A good rule is if your new pot dealer has a pet snake, find a new pot dealer. He’s going to make you watch him feed the snake. It’s only a matter of time. But I had to keep going to Brad because he was my girlfriend Autumn’s buddy from back in high school.

   He and Autumn talked once about how he’d make a great sperm donor. But he wanted to do it naturally. Autumn never mentioned it to me. Brad made it a point to fill me in while I watched his on-screen character bum-rush another heavily armed soldier, then teabag the corpse. The shirtless guy on the couch laughed.

There’s always a guy on the couch—shirt optional—smoking free pot. The couch guy rarely talks. He mostly sits there, breathing heavily, fondling the Xbox controller in his lap, trying to hide the fact he’s in love with Ryan or Greg or Brad. Anytime a couch guy does talk, I immediately miss the heavy breathing.

This guy—who had opted out of the shirt—was waiting for Brad to go into the bedroom to get the pot so he could ask me the next question on his list of shit that douchebags on couches ask lesbians: “Like, if you’re using a dildo, what’s the difference anyway?” He’d have to wait until next time. Brad wanted me to watch a squeaking mouse drop to a certain death in a terrarium.

I managed to leave with the bag before the snake felt hungry.

I was glad I was already stoned. Pot dealers like you to smoke on arrival. It makes them feel safe. It makes me feel a little less like screaming.

I was buying pot to numb the panic attacks. I didn’t know they were panic attacks at first. I knew sometimes I couldn’t breathe and the world closed in around me. I knew a simple thing like a roommate playing the radio while cleaning the apartment or people talking over music at a house party could overwhelm me, cause my hands to shake and my skin to piss sweat. I knew a smell like patchouli or rotten leaves could make me hide in a bathroom to beat my fists against my legs and vomit. I knew if I smoked before I lost the ability to flick a lighter, I might be okay. I knew this all began after some drunk asshole raped me back when I was in the Air Force. I just didn’t like naming the problem. Naming the problem felt like acceptance. I was fine. I smoked a little pot. Who doesn’t.