The Marijuana Diaries

The Marijuana Diaries You never really have the types of friendships you have when you’re young. Fleeting moments of time splash by, like waves upon a dwindling shore. Like many teenagers, I really didn’t believe my parents understood me, or, for that matter, even knew about the things I was going through. Hell, I had no idea and I figured everybody was as lost as me. So, in the summer of ’93, I decided to take an extended camping trip in the caves next to the quarry. You see, the old rock quarry had been abandoned for years and it had been filled with water ever since the bottom had eroded away to reveal natural spring water. About a mile down the road, Lake Ontario had a little dry-dock shipping yard. Across the street and uphill lay a little patch of forest and within the forest, a small steppe with a cliff of limestone that hung over the treetops. At the very top were the caves. Each cave connected through tunnels that you could either walk through or crawl through; a virtual catacomb of little rooms. The entrance was about the size of the mast on some of the sailboats across in the boat yard. These were sailboats no larger than 40 feet and therefore had a mast about the same height. The “Great Room”, or G.R., as it would come to be known, was a large entrance that was a doorway of sorts to the other caves inside the limestone cliffs. It was here that I would have my extended camping trip. It was here where our story begins. I had been camping in the caves for a little over a month. I actually had a part-time gig at a local pub and school on the side. Since it was summer, I spent more time at the pub. I washed dishes in the back and sometimes helped when things got a little discombobulated and chaotic. The law said you weren’t allowed to serve unless you were 18, but the boss was an old Irish man by the name of Pearce. Pearce was one of those good ol’ Irish lads who followed the rules when they suited him, but was not adverse to bending or even overstepping a few here and there. He stood about six feet tall and had dark hair that was sprinkled with grey. Pearce had a kind mannerism about him, but also a heated Irish temper – you didn’t want to cross him, that’s for sure! So it was at Pearce’s I would find myself behind the bar, handing off beers and mixed drinks – our staples. Now, I may have been too young to be in a pub and definitely too young to be serving, but I considered it education. Old Pearce was always generous when it came to night’s end. He always sent me home with six cold bottles and the line, “Four for you and two for the girl, it’s a done deal.” “It’s a done deal” was kinda his thing. He’d end any kind of saying or thought he found to be intrinsic with that line. Many a night he handed me the same small carton of bottles and said the same thing. It actually was a godsend to a teenage boy – beer and a pub to work at! With one phone call at the shift’s end, my friends would meet me in the G.R. They knew my hours and we had the timing down pat. Davidido (pronounced Da-Vid-Dee-Doe) worked with his father in the summers. His father owned a shipping company. Tractor-trailers mostly, but some long haul vans as well. In the summertime, Davidido would wash and was in charge of upkeep on all the vehicles. His father worked him hard and was stern, but ultimately, he was a very fair man who was always mindful of Davidido’s best interests. Davidido was a slender, but athletic looking Italian. He had perfect olive coloured skin that the girls went crazy for. He had been told many times that his smile was his best feature. All the Boyz just figured that his darker complexion made his white teeth pop and we busted his balls for it – as good friends do. Davidido had a strong work ethic, but, like us all, he would get wild with a phone call. We all had a bit of a wild streak and that suited us just fine. Davidido’s house was around the corner, about a 20 minute walk, 15 minutes from the quarry. After I phoned Davidido, he’d usually meet me at the G.R. and arrive before I got back from work. Ramon was another one of “the Boyz”, as we liked to be called. He’d always meet me at the back of the pub and we’d walk back to the G.R. together. He lived on the other side of town, but always seemed to be there just as the night began to open its eye upon us. His mother worked with my mother as a nurse down at the local hospital. His dad taught at the college in town. He spent the summer landscaping, so in the afternoon, he would take off early and sleep all of the evening away just to wake up and meet up in the wee hours of the night. (Technically the morning, as we closed around 1a.m. each morning and I was done around 1:30 - 2a.m., so it would have been the morning eye opening upon us.) All I know is that it was dark and then the light would come with the new day’s dawn. Ramon would be off to work and Davidido and the Boyz would crash out until noon. Ramon was the hard one. Tough as they come and sharp as a whip. He had a wit about him. Davidido and I found ourselves laughing at anyone who tried to take the piss out of him, because we just knew Ramon would have the last word and it would obliterate the other guy. Luey was Pearce’s younger cousin. He was the same age as us and was part of our crew as well. He was with us 80 percent of the time. The other 20 percent was spent either with his girlfriend or on some little solitary adventure. Luey was about five and a half feet tall and looked like a younger version of Pearce. He had the dark hair, except his was not yet sprinkled with grey. He had the look of a young dark haired Irish lad, but he was 100 percent Canadian. One time, he met us all at the G.R. and told us about the night before in which he was supposed to meet us, but got lost along the way. As the story goes (after he’d originally made the embarrassing confession to us), he’d just done a handful of mushrooms before I rang him. He’d agreed to come on over and meet us at the G.R. As he was walking, the mushrooms began to take hold. He decided to grab a cool drink, as he said it felt like the summer heat was melting him from the inside out. So he went to the corner store along the way and the mushrooms really kicked in. The heat eventually felt as if it was overwhelming and even though it was early morning and the sun was nowhere to be seen, he felt as if he’d been under the sun in Miami on the beach for six hours without sunscreen – or so he said. So he decided to lie on the cool cement with his shirt up around his neck, so the cool cement could touch his bare skin. Now, I know how ridiculous this sounds to a sober mind picturing this, but he went on to tell us it was just then that Uncle Mike pulled up. Uncle Mike is not really a relative of ours, he is our local police deputy chief. Luckily for Luey, Uncle Mike has a sense of humour and a “boys will be boys” attitude. After explaining to Uncle Mike that he had run a fever earlier and taken some medicine with some cough syrup and was now burning up and hallucinating, he asked Uncle Mike for a ride home. Uncle Mike had a laugh and took him home. Luey’s father was home, but again, the lucky bastard, his father was a pretty cool guy and had been drinking himself that very evening. So, no words and no punishment. This was not unusual in Luey’s case – he did have the luck of the Irish! Ramon and I had to stop and pick up R.J. and Treefrog along the way. R.J. and Treefrog were also in our crew and lived by themselves. Though they were the same age as us, they had moved out of their parents’ homes and rented out an apartment down on the lakefront. (We were loved, but we also came from a latch-key generation where working parents meant a lot of time alone, so we matured and sought out our freedom.)