Tahoe ’88: Summer Haze and The First Blaze

^{The following story is based on true events. Some names have been changed to protect the stoned.}

Nervous energy thrummed through me that July afternoon in 1988 as my buddy Tony and I hid behind the outside wall leading to the boys’ locker room. Sentenced to 90 days of summer school, I was about to get an education in the world of cannabis.

Ever the bohemian, Tony stood ready, dressed in his usual ensemble of a tie-dye shirt, 501 jeans, and Chuck Taylors. In his hand was a metal pipe loaded with resin—scraps of leftover weed he’d managed to scrape together.

I thought no time like the present, as I took the small pipe into my damp, nervous hands. Raising it to my lips, Tony gave me one last bit of advice, “Just inhale it slowly, and you’ll be fine.” He gave me a half-smile. My thumb hesitated over the spark wheel before finally striking it and placing the flame over the bowl.

The initial crackle of the resin and the sudden rush of smoke filled my senses, followed by an overwhelming burning in my chest as the resin spread its wings inside my lungs. Violently coughing, tears streamed from my eyes. Tony hissed, “Will you shut the fuck up, man? You’re going to get us busted.” Doubled over, desperately trying to catch my breath, I watched as Tony took three rapid hits off the pipe like a pro and then quickly tucked it into a leather satchel around his neck. By this time, the adjacent playground was teeming with summer school teachers and other students, and I was gasping for air just feet away, the aroma of resin wafting around me like a hippy at a Dead show.

Stinking like half-burnt resin, my eyes were as red as the devil’s anus and probably just as irritated. The lunch bell rang, summoning us back to class. For Tony and me, this was math class. Shit, I thought, how the hell am I supposed to sit through math class? I’ve never been stoned before or been around anyone while high. What if I freak out? Tony, ever prepared, put on his sunglasses, smiled, and said, “Will you fucking relax, man? You’ll be fine. Just do what I do and you’ll be fine.” I sarcastically laughed and said, “Yeah, right.”

Walking into that hot classroom, I was like the emperor with no clothes. All eyes were on me, or at least that’s how it felt. Looking for support, I turned to Tony, who was already cocooned in his sunglasses and a Walkman. He was no fucking help. Thanks a lot, asshole, I mouthed to him as I sat down at my desk in front of him. Now feeling higher than I was moments ago, my mouth felt like it was filled with gauze after a root canal. Unable to form words and unsure where to look, I told the teacher I was sick and then desperately tried to control the stoned thoughts and bursts of laughter that would escape me as the teacher droned on about math.

At one point, the teacher called on Tony to answer a question. Without missing a beat, Tony stoned out of his mind and pretended he was a foreign national who had no idea where he was. After a few moments, the teacher moved on. I still don’t know how we passed summer school that year.

With a few smacks to my back, Tony pulled me to my feet after class, asking, “You alright, man?” I could only answer in monosyllabic tones between coughs.

Stoned, I found myself wondering how did I found myself here? Three years earlier, I was thirteen years sitting in a dark hospital room in South Lake Tahoe, CA, and witnessing my brother John’s final battle with leukemia. I honestly believed that I would never experience happiness again after that day.

Later that afternoon, Tony and I walked to his friend’s house. When his friend learned I’d never smoked pot before, he enthusiastically broke out some green and loaded a small metal pipe, giving me the first hit. This was much smoother and tasted a hell of a lot better than the resin I’d choked on earlier. After three hits, I was completely baked, my eyes reduced to slits. I felt something I hadn’t felt since my brother’s death—a sense of happiness. I didn’t come to that grand realization until much later in life, but sitting there in that stranger’s little house near the lake, I found my lifelong partner: Weed.

Stumbling out of that dude’s front door, laughing my ass off and blinded by the bright afternoon sun, was one of the best moments of my young life—at least until we got back to Tony’s house and the munchies kicked in.

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