“His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy…”
These Eminem lyrics kept repeating in my mind as I walked towards a dispensary for the very first time. Weed is completely legal in Oregon, so I had no reason to fear I was doing anything that would get me into trouble. However, an entire lifetime of being told that marijuana was one of those evil “drugs” that only “bad people” used, that it was the gateway substance that opened a path straight to hell, and that anyone who smoked it was a loser with no future had kept me from even thinking about trying it for decades.
Allow me to rewind for a moment. I grew up in rural Mississippi, deep in the Bible Belt. My parents were ultra-conservative Christians who believed that the only reason for staying out late on a Saturday night was to get more intimately acquainted with Lucifer so that one’s eventual one-way ticket to hell (which was apparently purchased by staying out past 10 pm) was a bit more comfortable. My dad would sit back, sip his third beer, and then calmly pass judgment on anyone who would partake of “that evil plant that kept you out of touch with reality.”
Eventually I looked at that scene play out on his back porch and thought: “…wait a second.”
My first moment of doubt had occurred even earlier even that lightbulb moment on my dad’s back porch, however. A friend of mine who was a conservative Christian police officer, in a state where marijuana was illegal, who attended the same church I did, posed a question to me once that I thought was completely insane: “If you had a child get hooked on weed or alcohol and you got to choose between them, which would you pick?”
No one had ever asked me anything like that before, so I had to pause. How could I even answer this question? No one had ever asked me whether I would prefer to have a million dollars or a million corn dogs before either, and to me, this question was right along those (completely absurd) lines.
“Uh… alcohol?” I answered, hesitantly.
“Why?” He immediately asked.
“Because it’s legal?” I replied.
“Wrong answer.” Then he just stared at me, waiting for the question he knew was coming.
Finally, I gave in. “OK, why in the world is that the wrong answer? You want your kids to do something illegal?”
He chuckled a bit, like he expected me to come back with something like that. “No, but legality really has nothing to do with it. You get a guy drunk and very commonly he’ll want to fight – most of our calls involving people getting into it with each other involve alcohol. You get someone baked and all he can think about is making out with a bag of Doritos. We never get calls for someone beating their wife because he smoked a joint. As far as the effect it has on someone’s personal life, or on society as a whole, every cop I know would answer that question by saying ‘weed,’ hands down.”
Mission accomplished. My mind was blown.
That conversation stuck with me over the years. I joined the Air Force as an officer and so the question was moot for years, but when I became a civilian and settled down in a state where it was legal, I eventually got to know people who smoked weed.
They were… normal.
In fact, they were usually better than normal. While other people their age were getting drunk and barfing all over couches, getting into fights, and generally just acting destructive, every person I met who smoked pot just laughed a lot. Really, a more accurate description would be to say that they giggled. They ordered ridiculous amounts of delivery food. They watched stupid TV shows and engaged in philosophical discussions – often completely ridiculous discussions, but the point is that it is outright hilarious to be around people who are baked, but being around people who are drunk is often less than pleasant.
There’s a reason why every bar has a bouncer, and the main concerns dispensaries have are no different from any other retail business that deals exclusively in cash.
All of these pieces of the puzzle slowly fell into place for me. Eventually, I decided to visit a dispensary and see what this whole thing was about.
Despite my nervousness, when I walked into the store I was pleasantly surprised. No demons with pitchforks awaited me; no satanic music blasted over loudspeakers; in fact, there was a complete lack of anything seemingly “evil” about the place. The most outstanding feature in the room was a massive Great Dane who slowly ambled over to me and rubbed his head against my hip. I scratched his back and, while I chatted with the girl behind the counter, the dog and I quickly formed a lasting friendship.
My eyes wandered over the cases of green buds and the huge number of bongs, pipes, and hookahs that filled the place. I got the impression I was in one of those eclectic tents you find scattered around county fairs which are filled with all sorts of colorful glass hanging ornaments and lawn decorations. The employees chatted good-naturedly with everyone who came in the shop, even those who didn’t end up buying anything. The smell of weed hung in the air, and I had the sneaking suspicion that everyone who worked there probably smoked pot on every break. Realization slowly dawned on me, and I looked down at this completely relaxed, good-natured, horse-sized dog who hadn’t left my side. Was it my imagination, or was that goofy expression really a completely relaxed grin? WAS THIS DOG HIGH? If he was, he certainly didn’t seem to mind. As far as dog heavens go, this fellow seemed to have found one.
My nervousness and apprehension fled; by the time I had been in the dispensary for five minutes I felt as comfortable as I did in a sporting goods store. After a while I ended up buying some rolling paper to make joints with; a friend had already given me a few buds he had grown, so I didn’t even buy any weed on my first trip. As I walked out the door I glanced back, and my buddy the dog was moseying over to another customer to make another friend. A smile spread across my face, and I knew it wouldn’t be too long before I was back – and next time, I’d probably stay for a while.
– Satisfied in Springfield, Oregon
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