"Dream" Blunt Rotation

It's Easter Sunday and I'm 2,000 kilometres from home. Feeling alone and homesick, I don't know what to do with myself. I look at the calendar. April 20. Interesting. I decide to call an old buddy of mine.

The Dude answers in a panic. Trouble just seems to follow this guy. I try to calm him, but it's useless. Something has him riled. I tell him I'm coming over.

I get on my bike and pedal across Los Angeles. Dude's house is in Santa Monica. Its quaint size and agreeable lawn remind me of the importance of keeping a good relationship with my landlord.

Dude answers his door in a tizzy. I try to cool him down, but, as I enter the house, I smell the odd stench of urine.

"It happened again, man."

"What happened?"

"Lebowski, man. His goons. They pissed on my rug."

I look down. Sure enough, on Dude's precious rug, the one that ties the whole room together, is a distinct circular stain, still wet. My feet are danger close to the stain. I take a step back.

Dude is furious. He tells me he wants to confront Lebowski right now, but I try to be the voice of reason.

"Dude, you're too fired up. Just relax."

"Relax? He pissed on my rug, man!"

"His goons did, but yeah. Still, I have an idea. You know what today is?"

This question throws Dude off. "Today? What, I don't know. Easter?"

"April 20."

This stills Dude. He looks at me. "4-20?"

"Come on, Dude. Let's spark one and forget about this. After the holiday, we'll go see Lebowski."

"You're right," he says. "There's only one problem. I'm fresh out."

I notice his ash tray, full of smoked roaches. The jars on his kitchen table are empty. Sunday and a holiday; the dispensaries are surely closed. We'll have to go old school. Who still sells reefer? That's when it hits me, like a monkey out of a bottle.

We pile into Dude's Ford Torino and start driving. I direct him toward El Segundo.

We arrive at an old apartment building. I buzz the archaic buzzer.

A hoarse, lethargic voice comes through the intercom. "Yeah?"

"Saul, it's me. Let me in."

"Alright, man. Come on up."

The buzzer buzzes and I reach for the door. I pull, but it's still locked.

"Come on, man," says Dude.

Embarrassed, I buzz the buzzer again.

"Saul. It didn't work. Try again."

He buzzes, I pull, but our timing is still off. Dude lets out an exasperated huff.

I buzz the buzzer.

"On three, buzz me in."

"One, two, three, go?"

"Just on three."

I wait three seconds. There's the buzz, I pull, the door opens. Nailed it.

The door to Saul's apartment opens and two men walk out. Saul, in his pyjama pants, grey shirt, and headband, gives them an unenthusiastic goodbye. When he sees us, his mood immediately changes and that classic stoner grin crosses his face.

"Saul, this is Dude. Dude, Saul."

There's a moment of kindred spiritualism between them, Saul with his faded grin and Dude with his black shades covering his eyes. They recognize each other's souls, as if they've walked separate paths through life, but are still mystically connected. Dude removes his shades and their anesthetized eyes meet.

"Hey, Dude." says Saul.

"Nice to meet you, man."

We enter Saul's pad. The gross yellow wallpaper and the exhausted furniture are the same as ever. It's a cluttered, quiet-chaos mess. 227 is on the television. It smells like incense; the type that's used almost exclusively to mask the smell of chronic.

"Such a busy day," says Saul. "Everyone is loading up. Happy 4-20, by the way." We all sit down and Saul silences the TV. "What do you need?"

"My friend needs to take his mind off things."

"Something happen?"

"They pissed on my rug," says Dude, trying to mask his sadness.

"Someone pissed on his rug."

"Whaaaat?" drawls Saul, followed by a long and very awkward pause. "Did they follow you here?"

Dude and I look at each other. We don't think so, but how can we be sure?

"No," I say, looking back at Saul, in an attempt to calm his paranoia. It works.

"Cool, cool. Well, don't worry, guys. I have just the remedy."

He reaches into a little drawer that is under his coffee table. He rummages through lighters, pipes and rolling papers, until he pulls out his solution.

"It's double appropriate, today," says Saul.

In his hand is a t-shaped joint, one fat doobie intersected by one smaller doobie. The Dude looks at it, in total fascination.

"It's a cross joint," says Saul, with a big smile on his face. "Loaded with Pineapple Express. Hands down the dopest dope I've ever smoked."

He hands it to Dude, who studies it like a scientist would study a new specimen.

"How do you smoke this thing?" asks Dude.

Saul launches into his explanation of the process for lighting the three ends at the same time and how the smoke correlates in the middle to create a trifecta of cannabis smoke, resulting in the ultimate hit.

Saul gives us both a conspiratorial glance. "Wanna smoke this thing?" he asks.

I'm not a big stoner. Besides being friends with Dude and Saul, I tend to stick to the Miller Lites. The Dude is looking at the cross joint like a kid looks at presents on Christmas. I'm already feeling more than a little nervous. I know I'm rolling with two heavyweights and considering the last time I smoked I ended up believing I was outside of the space-time continuum, I wasn't sure I could hang. Still, when your friend is having a bad day, you gotta do what you gotta do.

I give a thumbs up. Saul reaches back into his drawer and produces three lighters. He hands us each one.

Dude puts this crucifix-like joint in his mouth, and we both crowd him with our lighters at the ready. We give each other more conspiratorial glances and then Saul gives us the signal.

"Blast off."

The three lighters spark in unison. Slowly, the multiple ends ignite and start to burn. Dude pulls hard, the embers on each end turn cherry red and the papers begin to burn back. We extinguish the lighters and Dude finishes his hit.

He holds the joint and his breath. Saul and I watch, with eager anticipation. He exhales a colossal cloud of kush smoke. He takes it like a pro: calm, cool, collected.

We wait for a response.

"So?"

Dude's eyes squint together, something seems to be changing in him. He goes to breathe in but faulters, a flurry of coughs burst from his mouth. Saul starts cackling. Dude reels back in his chair. He passes the joint to me.

"Good shit, right?" asks Saul.

In my hand is the burning effigy. I'm looking at it and I feel like it's looking back at me.

"It's not gonna smoke itself," says Saul, in between giggles.

They say you shouldn't trip if you don't want to trip. Like if you go in with a bad head space then you're going to stay in a bad head space. I was anxious, nervous, and very scared. But peer pressure is a powerful thing. I put the cross joint to my lips and inhale as hard as I can.

I try to take the hit cool like the Dude, but I am not him. Before I can even begin my exhale, the coughing starts. Smokes blows out of my mouth, nose and even a little out of my ears. I feel a buzzing rush of pressure on my temples, as I clench my eyes shut and try to let the feeling pass. My lungs feel like they're in a forest fire. I open my eyes and feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. I lean back and feel the weight of an anvil on my chest. The two top-tier stoners look at me with a hint of concern.

I try to say, "I'm good," but all I can muster are some weird mouth movements and the waving of my hand. Saul gently takes the joint from me.

Time passes. How long? I do not know. I'm afraid that I am, once again, outside of time and space. Saul is beside me on the couch and Dude is on a chair to my right. We're watching reruns of 227. The episode is running at a pace that feels at once way too quick and way too slow.

My legs feel like they have become tree trunks and my feet are the roots that connect me to Earth. There is no way they can move. I'm stuck here. My palms are grossly clammy. My heart is beating at an insane resting rate — at least 150 bpm. My mouth is a cotton field. And my mind. Where is my mind?

While the other two are quietly watching 227, I'm looking at the portrait hanging on the wall. A young, short-haired Saul hugs his jubilant grandmother. I am locked in on grandma. She's so old. Saul is so happy. Their smiles are mesmerizing. I'm quietly panicking. I want to reach out and touch Saul, warn him that I'm tripping hard, but I can't move my hands. I'm completely locked, in a purgatory of the voices of Regina King and Helen Martin, and Saul's grandmother reminding me of time's finite essence.

After what feels like hours, the episode of 227 finally ends.

"Check this out," says Saul. He takes a remote, pauses the TV, and presses another button. From his surround-sound speakers blasts "Peaceful Easy Feeling" by The Eagles.

"Huh? Pretty cool, right? Surround sound," says Saul.

I can only hear him. I'm still staring at the portrait. The old lady's eyes are piercing through to my soul.

"The Eagles, man?" says Dude.

"Hell yeah."

“Can we listen to something else?”

"What? Why?"

"I hate The Eagles, man."

"You hate The Eagles? You hate The Eagles? How can you hate The Eagles?"

"Aw, man, can we just listen—"

This tension is not helping. Their argument escalates and they're both on their feet. Going back and forth, blocking my view of granny. Kind of rude, tbh.

I must've made some sort of noise, because they both stop their argument to look at me.

"You okay, man?" asks Dude.

I try to find some words but my voice trembles. I only mutter some odd sounds.

"Oh, shit, he's greening out!" exclaims Saul. “We gotta get him out of here. We're gonna save you! He needs fresh air. Help me with him.”

Before I know what's going on, Dude and Saul hoist me up and carry me to the front door like I'm a wounded soldier.

I can barely walk. My knees keep bending in this weird, bouncing motion. My mind is racing too fast to form coherent thoughts. Just as one thought comes to mind, another comes to take its place.

We reach Dude's car. They pile me into the back. Saul takes shotgun. Dude drives.

With the window down, the car slowly cruising, I start to feel better. The fresh air and the L.A. breeze works wonders. That is until Saul pulls out another joint.

"Come on, man, he doesn't need that," says Dude.

"It's an indica! The Pineapple Express was all sativa. No surprise, he's freaking out. This will bring him down," says Saul as he sparks it.

He passes it back. I try to turn it down but I've lost control of my hands. They automatically reach forward and I take another nauseating hit. It's less intense than before. I think my body is exhausting itself. I pass it forward to Dude.

We arrive at Hollywood Star Lanes.

"What are we doing here?" asks Saul.

"Bowling always helps me calm down," says Dude.

"Bowling? It's so boring, man."

Dude just grumbles and gets out of the car. Saul follows suit. They almost leave me behind, until they remember, half way through the parking lot, that I'm still in the back seat. I am non-verbal and immobile. They open the door for me. I look at them and they look at me.

"Coming?" asks Dude.

I don't know how, but my legs start to move and I follow them through the lot to the bowling alley.

At the lane, I start to feel a bit better. The alley has a inexplicably calming effect. We start bowling. Well, they start bowling and I sit and wait for this feeling to pass. Watching Saul and Dude bowl in their rhythmic way also helps steady my mind and heart. My hands start becoming less clammy. I can feel my legs again.

The late-stage high mellowness starts to kick in. Dude goes over to the bar and brings us back some Miller Lites. The cold beer feels good in my mouth, but swallowing is a challenge — I'm still in manual mode. I really have to think about it to make my mouth and esophagus work together. After a few rough sips, they start working in tandem again.

I'm finally starting to feel like myself again. How long has it been? Two hours? Two days?

Finally, using my own autonomy, I stand up. My two friends look at me.

"It looks like he's back, man."

"I told you the indica would work."

"That wasn't it."

"Mind if I bowl?" I ask, my voice steadied, my mind slightly calmer.

I take a ball and approach the lane. The ball feels like it's a hundred pounds. I muster up my strength and approach the line. I wind up and toss. Gutter ball. I can't help but laugh.