I’ve found myself embroiled in legal trouble again. I usually do little to get myself into it. But for whatever reasons I seem to become embroiled in the middle of some storm that requires me a lawyer to get out.
I don’t really like trouble. I prefer peace and quiet actually. But trouble loves me, adores me, and wants to spend the rest of its life with me.
Last week, and for the third time in my life, I looked out the window and saw my house was surrounded by police with their guns drawn. You would think that after the two other experiences it would start to be less surprising, but take it from me, it’s not. It surprised the hell out of me, especially because I had no idea why they were here or for who. I was reminded later of the time my friend and I got busted for having some pot.
I didn’t want the pot. To be honest, it’s not much my thing. I tried it in high school and again in college, listened to a bunch of reggae, and went on a late-night Taco Bell run, but it lost its impact on me after that.
I grew up in the country and farmers’ kids grew it on the south side of barns. It grew tall and stinky with little effort. They’d dry it and put it in mason jars and you could go dig your hand in there for 20 bucks.
My friend wanted me to do that. So I had him give me a ride to a farmer’s house and twenty bucks. I went in, dug my hand around like I was grabbing gumballs, put the sticky green in a baggie and headed out the door. I jumped in his truck and threw the pot in the middle console.
“Now take my ass home,” I muttered and took a cigarette out of his pack and lit it without asking. He started telling me a story on the way back about something and took his hands off the wheel. The car swerved briefly. A cop happened to be behind us.
The cop found the pot and we both got appearance tickets, neither of us claiming it was his. My parents were not very impressed. I tried to explain to them that I was just trying to be a good friend, that I wasn’t interested in pot or getting in trouble. It only made things worse. What I didn’t know was that this started a wacky string of events that eventually landed my friend in jail for murder.
That’s a different story for a different time.
So the other day after the cops had surrounded my house with guns drawn, I called my mother to ask for her advice, as I’ve had to do plenty of other times when odd things like this happen to me. She said, “You should probably go ahead and get a lawyer out there (I live in the Pacific Northwest, my mom in upstate New York) like we had the McClusky’s while you were growing up for your pot thing and your murder friend.”
My pot thing and my murder friend, so nonchalant and relaxed it just rolls off the tongue. If it was anyone else in the world there would have to be full explanations. But for those who know me, and not even as well as my mother, just those who casually know me, this is just another statement that actually makes sense in my life.
Cops with semi-automatic rifles trained on my bay window, my pot thing, my murder friend. Just another day, really.
I look at life with wonder and never as woe. I’ve come to expect these silly events that make people’s jaws drop in awe, wondering how the hell I got mixed up in something as insane as this or that. I’m a cartoon in the real world, haphazardly running through frames of life, constantly waiting for the next anvil to drop, so I can turn into an accordion, and wheeze my way to the next scene.
This post is republished on Medium.
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