The Accidental High

I'd known Eric casually for over a year. So, when he heard that I'd lost my job and offered to help me find gainful employment at his current place of business, it seemed like a good idea. The catch was that this gainful employment was over three hours away; I'd need to move. I'll spare the details, but there was a romantic interest tied up in this, and I wound up moving in with him.

Eric was living with family, and they were willing to have me there for a modest monthly stipend, which was good for me . . . except that I didn't know his family. So I asked him if there was anything I needed to know before I set off: topics to not bring up, family politics, etc.

"Everything's cool. Don't worry about it."

I knew I only had money enough for a one-way move, so I wanted to make sure this was a good idea. I asked him again, as open-endedly as possible, "Is there anything at all I should know about before I come down there?" He insisted there was nothing I should be concerned with. A week later I pulled up to the front of his house with less than a hundred dollars to my name, unpacked my things, unhitched my car, and returned the rental truck.

I met his family that night as we sat down to dinner. His step-father was congenial, his sister bubbly and cheerful, the pets playful. Most of the family smoked, and they smoked in the house - a blessing in southern Florida in the middle of a sticky, hot, humid summer. As we lit up cigarettes after dessert, I felt confident that this would work out rather well. We were all getting along, our personalities seemed to mesh, and we were rapidly growing comfortable around one another.

Looking back, I have to say I'm a bit flattered that Eric's step-dad felt comfortable enough that first night to show off his glass pipe, pack a bowl, and offer me the first hit. Stoners, in my experience, tend to be a pretty mellow bunch, but the intelligent ones are usually still a little hesitant about revealing their illicit tendencies to people they barely know. And Eric's step-dad was quite articulate and well-read.

Looking back, I think he thought Eric told me he chain smoked pot when he got tired of popping Vicodin for his various painful ailments, so he didn't think I'd freak.

But that's looking back. At the time, I was barely able to play it off as being no big deal. I was in my early twenties and had been relatively sheltered from drug culture in general. I had, at the time, these abstract academic ideas about drug use which led me to think that I'd be fine with people who used the more "minor" drugs like marijuana. The reality was a sharp contrast to my academic fantasy, however, and I suddenly got an idea of just how screwed I was.

I had no money whatsoever. I didn't yet have the job. I'd already returned the truck. I didn't have enough gas in my tank to leave, even if I abandoned my things. I knew no one else out there. I didn't want to find out what my alcoholic father would think of my predicament, and I didn't want to get an "I told you so" speech from my mother, the Queen of Bad Judgement; I was too proud to call my folks and ask them to bail me out. I was at the mercy of my hosts - a family of pot-heads whose only sober member hadn't seen fit to even hint that rampant drug use was a norm when I'd asked if there was anything I needed to know before moving in.

I kept my cool by looking towards the light at the end of the tunnel: The Job. I figured I could pick up the job, hoard my money, and bail as soon as I had a few weeks of pay under my belt.

I hadn't anticipated the monumental incompetency at Eric's job, however. I hadn't considered that even though I'd completed a telephone interview and had a tentative offer on the table, they would keep me waiting for over two weeks for the mandatory face-to-face interview. I breathed a sigh of relief when that interview finally came, but relief turned to dread when they handed me one final piece of paperwork to take care of.

A drug test.

While waiting to get to this point, I had been killing time by watching day-time t.v. and surfing the Internet, smoking cigs, and drinking cola from the comfort of a house equipped with central air conditioning. Due to the location and weather, the air was running 24-7, constantly re-circulating the air throughout the entire house. And cigarettes weren't the only thing Eric's family smoked in the house on a frequent basis.

I got back, drug paperwork in hand, and asked Eric's step-father where the local head shop was. He'd figured out by now that I wasn't interested in joining this particular hobby, so he had no idea why I'd want to go there. I explained that I wanted to get a detox kit; he asked why. I explained that the way I figured it, if one can get cancer from second-hand cigarette smoke, one can test hot on a drug test from second-hand pot smoke. Eric's step-dad assured me I could not. Eric's step-dad's friends assured me I could not. Eric's sister called me a dumb-ass. Eric said he'd never heard of anyone testing hot from second-hand exposure.

I told them all I was paranoid and to humor me.

An hour later I pulled up to a small shop decorated with psychedelic teddy bears, beaded curtains, and black lights. A cloud of heavy incense wafted from the front door as I entered. The clerk behind the counter was very discreet and professional throughout the entire transaction, even though it had to have been painfully obvious that I was incredibly out of my element in his establishment. I learned that in the Adult Novelty Industry, such products are called "body purifiers" and that they are used to "remove inadvertently ingested environmental pollutants". So that worked out perfectly for me. I wound up purchasing a pint bottle of chlorophyll-colored stuff which was guaranteed to remove "pollutants" from urine within four hours. It was also guaranteed to ensure such "pollutants" stayed out of urine for three hours. For forty dollars, I sure as hell hoped so. Ever the professional, the clerk even knew where the "pollutants" went, since they had to go somewhere, and was also nice enough to let me in on the side effects:

"This product moves ingested pollutants into the muscles, where they're quickly metabolized. Of course, you're encouraged to drink the water to help flush them out of your system more quickly. However, if there are enough pollutants in your body, you may feel ill as the purification occurs."

Translation: If I've got enough THC in my system, this stuff will actually make me high as a kite.

I paid my money, got to the parking lot, and opened the package. The directions recommended drinking the "purifier" chilled - and wouldn't you know, this establishment had possessed enough forethought to store these things in a cooler next to the soda pop. I twisted the cap and took a swig as I pulled into traffic.

I nearly rear-ended the traffic in front of me as I choked. This stuff was horribly disgusting, far worse than anything I'd tasted before or since. The only thing I can think to compare it to is the week-old water used to launder the Jolly Green Giant's jock straps.

I'd managed to force down the contents by the time I pulled back into the driveway. I rushed into the house and chased it with two more bottles worth of water from the tap to get the taste out of my mouth. I'd have had more, but I already felt like my stomach was far too full and I could only assume that regurgitating the diluted wash water would merely be a waste of my money. I hopped on the computer and chain-smoked cigarettes until I'd peed enough to make room for more water. Along the way I looked back at the directions.

In addition to the green stuff, I had to ingest at least eight more bottles of water. I was down by two, which meant six more to go. No matter how much more I drank, I still couldn't get the taste out of my mouth. I think it was my fourth go with the toothpaste when I heard the familiar belly laugh most folks associate with tinned string beans and corn nibblets. I sighed and refilled the bottle. I knew it was working because it was obviously cleaning the nicotine out of my system faster than I could replace it. Lighting up was akin to a sheet lightning enema; I took this to be a good sign.

By late afternoon, I was finally within that magic window when I could safely piss into a little cup and not be branded a junkie. I had finally finished the water as well, but had taken a store-brand bottled water for the sake of appearance. I mean, I'd been on other drug tests before, and every one at every test had a bottle with them. Distending one's bladder at a drug test is as American as apple pie.

And hey, apple pie sounds really good right about now . . .

I glanced at the clock radio, noted the time, and realized I'd not eaten since breakfast. I'd put off eating because I didn't want food to interfere with the detox, so it was no wonder I was hungry and starting to feel light-headed. I had plenty of time to pull into a drive-thru and grab a quick snack on the way to the lab, so I placed an order and waited my turn to hand the cashier my money.

"New glasses, huh? They suit you."

" . . . What?"

"They look good."

"Oh, uh, yeah, thanks . . ."

"Your eyes are still dilated. I guess you just got done, huh?"

I pulled up a few car lengths, went through the motions of checking my order, and then pretended to check my hair. I flipped open the little mirror on my sun visor and swallowed hard.

I didn't know pupils could open so wide that the iris disappeared. I looked like a Grey Alien.

I was horrified. Utterly horrified. I knew they look for stuff like this when you go in for these tests, and I just knew there'd be a note about this on my paperwork which would negate anything my crystal-clear pee had to say about it.

As I pulled off, my stomach rapidly filling with equal parts lead and french fries, I had a vision of a small plastic cup screaming up at the nurse, "I'm not a junkie!"

I snorted.

The cup started doing sobriety tests to prove its point.

I giggled.

The cup was staring nervously at a teddy bear as it pulled out its wallet.

I lost it.

I was five minutes from the lab, twenty minutes to close, at the point of no return, and stoned out of my mind. I was laughing so hard I was crying - amazing, considering I thought every last ounce of spare water in my body was at that moment exerting impressive amounts of pressure on my pelvis.

I managed to compose myself before walking in and decided that, if asked, I'd stick to the story of the eye exam. I wasn't asked. Instead I was handed a clip board and a skeptical glance and told to wait. I got another skeptical glance from another nurse when I went back for the test, but I managed to get through it. I left, got in my car, pulled out of the lot, and held it in for about a block before losing it all over again.

As it turns out, I passed the test, got the job, hoarded my pay, and left like a thief in the night a month and a half later. But that's a story for another time.