Disclaimer: as before.
So, there we were in frozen Grande Prairie, Alberta. It's minus 45 and not a whole lot to do after a day freezing out butts off knocking on doors. The stoner in our crew, Andy Bailey, had inexplicably neglected to bring any weed on the road this time, and he was really regretting it (and we could certainly have used the entertainment too). "Let's go score some weed," he said.
"I thought you've never been here before," I replied. Let me point out to you again what a relative innocent I was. I had been a pretty straight-laced teenager until very recently, and the idea of trying to find a source of illegal recreational drugs in a strange city seemed about as realistic to me as panning for gold, only more dangerous. Not to mention crazy. OK, let's mention it. "Andy, are you crazy? Where are you gonna find weed in Grande Prairie?"
"I noticed a strip bar when we were driving into town. Let's go there."
"To look at strippers?"
"No! To score some weed, dumbass! For sure someone there'll have some."
"Andy." I tried my best to be the voice of reason. The voice of maturity. The voice of sanity. "We can't just go to some strip bar in a town where we don't know anyone and walk up to some total stranger and ask to buy weed!"
"Sure we can. Let's go." Andy started pulling on his parka. Seeing me hesitate, he said in exasperation, "Oh, come on! Just come with me. I'll do everything; you just be there. You can sit and watch the show," he added with a smile.
I followed him out the door in a haze of horror and confusion about the spiralling chaos my until recently well ordered life was rapidly becoming. We left behind at the motel room Mitch and the rest of the crew watching TV and laughing at my discomfort at having been drafted as Andy's wingman for the expedition.
We drove to the strip bar, parked, and went in. Now, as a hormone-filled 21-year-old, this was not necessarily an undesirable (or, for that matter, unheard of) place for me to be, but given my shy and innocent nature, being there with a friend and coworker was a bit awkward. Nevertheless, I played it cool. Andy told me to sit down while he went to look for a likely mark to make his purchase.
So I sat down. My heart was beating in my throat, both at the sight of the . . . um . . . naked . . . heh, heh . . . ladies on stage, as well as the knowledge of the illicit business that brought me there that night. If only my parents could see me now, I thought. From university to trolling for pot at a strip bar a thousand kilometres from home in no time at all! This is quite a life I've scratched out for myself.
I had hardly had a chance to think these thoughts when Andy came back to the table and said, "Come on. Let's go."
"Huh?" I could be pretty articulate at times.
"We're good. Let's go."
"What? You got weed?" The last word was barely whispered. "Already?"
"Yes," Andy slipped into his slow 'I'm-talking-to-a-retard' cadence. "Let's go back to the motel room and smoke it!"
"Oh. Uh. Okay."
Nossir, never a dull moment with Andy Bailey around.
So, there we were in frozen Grande Prairie, Alberta. It's minus 45 and not a whole lot to do after a day freezing out butts off knocking on doors. The stoner in our crew, Andy Bailey, had inexplicably neglected to bring any weed on the road this time, and he was really regretting it (and we could certainly have used the entertainment too). "Let's go score some weed," he said.
"I thought you've never been here before," I replied. Let me point out to you again what a relative innocent I was. I had been a pretty straight-laced teenager until very recently, and the idea of trying to find a source of illegal recreational drugs in a strange city seemed about as realistic to me as panning for gold, only more dangerous. Not to mention crazy. OK, let's mention it. "Andy, are you crazy? Where are you gonna find weed in Grande Prairie?"
"I noticed a strip bar when we were driving into town. Let's go there."
"To look at strippers?"
"No! To score some weed, dumbass! For sure someone there'll have some."
"Andy." I tried my best to be the voice of reason. The voice of maturity. The voice of sanity. "We can't just go to some strip bar in a town where we don't know anyone and walk up to some total stranger and ask to buy weed!"
"Sure we can. Let's go." Andy started pulling on his parka. Seeing me hesitate, he said in exasperation, "Oh, come on! Just come with me. I'll do everything; you just be there. You can sit and watch the show," he added with a smile.
I followed him out the door in a haze of horror and confusion about the spiralling chaos my until recently well ordered life was rapidly becoming. We left behind at the motel room Mitch and the rest of the crew watching TV and laughing at my discomfort at having been drafted as Andy's wingman for the expedition.
We drove to the strip bar, parked, and went in. Now, as a hormone-filled 21-year-old, this was not necessarily an undesirable (or, for that matter, unheard of) place for me to be, but given my shy and innocent nature, being there with a friend and coworker was a bit awkward. Nevertheless, I played it cool. Andy told me to sit down while he went to look for a likely mark to make his purchase.
So I sat down. My heart was beating in my throat, both at the sight of the . . . um . . . naked . . . heh, heh . . . ladies on stage, as well as the knowledge of the illicit business that brought me there that night. If only my parents could see me now, I thought. From university to trolling for pot at a strip bar a thousand kilometres from home in no time at all! This is quite a life I've scratched out for myself.
I had hardly had a chance to think these thoughts when Andy came back to the table and said, "Come on. Let's go."
"Huh?" I could be pretty articulate at times.
"We're good. Let's go."
"What? You got weed?" The last word was barely whispered. "Already?"
"Yes," Andy slipped into his slow 'I'm-talking-to-a-retard' cadence. "Let's go back to the motel room and smoke it!"
"Oh. Uh. Okay."
Nossir, never a dull moment with Andy Bailey around.
