Well, I barely remember my own name, and I almost grew a full beard, but I’m finally back from the “quick” jaunt down the street to grab a paper and coffee. Yes, leave it to me to run out of coffee on National Coffee Day.
This young girl was in there, high school age, who probably lives on her own or something, judging by how much she works. She’s a sweetheart, I mean that, I feel bad for her always being in there. Sometimes she’ll see me in my chef’s pants when I’m just getting off work and she’ll run a hand through her hair… I can tell she notices people’s idiosyncrasies.
But today I went in there it she was, ho hum, another customer, I want no part of any of this. Right before I go up to the counter with my stuff, this one-foot-in-the-grave type old dude stumbles in and orders like 20 lottery tickets. I’m surprised Indiana even has taxes, with how much money people blow on the lottery. She’s out of certain tickets, so he opts for different ones, as if there’s some big difference… they might as well just stamp “Dumba**” on your forehead the second you buy one of those things. It takes the girl forever, and she at most half-annunciates any of her words, with a sort of porcelain, glazed-over look in her eyes. She gets up to me and I complain about the price of the coffee and she just sort of giggles. I tell her they’re out of like two of the five sizes and she’s like, Oh yeah, I’ll go fill those in a second, very laid back.
I realize that this is a crappy job this girl works, but one that I utilize every day. To me this job is more important than police chief, a position which makes headline news today. But then, I’m an anarchist. I’ve just never seen what would happen if there were no cops… with them, we still have wars, rapists getting paroled to make room for weed dealers, brutality on the streets, ever noticed that?
As I’m parting, since I’m sort of dumb, and sleep-deprived, I make some comment about the change I got. I might as well have asked this girl about nuclear physics.
I still remember working at the Kroger lil’ gas station… it was almost an insufferable job for the un-stoned. Under the reefer, I’d end up talking in vampire voices, and making people laugh — night and day.
We’re getting to the point in our country where the question becomes — not, Should weed be legal, but, When, and where, should the average person be stoned. For one thing, marijuana prevents cancer. It’s a plant in the ground. Go figure. Nothing is more conducive to cancer, I doubt with a couple notable exceptions like coal mining, than working in a Speedway gas station. You’re cramped, so you get poor circulation, you’re one of the biggest tobacco vendors in the area (although sadly Indiana is absurdly stocked with tobacco vendors), and I doubt there’s any food in there that isn’t processed. Marijuana becomes an humanitarian antidote, in such a situation.
I work as a line cook. I cannot do my jobs stoned. At my jobs, there is more than one thing going on at a time; it involves a constant application of prioritization and critical thinking, and I learned the hard way that marijuana just makes you ease up, when sometimes easing up is not the immediate objective. Marijuana makes you content, like, looking at the plumage of a peacock for all of eternity. It’s not very helpful toward a corporate tycoon’s ability to sell a product, or an image, hence, probably, its long-time illegality.
For whatever reason, I wait a long time at a gas station, I’m not that bummed (especially since that girl isn’t too bad to look at, sorry, if I’m to be punished for that comment I have full faith that said punishment will come), I wait a long time for food in a restaurant, I, and I think anybody, gets a little antsy. Ironically, I think, being a host or hostess stoned is pretty feasible, given some Visine. I cannot speak to waiting tables, because that is a very hard job I happen to not be good at. I’m not a good fake-smiler. So if I tried to wait tables stoned, I could probably smile all the time, make people feel good, but then would I forget about certain tables, walk right past them? I have a feeling.
Marijuana aids repetition; it makes repetition seem less repetitive. I guess, repetition is a factor in everybody’s life, to an extent, but I personally try to minimize it in mine.