A winter’s rain part 1

     We were somewhere around Johnston on the edge of the forest when the drugs began to take hold.  I remember saying something like " I can really drive on these edibles."    Everything was slipping into the rural reality of Rastafarianism.  I had one, maybe two Rastas in the car.  I was driving for an MC, Artem to go and see his dad, who lived in coventry where they still have a no tolerance policy for Marijuana use.  It was a 40 minute drive. It was quieter there in the backwoods than in the city, and Artem opened the window and smelled the air.  " The air is cleaner out here" he said.  In the passenger seat was a Trinidadian navy man named Harold.  He was a good copilot, quiet mostly, but there when he needed to be.  

    It was almost 2:30 and the winter rain was starting to come down.  "We should stop at that Buddhist temple!" I said.  I was wondering if I was on the Hippie trail and I didn't know about it, or maybe the temple was a trap for frivolous drug addicts.    I was starting to realize that I was going into virgin territory.  "Have another cereal bar." Artem said.  The car smelled of raw marijuana, purps, to be sure.  We had two ounces of marijuana, a gram of the purest Molly,  a couple ounces of shrooms, two cobalt salt shakers half full of cocaine, a bag of cereal bars, two sheets of owsly, a package of heroin, and a pitcher of raw ether.  Artem was a consummate pharmacopeist.  "We're gonna smoke my Dad out”  Artem said.  Gerald, Artem's father, was an OG waster.  He was at Woodstock, and the famous Newport folk festival where Dylan had played electric.  He was rumored to have gained much weight, a fact that would create a problem later.

    We drove along cute country roads with wood houses.  One house had quaint decorations and I said "If I see a general store, I'm spinning around."  Artem chuckled.  Then there was a spooky little swirling uphill.  "I'm worried Leatherface is gonna get us."  The houses were victorian, little foreboding steepled roofs.  one was purple.  Somehow Artem knew exactly how far away we were from Gerald at all times.  He called and told him we were ten minutes away.  I thought he lived in Cranston.  We pulled up at the housing community,  and that's when Artem told me that we couldn't go inside.  A lady who apparently worked there asked what we were doing there.  Me and one, maybe two Rastas.  "Here to visit Gerry Mortimer." I said.  She said we had to park farther up.  Gerry eventually came out.  He didn't look that fat to me.  He got in the car.  He seemed to be mildly catatonic .  He was wearing a horrible pair of green plaid flannel sweat pants.  He just chuckled along with the conversation. 

 I stopped at a tobacco store, where a nice Jewish lady sold me a pack of squares.  I was very conscious about the way we looked but everybody we passed by seemed very nice.  We clocked in our destination at the Dunkin Donuts.    Gerry didn't seem to know where we were going, so I said "do a search for Dunkin donuts and if it's more than 15 minutes away I'm going back to the community."  I was worried about driving home on these crazy backroads in the dark.  Artem punched it in and we were there in five minutes.  I was glad that we had a place to hang, so we didn't need to smoke in the car.  Huffed some Ether on the way in.  Gerry was having trouble leaving the car so we all helped him into the coffee shop.  Artem insisted he didn't have enough money to buy himself a drink, but he bought one for Gerry, and they brought me a cold drink by mistake so I gave it to him, and things worked out well.  I showed Gerry, who had gone to Amsterdam in his glory days, my pictures from Amsterdam.  Eventually he said, "Who is this guy?" and Artem said "This is Schlepper, remember Schlepper?" and he said "Schlepper, is that still you?" and I nodded.   I stepped out to have a smoke and I got in full Fellini mode,  there was a brick and cobblestone factory across the parking lot.  it was small and very old.  Now that it's 2025, things built in the twenties are a blast from the past.  They came out and we licked some acid and smoked a joint.  I was eager to come down a little to drive, so I got another coffee.  I got Harold to walk over to look at the factory.  It was rainy and Artem and Gerry didn't want to get wet.  We walked over, Harold complaining all the way.  When we got near the factory we saw a bridge, cobbled together from strips of iron.  "Here is a bridge, should we cross it?"  We looked back at the Dunkin donuts,  Gerald was on the floor.  "We should go back.""  Harold said.

    The old man couldn't keep upright, probably due to the ether.  "The acid should kick in eventually and give him some energy." Harold said.  I started to worry about being caught by the cops.  Artem was telling everybody his dad was stoned on some strong marijuana, which I guess did the trick because people seemed not to mind.  "should we call an ambulance?" I said.  Artem insisted that Gerry was OK.   With the coffee I was feeling ready to drive.  Gerry could not get up off of the floor.  I was worried that my dad would have to detail the car after Gerry sat in it after sitting in salt on the floor.  I didn't see any police circling so I was encouraged.  They picked up Gerry but he couldn't walk.  They were struggling with his weight, so I put out my cigarette and went behind him, hauling his considerable bulk onto his feet.  I broke away to see his plaid sweat pants had fallen down partly.  " I fucked your Dad!" I exclaimed. I think they came down after I had let him go.  I checked the front of my p-coat for feces particulate as they carried him to the back seat of the Camry, I didn't find any.  Finally they got him into the car.  and we pulled out.  we were ten seconds down the road as we saw flashing lights behind the car.  It was the fuzz.  The car smelled like raw marijuana and we were somewhere, who knows, in the boon docks.

to be continued