February 19, 2020

Not Getting Stoned

Writer Dani Shapiro says she is a memoirist with a really lousy memory. I, too, have a lousy memory.

I remember the stories I tell but have no real memory of them occurring. They exist only in the telling.

They exist only for the telling.

The truth often relegated to spectator status. Especially if the truth interferes with a good story. A fabulist, I fear, a more likely label than a memoirist.

I turned 60 this year and am much more sanguine about my faltering memory.

My standard apology for a forgotten acquaintance used to be, “Sorry, I did a lot of drugs in my youth.”

Delivered with the sly and knowing grin.

But the truth is that I did not do a lot of drugs in my youth.

I did none.

Nada.

Not, in the immortal words of Monty Python, a sausage.

My brain not savaged by years of cannabis consumption.

I just don’t remember you.

Nor do I have stories of all the times I have been wasted.

There have been none.

I can only tell you about these three times I did not get stoned.

I am 11.

And for reasons still very much unclear, my immigrant parents have allowed me to walk to the community centre on a Saturday night in order to hear a band.

Fairview Village is a bedroom community on the West Island of Montreal. My father bought the house, 199 Place des Pins, for $22,500. I look up the street on Google and it does not appear to exist anymore.

I do not remember what I had for dinner two nights ago but I remember our phone number, 626-1220.

My father, an educated man who spoke seven languages and who revered books more than people, borrowed a wheelbarrow and carted boulders from the backyard in order to lay down new sod.

We were walking distance to the park, which had a swimming pool, baseball and football fields, and a community centre which we called The Chalet.

In my mind it is an A-Frame cottage, but that seems a bit of a stretch. It is the headquarters of the day camp my sister and I attend and, on this Saturday night, is hosting an honest to goodness rock band.

Did I go alone?

I can’t imagine which of my road-hockey-playing friends would have gone with me.

Have I smelled marijuana before? Have I seen people smoking pot before? Do I even know what I am smelling and seeing?

Unclear.

Unlikely.

But this is not a joint being surreptitiously passed underneath a picnic table. This is a mushroom cloud hanging in the air like the curveball of an aging right-hander.

West Island, Montreal, 1970.

I am the youngest person in the room. I have the shortest hair. Most often, when I tell this story, I am the only Jew.

Years later, at high school parties I was invited to because of guilt or obligation, I would witness kids blowing pot-infused smoke into the mouths of other kids in order to get them high.

There is a word for that but it escapes me. I ask a friend who smoked back in the day.

Shotgunning.

I sit cross-legged, yoga pose precursor, with my back against the wall in the far corner of the room. How many puffs of smoke are being unceremoniously blown into my mouth?

Nobody offers me a drink or a joint. I don’t think anyone even notices me. Over time, I think I might be the kid from Almost Famous but even this is a conceit I cannot sustain.

The music is very very loud.

I have never heard music this loud before.

Am not sure anyone has heard music this loud before.

I don’t recognize any of the songs.

And then I do.

But it is not a song.

It is the ditty of a commercial.

I have not gone to synagogue for Kol Nidre, the holiest night of the year, in almost 25 years.

Instead, I go to YouTube and listen to covers of my favourite high holiday liturgies.

My favourite is Avinu Malkeinu.

Our Father, Our King.

Phish, this decade’s Grateful-Dead-like jam band does an extended 30-minute version of Avinu Malkeinu. On this Saturday night, the band, the very first rock band I’ve ever listened to, does an extended version of a popular commercial for a support bra.

We care about the shape you’re in. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderbra

The second time I don't get stoned is at a Stampeders concert at the Westpark hockey arena. The Stampeders had a big hit with their song Sweet City Woman. If you are of a certain age, you should definitely know it. If not, take a break from reading this and YouTube it. Check out the mustaches.

I saw three legendary Canadian bands in the early 70s. Mashmakan at the Elm Park swimming pool. April Wine at my Grade 7 sock hop. And the Stampeders at the Westpark hockey arena. Am not sure of the timeline or order.

You should probably also listen to Mashmakan’s hit single, As the Years Go By. I don’t mind.

Their drummer, Jerry Mercer, later played for April Wine. April Wine is one of my all-time favourite bands. If you have to look them up then I’m not really sure we can be friends.

They still tour. Myles Goodwin, their original lead singer, still fronts the band. When I was planning my 60th birthday party, I contacted their agency who told me they would cost $50,000 for the night.

Seriously? I kinda think they would have done it for a case of Molsons and a couple of hookers from Barrie.

Anyway, I don’t know who I went to see the Stampeders with.

The only friend I remember from that time was Stevie Sheen. Our fenceless backyards were next to each other to form one giant backyard. We spent a lot of time playing catch, listening to the Expos on the radio, and playing Stratomatic baseball. We only had the cards of two teams. The 1968 Detroit Tigers and 1968 Minnesota Twins.

Rod Carew wore a chai necklace and was said to have converted to Judaism.

But turns out: not a Jew.

I earlier mentioned my 60th birthday. I had about 130 friends. Common theme of the evening was how could someone with virtually no social graces have so many friends. I mention it only because Stevie Sheen, who was not Jewish, was the only friend I had at my bar mitzvah. He rode with us to the synagogue.

So it is not entirely clear if I can’t remember other friends or if there were none to remember.

But we played road hockey every day. So there must have been others. But I can’t remember a single name or even a face.

So I have no idea who I went to see the Stampeders with. How did I get to the Westpark arena—which wasn’t walking distance from my house? Did my father drive me? Did he later pick me up?

That seems unlikely.

My father would dutifully take carpool duties when it was his turn to drive to my soccer games. He would cut up the halftime oranges and distribute them to my teammates. He would then take a folding chair and read his book. I wouldn’t have found it odd at the time. I’m not sure I do now. Our team was called the Hotspurs. After the London team Tottenham. Tottenham is often on the receiving end of anti-semitic taunts because their team is known to historically have North London Jewish fans. Their ardent supporters are known as the Yid Army.

I’m just saying.

I don’t remember a single teammate.

Not one.

Like I said, I have a shitty memory.

But I am at the Westpark hockey arena watching the Stampeders and the person next to me hands me a joint.

Here’s the thing, he hands me the joint as if it is nothing.

You know. Like when you are at the baseball game and you get peanuts from the vendor. But you are sitting in the middle of the row and the peanuts get passed along by the people in your row.

And the guy next to you hands you the bag of peanuts but doesn’t turn his head because he is watching the action on the field.

Like that.

That is how I get handed a joint.

I have never touched a joint before but I can see that it is thinner than a cigarette. Later, I will realize that some joints can be significantly fatter than a cigarette but this joint is thinner. I know this because Stevie Sheen and I had stolen a pack of my mother’s menthols and had experimented with smoking in the backfields just outside our development. It had been, in mouth, lungs, and eyes, a completely unpleasant experience. I returned the pack, two smokes lighter, to my mother’s purse and never touched a cigarette again. A few years later, I would have a similarly unpleasant experience with beer which resulted in drunkenness and a night of vomiting. I never got drunk again. Two seminal moments which would likely shape the path of my life.

Skinny joint in hand, I passed it to my neighbour to my left. I did not do it in a cool way—eyes fixed on Jerry Mercer and the rest of the Stampeders. Instead, I tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention.

If I tell the story out loud, I will say that my seat mate responded with a “right on, man.” Maybe with a lackadaisical ceremonial fist pump. A little theatre. Some artistic license. It might have happened a few minutes later, the joint gets passed back to me. Does the path reverse once the joint gets refused? It doesn’t skip a seat? I’m not sure. But I am holding the joint again. It never occurs to me to take a drag. Nor do I need, like I will in the coming years, to take a fake drag. A move I eventually perfect like a world-class illusionist.

This time I hold on to the joint for a long time.

Bon c’est bon, bon bon c’est bon bon.

The third time I don’t get stoned is my entire Grade 8 year.

John Rennie High School in Pointe Clair Quebec is at the epicentre of the 1970s drug culture. I don’t know who I am at this point in my life, but it is safe to say that I am not cool. On the other hand, I show a little promise.

I receive a Sanyo cassette player from my aunt for my bar mitzvah, and my older cousin David records some classic albums for me. My very first cassette has Santana Abraxus on one side and Jethro Tull Aqualung on the other. You already have YouTube open on your computer so go ahead and listen to Ian Anderson wail about “snot running down his nose” in the Tull title song.

Then the Santana. Go ahead. Ask yourself what kind of idiot listens to this without being high. It is a fair question.

The next cassette has Dylan and Simon and Garfunkel. He provides me with a rock and roll foundation which not only serves me well for the rest of my life but helps me survive junior high.

John Rennie, like all other high schools and as illustrated in the Breakfast Club, is divided into cliques.

Jocks
Nerds
Theatre/Artists
Hippies
Rockers
Misfits and... Stoners.

There must have been some other Jews but I don’t remember any. We recited the Lord’s Prayer along with the national anthem every morning. I can still recite it verbatim. Give us this day our daily bread.

For the province-wide proficiency tests, under religion, I checked off Protestant. It seemed like the lesser of two evils.

To say that I did not readily fit into a clique is a bit of an understatement.

But here’s the thing.

For all of Grade 8.

I hung out with the stoners.

But not only the stoners.

The Grade 11 stoners.

The stoners of all stoners.

At this point I should tell you that French is my mother tongue. As the son of Egyptian Jews, it is the first language I spoke at home. I don’t speak it very well. But well enough. In time, my parents would speak to us in French and we would answer in English.

Many of my stories are about my Egyptian Jewish heritage.

This isn’t really one of them.

I mention it only because I could speak French.

So, in Grade 8, I took Grade 11 French.

With the stoners. So French, as it turns out, is my mother tongue.

I would like to say that we devised elaborate and ingenious cheating methods. Signals. Morse code. Invented languages. The truth is they just copied my work and my tests.

That’s it.

All year long.

So at lunch, I sat with the stoners. At recess, I sat with the stoners. After school, I hung out with the stoners.

And here’s the amazing and unbelievable thing.

Every day.

Every single day.

I did not get stoned.

At times I pretended. But mostly, mostly I just passed the joint to the person next to me. We listened to a lot of music. I could hold my own. More than hold my own.

The funny thing is, I kinda liked them. For no real reason. They weren’t particularly nice to me. They just let me hang. But it was fun to be part of a group. Even if I was on the outside edges. I only remember one person from that time. But I remember her real well. Madeleine. They called her Maddy. I think she must have been French-Canadian because she spoke fluently and never had to copy my homework. She wore way too much makeup and did not wear a bra. She often brought her guitar to school and she loved Simon and Garfunkel. We both knew the words to all of the songs. She had a lovely voice but barely sang above a whisper. You had to lean in in order to hear her.

I never ever saw her smoke weed. But she always seemed high. She knew I didn’t get stoned. I think she was the only one and she enjoyed being in on the ruse.

Were I really a fabulist and not just a sober raconteur, my tale would now take a romantic turn. But the truth has woken from its slumber.

And while I would eventually lose my virginity, I never ever did get stoned.

The end.