To Protect and Serve (Why is Pot Illegal?)

Ed had been in California for two days, alone, anonymous, straight off a 4 day bus ride from Providence, Rhode Island, cruising through the vast and varied expanse known as these United States of America.

It was a Thursday morning and Ed stuffed in his satchel a notebook and some pens, John Fante’s book Ask the Dust, and a bottle of water. He walked out the hostel into the hot awesome sun.

Beneath a curving blue sky the sun was a gold coin blazing heat and illuminating the tall palm trees that lined the main drag of Ocean Beach that stretched down and stopped at the Pacific Ocean.  The white caps heaved themselves above the sea wall so high that Ed could see them from the front steps of the hostel. The Ocean Beach International Hostel, where Ed pretended on the first day that he was an Irishman. Certain hostels only accommodate foreigners so as to keep local riff raff out. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a place for travelers to crash but a flop house for locals. Ed became a citizen of Ireland a few years before so he had an EU passport. His grandfather Kingscote had been an Irish citizen, Born in the early part of the 20^th century when the emerald isle was still beneath the heavy weight of the British crown. This lineage entitled Ed to citizenship, which he procured for 75 bucks and a mess of original documents. But Ed being the traveler he already was and would become even more, soon ingratiated himself with the hostel folks who loved a good natured person. In a hostel it takes no time at all to get to know someone. Living on the road allows for an openness that is not often found in one’s hometown.

That fresh, warm San Diego morning, Ed ambled and rambled, soaking it all in. He had never been to So-Cal before and the warmth, the palm trees, the vibe was fascinating. He walked around observing the low one story houses, all built very close together, each one nearly hidden from the street by bushes, hedges, flowers, and trees. All had patios or porches, with grills out chained to poles. San Diego is Party Central all year long due to the consistently awesome weather. As Ed crossed the street a disheveled guy with a thick beard, baseball cap, wearing dirty jeans and carrying a beat up canvas bag over his shoulder, crossed the street from the other direction. He caught Ed’s eye, and Ed caught his. And as he got closer Ed saw that he only had one.

“Hey man,” the guy said, in a deep voice, “you looking for buds?”

Ed was nervous, on the street, not knowing the fuzz and their methods, or the severity in which they patrolled, what they looked for; but it was obvious enough to him that the pair of them might just stand out a little bit doing a dope deal in the middle of the street.

“No, man, I’m set,” Ed said, quite reluctantly. As they passed each other Ed saw a look of disappointment on the guy’s face, revealing the fact he sensed Ed’s fear and paranoia.

Ed walked on, changed streets, and resolved that if fate had it in store for him to meet the guy again, he wouldn’t hesitate to embrace the circumstance of serendipity. Not ten minutes later and a few blocks away who does Ed see sitting on the ground, legs crossed, leaning against a fence next to an empty baseball field in the shade of a tree.

The guy offered a pleasant maniacal grin as Ed walked towards him.

 “I see,” he said, “we meet again.”

He extended a thick-fingered, hairy hand.

“I’m Hank. They call me Hankster the Prankster.” He said, and smiled, revealing just a few teeth.

“I’m Miles,” Ed said, ridiculously applying his street nom de plume.

They shake hands the man had got a very strong grip, not menacing, just raw strength. To live on the street, or as the Irish say, “living rough,” you have got to possess not just a physical strength but a deeper fortitude to keep your spirit from giving up and withering away.

“You still got the buds?” Ed said.

Hankster the Prankster removed the soiled baseball cap from his head and pulled a crumpled dark green bud from the brown, sweaty inside flap.

“Got it right here, man,” he says, holding it up in the bright sun. He put the cap back on his bushy head. It looked like a little turd.

“Let’s try it first,” he said, sensing Ed’s slight suspicion.

He produced a metal pipe and stuffed in a bit of the herb and handed it to Ed with a yellow lighter.

 “Yellow is good luck, or so I’ve been told,” he said, smiling a toothless grin. Ed took it and sparked the bowl drawing a medium size hit. He held it, as one does, and blew out a big plume of smoke. Yup, he thought, this is weed.

 “You know, I’m not out to screw anybody,” The Prankster said. “All the people here are paranoid... but I got no fear, so I got nobody to fear. I don’t do nobody wrong.”

Ed handed him the pipe and lighter and watched as he closed his eyes and drew in a monster hit. There you go, Ed thought. Hanskter the Prankster leaned his head back against the chain link fence and blew out a fantastic amount of smoke. He opened his eyes and they were red and watery. The two strangers, now friends, instantly stoned immaculate on a random weekday smack dab in the middle of unceasing life.

“Pretty good shit, right?” He said.

“Yeah, man,” Ed said.  

“I wouldn’t screw ya. You ask anybody around here, Hankster the Prankster is out to do good.”

“How much you want for it?”

“Ah, just give me ten, bro.”

Ed pulled a bill from his jeans and put it in his thick fingered, hairy hand. Ed took the bud and put it in his shirt pocket. The sun was way bright reflecting everything in an extreme clarity adding to Ed’s already wide eyes, new to the place, the smells, the trees and foliage, the sky a blue bluer than he’d ever seen, and Hanskter the Prankster, a new bud through bud, sitting in the dirt, his legs stretched out before him, happy as a fuckin clam.

Ed got up and shook his hand.

“Hey Miles, I’ll see you around, brother” he said.

“Yeah. Thanks, man. Later, Hanskster.”

Ed walked away leaving this guy in his own strange world and entering into his. He walked towards Mission Beach blazing, cruising down the avenue light and pleased not with just the high, but to have met a cool sincere guy that one might normally avoid due to fear and judgments. The next day Ed sat on the sea wall drinking his morning coffee near a few young skateboarders. He heard them rapping about this guy, “The Prankster.”

“Yo,” a kid said, “the cops fucked him up good last night, bra.”

“Dude, I know,” another kid said, “they gave him 3 broken ribs and 10 stitches in his head. Just cause he lives on the street. I know that guy, too, and he’s cool shit. He never did nobody no harm.”

“Motherfucker pigs.” Ed said and kicked off his flip flops and went into Mother Ocean for a long, salubrious swim.